“Brick by brick
We crumble
Tick-tock
Time flies as we stumble
Through the lost and empty streets
We fall at our feet
And feel heaven”


Fear.

Hate.

Revenge.

Tears steeped my torrid cheeks. These words; frightening phrases, are wasted. Left to nothing but dust, to rot in my diseased mind; left to haunt my grave with degradation, sinking into the bitter earth. No one would respect my final resting place. Wanderers would drag by every day to their own deceased family and friends, with roses, tears, words of affection, love.

It made me think, would the world care for my death? Would anyone care? Would one, unspecified person sit down, take time to watch, weep, tend, love? No. No one would.

Lonely.

Bitter.

Dead.

This is to describe me. I am to die in front of my adversaries. Watch their sadistic faces as infection sears everything that approaches its path: my insides. Take in there scandalous smirks, the indents of blissful dimples. I hung my head, and whimpered, like some pathetic, weak, child.

Weak.

I am weak.

I felt insane fury leak slowly through me. I idled my head on my stained collar and breathed through my fetid nose, dripping crimson. I felt a hot shake dance up my spine, tingling the inside of me, ringing in my ears. That is what they called me you know? A weakling; a coward without a moxie. But they know I have deceived them for years, hunted, tracked and fought. I must have some power, I must have a-a moxie.

I acknowledged the sole tear, as it streamed down my face. But, one tear I couldn’t snatch, wipe away, considering my arms and legs strapped to the rusty metal chair posed in the middle of the concrete room. I never stopped trying to wrestle with the strong binds that clung to my body, hitching me to the arm rests. My muscles popped out weakly at every doubtful struggle, fortitude dissolving. I would get my revenge, but at this moment, everything seemed indistinct, hazy, bitter, and hateful.

My Revenge.

Revenge? My revenge. Something I craved over time. Something I promised I would do. Something. Something like…

Death.

To take in and savor the moment, the awaiting moment of murder to the man that slaughtered my father. The man. I saw it happen. The memories are still raw as they come slowly in and out, day by day. I scrutinize his gaze in my daunted, feather light blue eyes, my silhouette hidden where my father had camouflaged me. Then he glanced at my father sinking a kitchen knife into his chest before I could squeal and my dad could say I love you son. Then he hushed something into his right ear and walked out the door, not bothering the messy clues to leave for the police or the orphaned child. I remember crawling up to his cold, deserted body. I peered into his glazed over eyes, waiting for some vitality to strike in. But nothing happened for the hours I sat there, screaming over his body.

Tears.

They come suddenly don’t they? Not for me. I am not a crier. But my mind made an exception this once. Might as well get out all of your feelings before you are slaughtered, before your last agonizing breaths.

Pain.

Agonizing.

Torture.

I hold information, information that has never been spoke, written, or seen the light of day. I have secrets. Secrets people thirst for, secrets I wish I never appreciated. They have always reached me, burrowing their way in, branding them into my mind. Secrets, so many secrets…

A Name.

And then they have a name for me. One I disdain and crave to see fade away. But it is something humorous, sarcastic to them. It will never leave; never escape this overflowing memory of mine.

A Click.

A face excused itself into the bare room, a wild grin tugging at the sides of his slim scaly lips. A fluff of white air displayed neatly on his square furrowed head. Intense gray eyes, blissful, care-free, and bright glanced at me. You think of him to be a regular happy old man, than we live in two different worlds. He stopped to glare at my bruised figure, just a smirk; something he wanted to take his time on although I know time is of essence to him. Then he sighed as he moved to the metal table arranged across the room where I sat.

Only the Beginning.

“Good to see you again,” he picked up a tube, exerting liquid inside of it, and continued solemnly,” how long has it been? Ten years? “
He positioned the conduit onto a tray and waltzed toward me. I tugged at the straps. “You don’t remember. You never cared.”
He laughed. It echoed through the room. “Oh, but I do. I know everything about you.” He leaned in real close. “I know you have a head full of information stored and locked away. Information I want. So you are going to tell me everything…” he halted, laughed, and whispered my name, “Man of A Million Secrets.”