Post by Rated R on Apr 13, 2008 10:35:29 GMT -5
The truth is always so much harder to stomach than the lies that your subconscious makes up. No matter how strange or unbelievable the lie is people will always prefer it to the truth, and will always choose it as reality when given the chance.
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Its cold tonight, my hands are buried deep within my pockets in an attempt to escape the seemingly arctic conditions, and my head is buried as far down as it can go. Anyone watching me would probably think that I was a human tortoise. The wind is rushing past me and the noise it is producing sounds like screaming, a horrible high pitched scream as if it is trying to tell me something, warn me about what I am doing. It may be cold but at least the sky is clear, and the light from the moon illuminates the ground around me, the only light on an otherwise dark gloomy night.
My location is not exactly the most pleasant place either. I am surrounded by graves, slabs of rock stand above them telling the start date and end date of each person’s story. Everyone who has ended up here has had their story’s cut short by the man above us all, the one who declared himself our judge, jury and executioner. Their remaining pages are blank, and will never be filled in.
I received a note two days ago, telling me to come here, at some cemetery just an hour away from the Odium, where I meet Reckless in the first step to the WFWF National title, which will soon be followed by WFWF domination.
I was meant to be heading back to Nevada after the last show, but instead I am standing here, waiting for someone that may not even exist, waiting for someone who claims to know the truth.
?: Daydreaming kid?
I spin around to face the source of the voice and find myself looking at a man that I seem to recognize, although I can’t place where. I look at him, the white light from the moon illuminating his features. He must be in his late forty’s, although the disheveled look on his face makes him look older. A long brown trench coat is draped over his body, hiding anything beneath.
Voice: What is this, a seventy’s movie, who wears a trench coat anymore?
I block out the voice in my head, making sure that I keep all my attention on the man in front.
Although the trench coat is really not in style right now.
Voice: That’s what I said!
The man sticks out his hand to me, offering a handshake as a gesture of welcome. My arms remain at my side, not wanting to show any sign’s of welcome to this man.
Trace: I don’t greet people that I don’t know.
?: Ah, my apologies, my name is Lucias Curtis, or Dr. Curtis to my patients. I am the one that left the note for you.
Trace: And your job matters to me why?
He grins and my blood freezes within my veins. I can’t understand it but I definitely know this man, and I don’t like now knowing from where.
Curtis: It matters more than you think Trace.
I look at him and the realization about what is going on suddenly hits me. Questions start to flood my skull. How can he know my name? How did I not ask myself that in the first place? How does he even know me?
Trace: Who the hell are you?
Curtis: I already told you my name.
He says it calmly but the words alone seem daunting. I don’t understand it, but it feels as if I am watching myself now, as if I am not controlling what I am doing. I try to calm myself down, breathing heavily; my heart is pounding inside my chest, as if it is going to explode out of it at any minute.
Trace: How do you know me?
Curtis: You don’t remember?
His voice reeks of amusement. He finds this funny and powerful. He enjoys knowing something that I don’t, and that alone feels devastating.
Trace: Remember what? What the hell are you talking about?
He throws a folder to my feet and it lands on the grass with a thud. I kneel down and pick up the folder. The folder is thick, and I feel stupid for not noticing it originally.
Curtis: You need to read that, and get back to me afterwards.
Curtis turns away from me as he talks walks away from me. I try to speak but nothing comes out, and by the time I remember to breath he is gone, as quick as he appeared. I look down at the folder in my hands, and notice the neat black writing on the front. I stare in shock at the cover, and inhale rapidly to the point it feels that I have taken all the oxygen in the world. My world shatter with seven simple words.
EMOND MENTAL INSTITUTION
PATIENT: TRACE DEMON
------------------------------------
Its cold tonight, my hands are buried deep within my pockets in an attempt to escape the seemingly arctic conditions, and my head is buried as far down as it can go. Anyone watching me would probably think that I was a human tortoise. The wind is rushing past me and the noise it is producing sounds like screaming, a horrible high pitched scream as if it is trying to tell me something, warn me about what I am doing. It may be cold but at least the sky is clear, and the light from the moon illuminates the ground around me, the only light on an otherwise dark gloomy night.
My location is not exactly the most pleasant place either. I am surrounded by graves, slabs of rock stand above them telling the start date and end date of each person’s story. Everyone who has ended up here has had their story’s cut short by the man above us all, the one who declared himself our judge, jury and executioner. Their remaining pages are blank, and will never be filled in.
I received a note two days ago, telling me to come here, at some cemetery just an hour away from the Odium, where I meet Reckless in the first step to the WFWF National title, which will soon be followed by WFWF domination.
I was meant to be heading back to Nevada after the last show, but instead I am standing here, waiting for someone that may not even exist, waiting for someone who claims to know the truth.
?: Daydreaming kid?
I spin around to face the source of the voice and find myself looking at a man that I seem to recognize, although I can’t place where. I look at him, the white light from the moon illuminating his features. He must be in his late forty’s, although the disheveled look on his face makes him look older. A long brown trench coat is draped over his body, hiding anything beneath.
Voice: What is this, a seventy’s movie, who wears a trench coat anymore?
I block out the voice in my head, making sure that I keep all my attention on the man in front.
Although the trench coat is really not in style right now.
Voice: That’s what I said!
The man sticks out his hand to me, offering a handshake as a gesture of welcome. My arms remain at my side, not wanting to show any sign’s of welcome to this man.
Trace: I don’t greet people that I don’t know.
?: Ah, my apologies, my name is Lucias Curtis, or Dr. Curtis to my patients. I am the one that left the note for you.
Trace: And your job matters to me why?
He grins and my blood freezes within my veins. I can’t understand it but I definitely know this man, and I don’t like now knowing from where.
Curtis: It matters more than you think Trace.
I look at him and the realization about what is going on suddenly hits me. Questions start to flood my skull. How can he know my name? How did I not ask myself that in the first place? How does he even know me?
Trace: Who the hell are you?
Curtis: I already told you my name.
He says it calmly but the words alone seem daunting. I don’t understand it, but it feels as if I am watching myself now, as if I am not controlling what I am doing. I try to calm myself down, breathing heavily; my heart is pounding inside my chest, as if it is going to explode out of it at any minute.
Trace: How do you know me?
Curtis: You don’t remember?
His voice reeks of amusement. He finds this funny and powerful. He enjoys knowing something that I don’t, and that alone feels devastating.
Trace: Remember what? What the hell are you talking about?
He throws a folder to my feet and it lands on the grass with a thud. I kneel down and pick up the folder. The folder is thick, and I feel stupid for not noticing it originally.
Curtis: You need to read that, and get back to me afterwards.
Curtis turns away from me as he talks walks away from me. I try to speak but nothing comes out, and by the time I remember to breath he is gone, as quick as he appeared. I look down at the folder in my hands, and notice the neat black writing on the front. I stare in shock at the cover, and inhale rapidly to the point it feels that I have taken all the oxygen in the world. My world shatter with seven simple words.
EMOND MENTAL INSTITUTION
PATIENT: TRACE DEMON
