literature

Making Fire

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Literature Text

We are learning how to make fire, or that must be what is happening. I smell smoke, a smell made so distinct by the decades of burning homes and lives that had filled my lungs - all of the darkness sucked in, captured, with cleaner air leaving me. I hold in the ashes of the burnt dead lives. I hold them here, deep in my chest. The ash has built up, choking my heart and stopping my lungs. Here I sit, an urn. I contain their ashes, those, so many of the dead. For ending their mortal lives, they have taken their revenge and ended my immortal life, the one beyond.

That is why I have been left here. That is why I am dead but aware. A corpse that is conscious. They, the moving footsteps - the bodies that press on the air and stir the smoke, leading a waft into my face that invades me and pulls the past from the regions of my brain, dusted with regret, covered in numbness – they, the men that bound me here, who have bound my sight within a cloth. I feel the tight knot in the back of my head. The weight of it pulls my consciousness down, dragging it, though I struggle, I scrape at the present to hold me still. I grasp reality only to have it explode around me.

I feel the fire! Pain! -immediate. I smell the burning, the smoke, the sizzling, the popping of the oils of my flesh – I hear this in my ears with the agony, oh so consuming – this reality! Now I throw it back. I flee! I try to hide! I try to jump into the deeper crevices of my brain to gauge out a haven in which I may store my vital consciousness. I protect it because without it, I cease to be. …But it is also the cause of my drawn-out suffering. Oh misery!

Burning fire eating me! Fire, smoke, some new memories... But the old…the old evade me…

My past is punishing me, as those, the presences with hearts of beating passions, throw their own wrath upon me.



Master Van Hellsing…his mercy is the only mercy which I may ever hope to rely on, for he is a truthful man – he had warned me that he would burn my body with his hatred, that he would cut me, mutilate me, dig into my brain and take slices of my organs to analyze them as I watched – all to torture me. … Cruel! Cruel, painful, and terrifying! Yes, so disgustingly cold, horrible! One I should loathe and detest and blame! One I would rip to pieces once the faintest gasp of freedom returned to me! Oh, burning hatred! But he had told me the truth each time, and each time he had eventually ended the pain… No other has ever done the same.

His cruelty lives with my refuge.
Hellsing

Alucard during Abraham Van Hellsing's time.



-playing around with first person here.
-also playing around with fire: memories of war, actual fire, mental torment, and hatred - all surfacing...

...all lovely things...*heavy sarcasm*

Better version with bold and italics: [link] (just a fanfiction page and not a random place, it won't bite)
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