Axiom of Two
folder
+A through F › City of Heroes
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,510
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+A through F › City of Heroes
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
1,510
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own City of Heroes, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Fusiono: Dark Beginnings
Fusiono: Dark Beginnings
“She's going into shock!” a nurse ran past the delivery table. Several doctors are huddled around one woman, and her soon to be child.
“We have to save the baby!”
“You don't understand! That baby is going to kill her, we have to do an emergency cesarean section. Get the tools nurse!”
The doctors rush and bark on to each other, shouting ideas and doing nothing. The woman at the table, the faceless expecting mother, breathing heavy and looking hopeless. For a moment they forget that there is a living person on the table. To them, she is a sack of meat giving a baby, not my loving faceless mother. They go on about saving the baby:
“There! We have him!”
“He's... Glowing!”
My faceless mother's eyes roll back to white, and loud shrilling flat tone of a heartbeat long forgotten fills the room. The cross in her hands falls to floor.
Sixteen years have passed. The cross found its way around my father's neck and it mocks me. A reminder that I am the murderer of my beloved mother. Her memory is nothing but an inserted dream. Told to me by my father... My father. . . A pastor for a forgotten church with forgotten dreams. Rogue Isles is a hard place to show God. Every shadow on every face, clouds their true intentions. But everyone thinks the same thing. How can I get out. They don't care how they get it. They just want it. Anyone's expense, anyone's life, every one is faceless and disposable. Their sin flooded the streets more then the air that gave them life. My father would beat the sin into me. My mother's death, and the poverty in which we lived in. Then he would go preach salvation to the outside world. The hopeless flock into the pews and sit with dry and pasty faces. Emotionless...
I hated my father. It was apparent in every day life. Every step screeched a whisper on the creaky floorboards...
Ihateyou.Ihateyou.Ihateyou.
But I would never face him. I would dream on the tip of my tongue, the hatred ready to burst from my mouth. I wished to grab him and beat him just as he beat me.
“I hate you father! Father! FATHER! FAAAATHER!”
The blood and the hatred would create a mist in the air and I wanted to breathe it in.
But I stay in silence. Year after year, the hatred grew. We both knew the hatred existed. He drank until his nightmares went away, and beat me into self satisfaction. I took the hits and made my own satisfaction from it. Each beating hurt me less physically. My wounds healed faster, my body felt stronger. My emotions were torn, and ravaged. Stolen... Turned inside out, then tossed into the compost heap of sin. That necklace burned me and beat me more then my father's tantrums ever could.
A half year after my nineteenth birthday, this was the last beating I would ever take. My father drunk and stupid came for me. I sat in the dark, eyes looking at the wood in the floor. Cracked and broken. What a dump. My father made his stumbling approach. The floorboards were louder now. Screaming:
Ihateyou!Ihateyou!IHATEYOU!
The door swung violently open. I still sat undisturbed. We both stayed where we were for a moment. The silence was broken with one more step forward.
Ihateyou...
“Good evening father.”
“Shut up boy, you know why I am here. Its time the Lord gave you what you deserve. Maybe tonight is your lucky night.” Hiccup and another quick swig of hard whiskey, “Maybe tonight you'll die, and the angels can cry when they throw you to the pits of hell!”
He struck me in the chin with his fist. I did not flinch. He hit me once more. I did not flinch. He then struck me with the bottle over the side of my face. It broke into a thousand love shattering pieces.
I just smiled. Something inside me then was different. The side of my face was bleeding. The blood flowed slowly and then glowed a furious bright color. My eyes started to glow and brighter the room lit. I was being born again. This time there were no doctors, there were no nurses, no knives cutting her flesh and stealing me from her. This time I was in charge.
“Wha.. What are you doing boy!?”
“Salvation father!” I took a step forward and he stumbled backwards.
“Get... ge... Get away from me devil child!” he sputtered through his own breath, shortened from the fight and the alcohol.
“This is MY salvation! Today! Is YOUR judgment!” My fists glowed a bright purple and I screamed...
“MOTHER!”
... and I bashed his head into the wall, splattering him all over me and the walls. The only thing left was a burnt stub of a neck. . . and my mother's necklace. Shaking and panicking, I grabbed the necklace and kissed the cross softly. It was the first time I came in contact with it, and was the closest contact to my mother I had in years. There was blood on it. Salty and morally abolishing blood. I swallowed hard and the taste filled my stomach. It was the taste of sin. A taste I will never forget.
There is more sin to commit. More corrupt blood to spill. The world is at the mercy of my bright and glowing hands.
“She's going into shock!” a nurse ran past the delivery table. Several doctors are huddled around one woman, and her soon to be child.
“We have to save the baby!”
“You don't understand! That baby is going to kill her, we have to do an emergency cesarean section. Get the tools nurse!”
The doctors rush and bark on to each other, shouting ideas and doing nothing. The woman at the table, the faceless expecting mother, breathing heavy and looking hopeless. For a moment they forget that there is a living person on the table. To them, she is a sack of meat giving a baby, not my loving faceless mother. They go on about saving the baby:
“There! We have him!”
“He's... Glowing!”
My faceless mother's eyes roll back to white, and loud shrilling flat tone of a heartbeat long forgotten fills the room. The cross in her hands falls to floor.
Sixteen years have passed. The cross found its way around my father's neck and it mocks me. A reminder that I am the murderer of my beloved mother. Her memory is nothing but an inserted dream. Told to me by my father... My father. . . A pastor for a forgotten church with forgotten dreams. Rogue Isles is a hard place to show God. Every shadow on every face, clouds their true intentions. But everyone thinks the same thing. How can I get out. They don't care how they get it. They just want it. Anyone's expense, anyone's life, every one is faceless and disposable. Their sin flooded the streets more then the air that gave them life. My father would beat the sin into me. My mother's death, and the poverty in which we lived in. Then he would go preach salvation to the outside world. The hopeless flock into the pews and sit with dry and pasty faces. Emotionless...
I hated my father. It was apparent in every day life. Every step screeched a whisper on the creaky floorboards...
Ihateyou.Ihateyou.Ihateyou.
But I would never face him. I would dream on the tip of my tongue, the hatred ready to burst from my mouth. I wished to grab him and beat him just as he beat me.
“I hate you father! Father! FATHER! FAAAATHER!”
The blood and the hatred would create a mist in the air and I wanted to breathe it in.
But I stay in silence. Year after year, the hatred grew. We both knew the hatred existed. He drank until his nightmares went away, and beat me into self satisfaction. I took the hits and made my own satisfaction from it. Each beating hurt me less physically. My wounds healed faster, my body felt stronger. My emotions were torn, and ravaged. Stolen... Turned inside out, then tossed into the compost heap of sin. That necklace burned me and beat me more then my father's tantrums ever could.
A half year after my nineteenth birthday, this was the last beating I would ever take. My father drunk and stupid came for me. I sat in the dark, eyes looking at the wood in the floor. Cracked and broken. What a dump. My father made his stumbling approach. The floorboards were louder now. Screaming:
Ihateyou!Ihateyou!IHATEYOU!
The door swung violently open. I still sat undisturbed. We both stayed where we were for a moment. The silence was broken with one more step forward.
Ihateyou...
“Good evening father.”
“Shut up boy, you know why I am here. Its time the Lord gave you what you deserve. Maybe tonight is your lucky night.” Hiccup and another quick swig of hard whiskey, “Maybe tonight you'll die, and the angels can cry when they throw you to the pits of hell!”
He struck me in the chin with his fist. I did not flinch. He hit me once more. I did not flinch. He then struck me with the bottle over the side of my face. It broke into a thousand love shattering pieces.
I just smiled. Something inside me then was different. The side of my face was bleeding. The blood flowed slowly and then glowed a furious bright color. My eyes started to glow and brighter the room lit. I was being born again. This time there were no doctors, there were no nurses, no knives cutting her flesh and stealing me from her. This time I was in charge.
“Wha.. What are you doing boy!?”
“Salvation father!” I took a step forward and he stumbled backwards.
“Get... ge... Get away from me devil child!” he sputtered through his own breath, shortened from the fight and the alcohol.
“This is MY salvation! Today! Is YOUR judgment!” My fists glowed a bright purple and I screamed...
“MOTHER!”
... and I bashed his head into the wall, splattering him all over me and the walls. The only thing left was a burnt stub of a neck. . . and my mother's necklace. Shaking and panicking, I grabbed the necklace and kissed the cross softly. It was the first time I came in contact with it, and was the closest contact to my mother I had in years. There was blood on it. Salty and morally abolishing blood. I swallowed hard and the taste filled my stomach. It was the taste of sin. A taste I will never forget.
There is more sin to commit. More corrupt blood to spill. The world is at the mercy of my bright and glowing hands.