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Rated: E · Preface · Thriller/Suspense · #1910504
Preface for a story that popped into my head at 4AM.
    There once was a man born with darkness in his heart so deep, he knew not how to feel. He bore such an uncontrollable rage, an unbridled fury; he knew not what to do. Emotions were but a fleeting phantasm in his mind. He knew not love, happiness, fulfillment, or meaning. Inside him, his anger swelled at the changing tides, the turning world, the setting sun, he prayed, "Let it end." And so it continued. Many years passed, and the anger grew worse, the darkness deepened and the forlorn longing for normalcy continued. He plead with the very cosmos, "If there be any heart to this existence at all, let it end. Let me be free from the chains that bind me. Were I to act, I would ruin lives, end worlds, cause pain and misery to all. Why must this torment continue?" And so it went. He couldn't sleep, for the thoughts would rise, the ire, the suffering, the burning desire to destroy, to end the world, but he could never act for fear of hurting others. "Let me try to turn this darkness into light." He tried. Tried to help others, tried to push the red hot fire in his soul to the deepest recesses of his mind, but there they lurked, constantly peering at him through the shadows. He failed even then. People lost interest, and pushed him away. Others used harsh words and deeds to further stain his soul. "Were it not for this filthy conscience of mine, I could feel freedom at last and bear my soul to the world!" Were he to write his opus, it would be on the corpses of innocent people, peaceful places, things that had never meant any harm, least of all to him, but it changed not his heartbeat. The constant war drums, pounded in his chest yet and the fire continued to rage. Life was no kinder to him. Constantly testing his patience, his mettle, his self-control, his very soul, life was determined to set him off. But in the end, he found at least one purpose: He would be a defender of the weak, a speaker for the silent, and a hope for the hopeless. He would use that infinite rage bestowed upon him by the very cosmos themselves, and put that inconsolable rage to rest destroying the lives of the wicked, the corrupt, the abusers of all that is innocent and pure in the world. But he would never live in the light, for he would taint it. Did the world know of his deeds, he would be shunned, an outcast, the very same thing he hunted. No, he would hide in the shadows and feign a normal life, while defending others and destroying evil with the fires of Hell themselves. They would know the fear they instilled first-hand and rue the day they turned to the path of darkness. That fateful day, his anger subsided and Vengeance was born.

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