The haunted

How do you banish the ghosts of the pasts? How do you live when everything you love is gone? How do you cling on to the faith that life has meaning when absurdity threatens to overwhelm it all?

I cannot answer. The strength seems to be gone from my limbs. I cannot even raise my arm to wipe the tears from my cheek. They fall freely, anointing the altar upon which I kneel.

They say that revenge is sweet. And so it is. But revenge does nothing for the pain within. Revenge makes the pain worse. With vengeance done the anger can no longer overwhelm the pain. With vengeance done the anger is gone, and only the pain remains. Without the distraction afforded by anger, one can only grieve.

It has been six months now. Six months since HE and his horde ravaged my land. Six months since HE burned and pillaged my village, leaving behind only a pillar of smoke so high, so thick, and so black that it resembled a raincloud. Six months since HE destroyed everything and everyone I had ever loved.

I spit at the recollection of his name. Rexar. The mere memory of him leaves a foul taste in my mouth. But I can no longer summon the anger, no matter how hard I try. MY anger, the only thing I had left in the world. But there is blood on my hands, and I know the anger is gone forever. In its place was remorse. And pain. Always pain.

There is blood everywhere. There is blood on the altar, mingling with my tears. There is blood on the floor, on the walls, on the pews, making a mockery of the place once called holy. I look at the blood, my handiwork, and feel only an empty remorse.

For six months, consumed by vengeance, I hunted Rexar. For six months I pursued him like an animal, picking his men off one by one. Finally, after six months, I cornered him here, in this place of worship, with the last vestiges of his followers. And to the cries of "Thou shall not spill blood in the house of Roxis!" by the priests, I had my revenge. I HAD MY REVENGE! I slaughtered them all, and my vengeance was complete.

And then I collapsed on the altar, overwhelmed by what I had done. With anger gone, only grief remains, and the tears flowed freely.

I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry, was my incoherent mumble.

But now my mind is clear. And the grief hangs on me more heavily than ever.

She would have been ten, he five. I can see their faces before me, smiling down with childish innocence. Elizabeth and Damien, my beautiful children. And Marie! Oh, sweet Marie! Never again will I feel her touch or the kiss of her lips. Never again will I know her warm embrace. Never again will I smell the flowers in her hair, or see the laughter in her eyes.

Never again.

Oh, the memories! How beautiful, how precious, and how painful they are! The more beautiful the memory, the more my heart grieves that it is gone forever.

I can no longer stand the pain. Life no longer seems worth living. I can feel the cold hard steel of the knife beneath my hand. It beckons to me. The beating pulse at my throat suddenly seems repulsive.

"Narath."

The memory edges itself into my thoughts. I try to push it away, but the more I try the more I remember.

"Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll love again."

Oh, Marie, Marie! Forgive me!

"Marie... Shh..."

"Promise me. Promise."

"I promise. Marie? Marie!!"

The memory overwhelms me, and I cannot stop the tears from flowing.

I fling the knife into the ground before me.

Her dying wish was that I live. And so I will live. I will exist. I will survive. I will wander the world without meaning and without purpose, free yet condemned. Because I promised.

I have never felt so alone.



*Note: The events of this story are intended to link the stories of "The haunting" and "The first day" together. More will follow.