//second chances//

: chapter one :

—

i'm not sure who my real parents are. i can't recall most of my childhood. the memories start here, on the island of Voldsoy, home of the Neds, at least, that's what the bishops call them. they have never spoken to me. well, not with words. they have their own language, one that i have never been able to learn in all my years of living with them. we do communicate, however, through gestures and facial expressions. they have taught me things: how to cook, how to defend myself, and how to use their power, if i ever needed it. not that i would, though. i mean, in my almost 20 years of living here, i've never seen another person.

except the bishops.

twice a year, two of them ride out to our island and take what isn't theirs. they take my family's horns, the source of their power.

every time, i try to approach them, try to fight. but my family will not allow it. they make me go into hiding, for fear that they will take me back to their city.

they call it Dema; the circular city of vialism. from their conversations that i have overheard, they worship the idea of self-sacrifice for the good of others. they believe that the only way to make the world a better a place is to remove yourself from it entirely.

it's disgusting. to think that i have struggled for so long, fought to stay alive for the sake of my family, and those bastards worship it? they bask in the suffering of their people? it's vial.

i also learned that there are nine of them, each in charge of their own sector.

as for myself, i have never seen the city, and i never wish to. the day i step foot into that city is the day that i die.

enough of that, today is a good day.

i wake up and rub my eyes, taking a moment to glance around my tent. it's been here for as long as i can remember, right next to the beach, hidden by rocks. i think the Neds helped me set it up? i don't remember.

i reach my arms above my head, stretching my spine, before sliding my feet from under the sheets and onto the cold cloth floor of the tent. i slide on a black sleeveless turtleneck and black cargo pants, topping it off with a green bomber jacket with fuzz on the inside to keep me warm. i brush my hair and my teeth before stepping outside.

i am immediately greeted by Father, at least, that's what i call him. he has established himself as the "leader" of the Neds. the elder, if you will. he greets me every morning and leads me to the dwelling cave, home of the breakfast campfire.

i smile, wafting the scent of the food dramatically toward my nose to tell Brother, "smells great!"

he gives a grin in return, continuing to stir the pot of morning stew.

Brother is the main chef of the family, although i like to whip up something special every now and again if Brother is tired. it's a good system we have; when he cooks, i clean, and vice versa.

i sit down on one of the many cut up tree stumps sitting around the fire, Brother pouring me a bowl, piping hot, just how i like it.

this has been my routine for the past almost 20 years. routine is good, but sometimes i crave for something else, something... more.

—

i am woken by the sounds of hushed voices near my tent. as they approach, they become more recognizable.

the bishops are here early.

i quickly get out of bed, sleep draining from my body and being replaced with adrenaline, with fear. i reach over to my backpack, grabbing a large knife Brother lent me a while back for cutting vegetables. this'll have to work.

i must protect my family.

i don't have time to bother with real clothes, so i descend the rocky shore in my black tanktop and shorts.

i approach the dwelling cave, torch and knife in my hands. my mind is telling me to be careful and meticulous in my movements, but my heart is telling me that my family is in danger, and i must move quickly. i run, disregarding caution in favor of time.

i am stopped at the entrance by a horrifying sight.

they are carving out Brother's horns.

they are killing him.

"you bastards!" i screech, and before my mind can process what i am doing, i am striding forward, knife raised high.

i only manage to graze the thin gray veil in front of the bishop's face before i am seized by the other.

"let go of me! that's my brother!" i scream and cry and wail, but the bishop is far too strong.

"it's good to see you again," he whispers to me before i feel a sharp pain in my head, everything going black.

—

i wake up in a bed, but it is not mine. the sheets are gray and cold to match the lifeless walls, unlike the happy yellow and green of my tent. i sit up, putting a hand to the back of my head in pain. the last thing i remember is being seized by the bishops.

oh. oh, no.

i scramble out of the bed and go to the window along the adjacent wall, looking outside.

it's all gray.

no, no, no.

i close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

it's not real.

i open my eyes again, still surrounded by gray.

i reach out to the window with a shaky hand, opening it to peek my head out.

there, not too far away, are the towers.

i slam the window shut, rushing to the opposite wall with raised fists. before i can stop myself, i throw a punch. then another. and another.

slowly, the tears begin to fall.

the day i step foot into that city is the day that i die.

consider me a dead man, for i have found myself trapped in Dema.

—