Incandescence

Part I: The Fire

WARNING: 

You are now entering first draft territory. Proceed with caution.

Issues. We're talking countless issues here. Issues with characterisation, issues with pacing, issues with plot - you get the gist. I'm still proud of this, as badly written as it is, but please don't read on expecting anything other than a train wreck pulled from the mind of an over-imaginative kid. 

If you choose to read on, please don't hesitate to offer constructive criticism! This story has become so important to me and I want to make the redraft (which will be finished one day, I swear!) as good as it can be, so any and all feedback would be lovely and help me out a ton. I'm not the type of writer who thinks the sun shines out my ass, so don't worry about being "too harsh" - just be honest. Anything's better than sugar-coated praise.

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                        Memoirs from Yours Truly,

                                                                 Unsigned

 

There's blood wedged beneath my fingernails, matted to my hair, dried in to my clothes. My skin is stained with it. Tainted. And it won't go away, no matter how much I scrub. It's there to stay; a persistent scar, refusing to heal, the meaning behind it clear: there's no way back this time. I've been teetering on the edge of the grey area for too long, but now my choice has been made.

           I close my eyes and I see darkness. And just beyond that, a faint wisp of brightness. A beacon of hope in the gloom, beckoning me closer in a crooning mother's whisper. Can you see it too? It's incandescent, promising a safe haven to cower in while the storm continues to rage outside. But it's not the type of light that chases away the monsters; it's the type that brings them closer. And it's luring me in.

           Time for a game of chess. You remember the rules?

           Neither do I.

           We've played along, but the odds were never stacked in our favour. They're up a hundred to one, revelling in our defeat. Don't bother trying to escape. You can't outrun what's smarter than you. And you can't hide from what's already waiting inside.

           The world ends not with a bang but a whimper, as one so rightly put it. A whimper, a flash, a silent scream. I hear them all – the cries of confusion, muffled by the tendrils of darkness which gnaw at what little light remains within. I hear myself. And I hear you too.

           A whimper. A flash. A silent scream.

           Game over.