𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐌𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 || 𝐧𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐚𝐮

00 PROLOGUE

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P R O L O G U E
⓿

»The wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night,
but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes,
and the sun reveals the crime to all.«

– Khalil Gibran, Secrets of the Heart

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On those dark nights of temporary inner abstinence, a strange calm that felt beyond normalcy overflowed me. It was neither pleasant nor uncomfortable. I couldn't find a suitable word to give this feeling a name – I didn't feel anything at all.

It was as if my soul had left its shell; frustrated and outraged by the fragile and weak muscle in my chest – completely empty, soulless.

There was nothing I could equate to this feeling. Either giving up indeed felt like that, or the inevitable acceptance of the fates in my life did.

But the calm always lasted for only a few moments, ultimately being replaced by the complete opposite – a destructive hurricane of uncontrollable emotions, pangs of remorse, the terrible guilt that fed on my soul day after day and also a hot glow that pumped through my veins.

I burned up – without a doubt.

Not even Polar Water would have been able to tame the effect at that moment, for all of this was triggered in my mind, my heart, my soul ...

And once again, I realized that the black butterflies had taken everything from me. Unalterable. Because time was the fire in which we all burned down.

The dark night had settled over the whole city like iridescent silk, swallowed all the light in the area without a problem; only a few lanterns gave me enough light, scantily lit my path, flickered restlessly and projected grotesque shadows – as if they wanted to rip a gaping wound into the night sky with their sharp claws.

I was familiar with that strange atmosphere, perhaps too familiar, that path almost routine, which was already unutterably sad, considering the fact who waited for me at the end of my destination.

But I had to do it: quench my nervousness and make sure my nightmares were just some kind of dream, ghostly delusions, the processing of my worst fears, or just a tasteless prank; sent from the depths of purgatory. Everything ... just not true.

An icy breeze blew against me, pushed through my linen coat, caressed my neck with its frosty fingers, which chilled me all over my body. I buttoned the last two buttons, pulled the hood of my raven-black cloak deeper into my face and quickened my pace, as if I wanted to remain unknown; a shadow camouflaged in darkness.

At some point, it might be enough, at some point I might stop constantly being plagued by these terrible events of purest repetitions, which deeply rooted in my soul, poisoning me over and over again.

In my own mind, I was only a puppet, for at night it dominated my dreams, and during the day my thoughts with such penetrable stubbornness that I usually didn't have the necessary strength to fight back and free my mind.

My steps slowed as I had almost reached my destination. The well-known smell blew at me immediately – cemetery earth. I shuddered as I absentmindedly brushed my finger against the cool iron-railing door, my sad look gliding over the graves.

Countless people – strung together, under cold earth, disappeared in the infinite nothing. Some were victims, some were culprits; young and old, murderers, rapists and in between priests, the men of God.

Something in me contracted horribly. They were all fundamentally different, countless individuals who had lived their lives, had written a different story. Nonetheless, like everyone else, they landed in this place; »rest in peace« stood on the graves. But how could someone find peace, who had dedicated his whole life for the good, for people and for justice, if beside him lay a human being, who in turn had conspired against it during his lifetime and had nothing but bad deeds to show?

No, that wasn't peace. That was nothing but madness in my eyes.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, before rummaging my keychain out of my pocket and sliding the thing with shaky fingers into the door cylinder.

The door creaked like a rusty hinge when it opened, and I couldn't help but let the pent-up air out of my lungs.

Of course, at this time the doors of the graveyards were locked, so some time ago I had bribed the graveyard guard and had a second key made so that I had access at all times.

Nobody knew about it; many would consider it a morbid obsession and they would probably want to force me into psychiatry. But I needed that... I had to see it. Again and again.

My black boots creaked loudly under my feet, and I stared as if paralyzed to an indeterminate point in the distance, stopped impulsively, because I was there.

At his grave.

A wave of nausea spilled over me and an uncontrollable tremor captured my body at the same time. The orderly thoughts fluttered confusedly around, eventually forming a thick, indefinable lump, and a small movie played out in my mind's eye. The past would never leave me behind, something I had become painfully aware of a long time ago.

At some point, I would suffocate on it; at the guilt and the remorse. I had no way to undo the events.

His name had been carved into the stone in an artistically font, but no one would ever know his story; how he came under the earth. The anger and the pain tied my throat, but at the same time an abnormal relief spread in me...

He was dead. Dead.

Whenever I had that nightmare that truly felt like a brief caress of death, I came here. Just to make sure that this grave wasn't open and that the man who had died by my own hands hadn't found a way to escape from the hellfire...

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A/N

Welcome to my new story aka Lyra's longterm project that kept her from sleeping at night and just had to be written down. Please take a seat in the exclusive VIP section and enjoy.

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