I was walking down the street, strutting my stuff as I always do. Leather jacket tight on broad shoulders, showing my muscular prowess. I was at the apex of my career, gold and silver hanging from my neck, glittering my knuckles. But then, the world around me started to fade, a darkness coming unbidden from the horizon, and I found myself falling, falling under the weight of the world.
When I came to, I was in a cell. Not a typical everyday jail cell, oh no. I was in a padded room with a screen, a screen that showed me and only me. I saw who I was, who I could have been, what I became...
I was never a lucky guy, you see. Misfortune after misfortune, and me being of a weaker sort, well, I turned to crime. I'll tell you right now though, I reveled in it, all the power I held in a flick of my wrist. Men fell at my knees with a single world. I was a God. A deity of the dark workings of society. My weapon, a black obsidian scimitar curved to a long cruel point. My crown, woven raven feathers as dark as the neverending abyss. I was strong and savage as I stood on my throne, covered in the feats of my profession. For each new victory came a tattoo. My body was covered, barely a patch of pliable flesh exposed.
One day long ago, before this all came to pass, I was leading a normal raid on one of my failing clients. It was going as these raids normally did, terrorizing his guardsmen, scattering all the maids and housekeepers, you know, the usual. But when I got to my client's room, when I had him cornered pleading for his life, one of my men brought me a shrimp of a kid they found lurking in the shadows. He was skinny and worn, basically swimming in his ragged clothes, clutching a knife in cold white hands. He looked me in the eye, daring me to kill him. I suppose I saw myself in that scrap of a boy. The way he glared at me, defiance in every cell of his body. I could see how the trials of life had left him hollow, barely any flesh to his worn scaly skin. I was like that once; hollow.
I turned away. I couldn't look at him. "Kill him," I said. Soon I heard the panicked gasp as a blade was ramed deep between his ribs. I heard the gurgles of a drowning man and the muted splattering of blood on the carpeted floor. I told myself it had to be done, this boy was a threat, an anomaly to a regular routine. That look on his face was one of pure hatred and hatred fuels creatures like him, creatures of desperation.
I never looked at him again. I didn't see his last wet tortured breath. I wouldn't. I couldn't. But my awareness had never been sharper. I could feel his cold dead fingers grasping out to me, demanding my penance. After that, I was never the same.
I carried on with my vengeance, demanding to be compensated for my stolen goods. You see, the rich man quivering in the corner failed to mention he started selling more of his drugs, increasing his profits, my profits, seeing as he was in my debt. But even as I tried to continue on as if the boy never existed, his death ate away at my conscious.
I found myself unable to sleep that night, the events leading up to the boys demise playing over and over. I tossed and turned for hours until finally I was consumed by a fevered nightmare. I woke up screaming
Later in the weeks to come, I tried to continue as normal. I ordered my tattoo artist to come in but it was half-hearted. I was barely aware of him as he inked a miniature shattered heart, dripping blood from a small knife going through the middle.
I was living in a daze struggling to find the power I once held in the depths of my being. I couldn't understand why that boy haunted me. What was it about him that tortured me?
Weeks soon turned into months, and my kingdom started to fray at the seams. That's when I started to turn things back around. How could one insignificant little boy plague me so? I was a King, a God! No more I pledged! I would be crueler! I would be harder! I would not be bothered by such a weakling! And soon, my followers weren't questioning my resolve anymore. I was back, and more powerful than ever.
But the nightmares still haunted me, no amount of bluster and ire could keep them away. It was the same thing every night. Those accursed crystal blue eyes, the worn leathery skin, and that expression, oh it haunted me! That boy, that accursed boy.
No matter, I just ignored the terrors and continued on. No one knew about them and I wore my power like a shield. All my battle scars covered by tattoos. I was proud. I was renewed. No one could be allowed to see the disfigured being I was under it all. My guilt was eating me alive, but I never let that stop me. Heck, I didn't even understand what it was that was bothering me.
At the end of it all, my heart gave out. I fell into the blackness, and now that shield of strength is gone. My tattoos were stripped off me, my pride gone, and all that's left is the tortured flesh. All that's left is my guilt and nothing is keeping it restrained any longer. My clothes have degraded over time. The once beautiful leather all but worn snippets. I sit here exposed in front of you. I was a cruel powerful man, yes, but at the heart of it all, I was just a little scrap of a boy filled with hatred, a desperate soul looking for the reason he was given such a miserable lot in life.
