Spite
- Reads 57
- Votes 5
- Parts 3
Ongoing22m
Last published Sat, Jan 20, 2024
She stared intensely at the scythe in front of her before reaching out her hand to grab it. It trembled slightly as if it was unsure. She heard the voices of spirits, demons, and ghost encouraging her.
"Yes, grab it"
"Come on take the power of death"
"We are lonely"
"Ooo this one has already kil-"
"Quiet!"
Her last thread of patience snapped and she grabbed the scythe. Immediately the voices were silenced. All you could hear was the blowing of the wind and her heavy breathing. Her master came up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Looking at the weapon that his student had chosen he sighed.
"Power over the dead is a difficult burden to carry"
She tightened her grip on her sword and whispered in a low voice, "Those who have power over the dead have power over the living."
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#7
cultivating
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"Kill..." the low whispering voice trailed off into my head. I don't think the strange whispering voice came from anyone in the room. It was too loud; too abnormel; too deadly. Suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back making me scream and cry out for someone, something, anything. I want to be alone, somwhere dark, somewhere safe. My eyes open to see a woman cradling me in her arms. A man with red eyes, tan skin, and blonde hair starred at me. His eyes sunk into my head making me wince. The woman is natuarlly warm and comfortable, but her face is stained with tears mixed with blood on her, once beautiful, face. She smeared some of the blood onto my puffy cheeks with a warm beaten and calloused hand. "You're gonna be okay," she assured me. More tears fell from her eyes. I looked closer into her grayish, I think, eyes. They had evil tucked beneath fear in them. I don't know what she means, yet her words mean the world to me at this very moment: 4 minutes ago, I was born.
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