Original Something kind of old

[Jack's Smirking Revenge]

I wrote this a while ago, I can't remember what it was for now. But I've re-read it and kind of feel like taking it a bit further but I'm not sure what direction to go in.


Death is a curious thing. The more you’re exposed to it; the less gruesome and horrifying it becomes. I remember when I first witnessed death. I’m forced to remember - the images are still etched into my mind and still haunt my dreams, like a cobweb that sticks to your face. I can still see the blood shining on the doors like a ruby catching the first rays of light of the day, still hear the anguished screams they cried out as they were butchered, still hear the sickening sound of sharpened steel meeting soft flesh, still smell the stench that hung over the village for days afterwards. And perhaps the worst of them all, I can still taste that stench in my mouth.
The incident in my home village was not the start of such mass counts of brutal killings, nor was it the last. Ever since that day, I’ve had to wander the wilderness without a purpose other than survival. I have travelled far and seen many a town and village in that times, only for them to be ravaged by the ugly plague that is death soon afterwards. Nothing lasts.
I reckon it’s been somewhere in the region of two to three months since I last slept under a roof in a warm bed and ate fresh bread in the company of another human being. I haven’t seen another living soul since the winter ended, save for the birds and deer and fish that I can manage to kill for sustenance. Why is it that the death of one is such a crucial part of prolonging the life of another? It’s the cruellest of ironies that we must kill or be killed these days, but it is also a cruel, harsh truth and - though I hate to admit it – a necessity.
I have grown used to seeing such atrocities in the world now. I think damn near everyone left living has seen it so many times that they barely blink an eyelid or shed a tear anymore. Of course, that’s just on the surface. What use is it to try and stop this happening? To resist is to hasten one’s death, after all. But underneath, every death picks at your emotions a little more every single time until you either shut out all emotion and become as lifeless as the victims, or you’re driven insane and take your own life.

I remember when the world was normal; when death was just a word that passed your lips when you were talking about a particularly old or sick relative, or telling tales of a bygone war of which only stories remain. At that time it was impossible to even begin to imagine what it would be like to see your friends have their limbs mercilessly hacked from their bodies. Why would anyone even want to imagine that anyway?
I often wish I could revert into that child-like ignorant bliss and pretend that the world is not caving in on itself, but that is ridiculous. It’s impossible to ignore when you see it in every town, village and city. Every settlement has fallen into chaos.

And it’s all our own fault that we live in such disarray. There were those who said that it is a punishment for what our ancestor’s ancestors did, but I don’t believe that. I may have once, but it has now gotten out of hand; the killing does not stop. This is the world we live in.


So any suggestions...?

 

[Mitsuki]

Actually this is a very good read. Your eye for imagery details is quite astonishing - it really pulls you in as you read word after word and the images appear in your mind. Along with that comes the reflective manner in which you write, which is always good to see. And it has a pretty solid ending, I think, with a firm final statement. I'm not sure what else you can add to that - I'd suggest leave it that way.

I remember when the world was normal; when death was just a word that passed your lips when you were talking about a particularly old or sick relative, or telling tales of a bygone war of which only stories remain.

Ah yes, you hit the nail right on the head. I see it the same way as you do...that when someone mentions death and talks about a local murder so casually, we can't even begin to imagine how it's really like, especially to the ones who lost their loved ones. All of it are just stories we hear...up until we are actually faced with death itself or witness someone close to us die...only then do we make it personal.

But anyway great stuff there. Kinda made me think a little about death even though it's a subject I don't particularly like to dawdle upon on.

 

[Jack's Smirking Revenge]

Well after I'd thought on it a while, I managed to come up with what I feel is a pretty good continuation of what I have there. I've altered parts of that original writing (or chapter, if you want to call it that). I've left that original version up to allow for any comparison.



Death is a curious thing. The more you’re exposed to it; the less gruesome and horrifying it becomes. In a way, it becomes rather more fascinating. But I guess that’s what they all think before it takes them. I remember when I witnessed my first death, I’m forced to remember - the images are still etched into my mind like some perverse carving created by some lost forgotten tribe thousands of years ago. My dreams are still haunted by those dreams, it’s like they’re some sort of cobweb sticking to my consciousness. I can still see the blood shining ruby red in the first light of day on the doors, still hear the anguished screams they cried out as they were mercilessly butchered at the hands of friends, still hear the sickening sound of sharpened steel meeting soft flesh, still smell the stench that hung over the village for days afterwards. And perhaps the worst of them all, I can still taste that stench in my mouth. That particular taste has poisoned every meal I’ve eaten ever since.

The incident in my home village was not the start of such mass counts of brutal killings, nor was it the last. Ever since that day, I’ve been forced to wander the wilderness without a purpose other than survival with just my thoughts for company. I have travelled far and seen many a town and village in that time, only for them to be ravaged by the ugly plague that is death soon afterwards. Nothing lasts.
By my reckoning, it has been somewhere in the region of two to three months since I last slept under a roof in a warm bed and ate fresh bread in the company of another human being. I haven’t seen another living soul since the winter ended, save for the birds and deer and fish that I can manage to kill for sustenance. Why is it that the death of means life of another? It’s the cruellest of ironies that we must kill or be killed these days, but it is also a cruel, harsh truth and - though I hate to admit it – a necessity.

I have grown used to seeing such atrocities in the world now. I think damn near everyone left living has seen it so many times that they barely blink an eyelid or shed a tear anymore. Of course, that’s just on the surface; underneath, every death picks at your emotions a little more every single time until you either shut out all emotion and become as lifeless as the victims, or your sanity unravels like a thread caught on nail and you take your own life. Either way it all ends in meeting your demise.

I remember when the world was normal; when death was just a word that passed your lips when you were talking about a particularly old or sick relative, or telling tales of a bygone war of which only stories remain. At that time it was impossible to even begin to imagine what it would be like to see your friends have their limbs brutally hacked from their bodies. Why would anyone even want to imagine that anyway?
I often wish I could revert into that child-like ignorant bliss and pretend that the world is not caving in on itself, but that is ridiculous. It’s impossible to ignore when you see it in every town, village and city. Everywhere we have settled has fallen into chaos and disarray.

And it’s our own entire fault that we live in such a state. There were those who said that it is a punishment for what our ancestor’s ancestors did, but I don’t believe that. I may have once, but that has passed. If this is our punishment, have we not suffered enough? Before long the being watching over us will have no one left to watch over if he allows this to continue. The simple truth is that we have fallen into ruin and we have to deal with it or die. This is the world we live in.

But perhaps it would be better not to begin with the present so. Maybe I should fill in the blanks; about how the world came from being as it was to as it is…

A man about to leave middle aged crests the pinnacle of the small hill he has been climbing. He is wearing a dirty old blue shirt and a pair of jeans that have almost worn through. He carries a leather pack on his back with various cooking utensils and other odds and ends in order to survive out in the wild. Were in not for his unkempt look, he may be considered rather handsome. There is no breeze and so his scraggly hair falls down to his ears and obstructs his eyes. He raises a hand and sweeps it back to clear his view. A little way behind him there is a small congregation of fir trees and beyond that the village where he was born. He stands taking in the scenery for a minute or two before looking to the South; his destination. The sky is beginning to darken a little. In perhaps an hour there will be rain and the plain ahead of the man will be sodden with it. Will an hour be enough to reach the cover of the forest? He thinks not and his spirits begin to wane.
He slips the pack off his back and tightens the straps a little, for it is an old pack and the straps do not allow for a great weight to be born in it, and a great weight is what he carries. Replacing the pack to its position he takes a final look back along his path he has already trodden and continues on, out of view of Brevis and the woods which obstruct it from his view.

Just as predicted, within an hour the sun has disappeared and a heavy rain is falling. His dark hair is now plastered to his head and droplets of water fall to the ground from his nose and the tips of his fingers. An uncomfortable trickle of rain is making its way down the middle of his back. The trees are getting closer, however. Closer with every step.

It was at that moment in which the world I knew imploded, inverted, collapsed, caved in on itself. Whichever term you prefer. I remember sitting under a tree at the edge of the forest. I was sitting naked as the day I was born, wringing out my wet clothes. The wind changed direction briefly and blew from the North. On it travelled a smell I had never encountered, and yet it felt familiar all the same. It’s difficult to describe it as it is unlike anything else. Now everyone in the world has come to associate that smell with death…

At first the man thinks nothing of the changing wind and the new smell it brings with it. He bends to pick up his wet shirt which was discarded the instant he reached a place where it was not raining. He pauses half way through this action and turns his face North. He appears to be concentrating on the plain which he has just crossed, as though he has seen a deer or some other beast which he can hunt.

The wind’s strength grew, and so did the heaviness of the smell upon it. It was as though my nostrils were coated with that smell…

He straightens again and walks as near to the edge of his small camp as he dares without getting too wet. The smell is unsettling to the man and he shifts uncomfortably. It has nothing to do with the low temperature or the broken twigs upon which he stands. In the back of his mind something (someone?) is telling him that something in Brevis is amiss. He pushes the feeling away and retrieves the shirt from the ground. As he straightens again he once again faces home. Out of sentiment? Or is it the voice in the depths of his mind telling him to?

At that moment it seemed as though I had an accomplice. That I had not travelled alone. Of course I was alone, save for the birds in the trees. But there was that thing in my mind that told me to look back to the North. It encouraged me to go back. And alas, I gave in to that voice and without even bothering to finish drying off my clothes I donned it and fled back across the plains.



As of yet, the character is remaining nameless since I'm struggling to come up with a name I'm happy with.
Any comments appreciated.