Post by Reaper on Jan 8, 2012 2:18:00 GMT -5
It came again last night...The flesh searing, bone-chilling nightmare that plagued him in his sleep. His breathing was labored, and his clothes were damp, as he laid in a semiconscious state under the bridge of a highway overpass.His body was a pile of rags heaped atop a disjointed, pile of broken belongings, most were not his.
No, in fact the majority of it belonged to the man across from him, who had, until recently, been shuddering violently in the corner in an attempt to stay warm. The man was an old War Veteran, discarded after the Vietnam War had taken whatever usefulness the man had. Now he laid at the bottom of a highway overpass cold and broken 50 miles from no where.
If it weren't for the man's incessant and incoherent ramblings the man in rags may never have woke up, and for that he would have been grateful. But eventually the Man in rags could not help but stir, pulled forth from his terrible Nightmare, into an even more terrifying reality.
Coughing, a dry raspy cough, John, or so the man in rags had once been called, slowly came to. Rats scurried away from him has he rose and took stock of his surroundings. He was safe, more or less anyway, and his body was still intact, for now. The Rats had taken the liberty to gnaw a bit at his skin in his slumber, but luckily they had yet to get to anything truly vital to his senses.
John Shambled to his feet, his body making odd creaking sounds as he did so. His body was obscured by the rags and hood he wore, but it was easy to see that the man was skinny and not at all healthy for his apparent age. He Looked at the man across from, babbling incoherently to himself, and he could not help, but feel a bit of remorse for the fellow. This man haggard and confused had lived far past his prime, and now, much like himself, he was doomed to live a waking nightmare every day of his life.
John, hesitated for a moment, it was not like him to interact with the life's of others. No, in fact, it was rare for him to interact with others at all. Their affairs were not his, and as such, they were none of his concern. nonetheless something tugged at him urged him to offer a helping hand to this poor deplorable shell of a man, and so he found himself standing in front of him searching him for recognition.
John stared at him for a long while, patiently waiting for the man to come to terms with his presence. Slowly the man's speech slowed, and then stopped as continued to stare at him. When all was finally silent John asked him a simple question: "Do You know who I am?" The man paused for a second and a shudder passed through him as if to confirm his recognition as he nodded.
"Then you know that I am here to help." John lifted his right arm up and put it before the man, and then with his left he slowly began to undo the rags surrounding it. What laid underneath was nothing more then bone, yet it moved and flexed as if to offer itself to the man.
Another long moment passed as the man stared at the hand offered to him. It was only after some time that with a long drawn out sigh the man grasped arm in front of him, his body immediately going limp as he did so.
John preoccupied himself only a moment more before rising to cover the man's eyes, and then without further ceremony or delay he turned his back and and began to shamble down the long stretch of road in front of him. Doomed to travel, but to no longer belong, he had ceased to be John long ago. He was now a Reaper.
No, in fact the majority of it belonged to the man across from him, who had, until recently, been shuddering violently in the corner in an attempt to stay warm. The man was an old War Veteran, discarded after the Vietnam War had taken whatever usefulness the man had. Now he laid at the bottom of a highway overpass cold and broken 50 miles from no where.
If it weren't for the man's incessant and incoherent ramblings the man in rags may never have woke up, and for that he would have been grateful. But eventually the Man in rags could not help but stir, pulled forth from his terrible Nightmare, into an even more terrifying reality.
Coughing, a dry raspy cough, John, or so the man in rags had once been called, slowly came to. Rats scurried away from him has he rose and took stock of his surroundings. He was safe, more or less anyway, and his body was still intact, for now. The Rats had taken the liberty to gnaw a bit at his skin in his slumber, but luckily they had yet to get to anything truly vital to his senses.
John Shambled to his feet, his body making odd creaking sounds as he did so. His body was obscured by the rags and hood he wore, but it was easy to see that the man was skinny and not at all healthy for his apparent age. He Looked at the man across from, babbling incoherently to himself, and he could not help, but feel a bit of remorse for the fellow. This man haggard and confused had lived far past his prime, and now, much like himself, he was doomed to live a waking nightmare every day of his life.
John, hesitated for a moment, it was not like him to interact with the life's of others. No, in fact, it was rare for him to interact with others at all. Their affairs were not his, and as such, they were none of his concern. nonetheless something tugged at him urged him to offer a helping hand to this poor deplorable shell of a man, and so he found himself standing in front of him searching him for recognition.
John stared at him for a long while, patiently waiting for the man to come to terms with his presence. Slowly the man's speech slowed, and then stopped as continued to stare at him. When all was finally silent John asked him a simple question: "Do You know who I am?" The man paused for a second and a shudder passed through him as if to confirm his recognition as he nodded.
"Then you know that I am here to help." John lifted his right arm up and put it before the man, and then with his left he slowly began to undo the rags surrounding it. What laid underneath was nothing more then bone, yet it moved and flexed as if to offer itself to the man.
Another long moment passed as the man stared at the hand offered to him. It was only after some time that with a long drawn out sigh the man grasped arm in front of him, his body immediately going limp as he did so.
John preoccupied himself only a moment more before rising to cover the man's eyes, and then without further ceremony or delay he turned his back and and began to shamble down the long stretch of road in front of him. Doomed to travel, but to no longer belong, he had ceased to be John long ago. He was now a Reaper.
