Nightmare

The little boy trembled as the leering, malicious figures loomed over him. With their piercing eyes and sharp shadows, they looked otherworldly. “I’m scared...I’m sorry...I didn’t mean it!” the boy whimpered instinctively. He didn’t know what he had done wrong this time, but it was always his fault.

“Shut up, you fucking brat!”

“They ripped us off.”

“That pathetic face makes me want to slap him.”

“I can’t even look at him. Those red eyes...I bet he’s putting a curse on us right now!”

“That pitch black hair and those hellish eyes? An omen of ill-luck, for sure.”

The boy shrank back. The overwhelming presence and cruel words of the others were more piecing than any knife. The collective air of loathing and disgust burned through his soul, right to the very core of his being. He felt naked and exposed in the most psychological way possible. The atmosphere felt like it would smother him.

Two shadows rose up taller than the others, exuding a dominate presence as they took charge of the collective upset.

“Don’t worry, it was a perfect deal. If it’s a matter of survival, a man can adapt to anything. Train him to work for us and we’ll have a weapon that will give us a tenfold return in the coming years.” The calculating, emotionless one promised.

The second man didn't address the other shadows, instead speaking dirrectly to the boy. “Your fear is disgusting, but you’ll be rid of it soon enough. You will learn through pain, what it means to be a man. You will become strong.” The threatening promise hung into the air like a weight.

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The boy curled up, tucking his knees to his chest. A few hours of sleep in his hollow-tree hiding spot, and then his "training" would begin all over again. Forced to run, lift and fight until his body started to give up and the overwhelming exertion would force him to vomit uncontrollably. Then he would be beaten bloody; forced to continue training; until he no longer was able to thinking or aware of anything as he forced his body to comply. Was this what his life was going to be like forever? Would he even be able to grow up, or would this eventually kill him?

Initially, he'd cried a lot in his few moments of privacy, as he’d learned quickly that even his eyes silently watering up would be met with a quick strike, but he’d soon lost his ability to do even that. He was exhausted and his entire being felt so weighed down that he didn’t have the energy to cry. His stomach felt hallow, too. The men knew exactly how the human body worked and what was needed to be able to maintain his strength for the strenuous training. They gave him exactly enough food and nothing more. Whenever he wasn’t exerting himself, he could feel the hunger pains setting in from having burned up all the energy his body had to give.

The boy looked out of a hole in the roots, up at the sliver of the moon. As he closed his eyes, a single tear dripped down his face; all that he could muster. “God....do you not care? Are you mad at me? Why? Why is this happening to me? Why don’t you just make it stop?’

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The boy breathed heavily, clutching the knife with a death grip. “Ah-ha-ha!” A empty, humorless laugh escaped from his mouth. His young mind couldn’t process what he was seeing around him. A sea of red and twisted bodies. An entire village now reduced to silence and ruin, both those who had tried to fight and the defenseless alike. “Ha-ha-...” The boy touched his face. It was wet. He pulled his hand away and saw the blood. The same crimson that he stood wallowing in; same crimson that spread out in an endless sea as far he could see; covered him from head to toe.

“I-I- didn't mean it...I’m so sorry....” He was barely able to whimper as his mind fractured and prevented him from forming coherent thoughts.

“God...how could I...? ....why...? Forgive me....this is wrong. Please...next time...let me die instead...I don’t want this....!”

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The boy’s life was a carousel of bleak, brutal moments; snapshots of hell on earth. As he grew stronger and more feared, as he fought to stay alive, nothing changed. He may have slowly grown into a man, but the fear, terror and numbness still clung to him like a cloak. The memories themselves were the worst part.

Crying, screaming people. Innocents who hadn’t done anything. Children. Noncombatants. Soldiers. Other mercenaries. Knights. Merchants and the wealthy. Humble or impoverished people. Every one of them in the way somehow, whether to the men he traveled with or the people who’d bought their "services".

He’d witnessed the deaths of every sort of persons imaginable. By his own hands, hundreds of lives were snuffed out mechanically and effortlessly. Even so, they lived on in his dreams. Even if he outwardly took lives without any feeling, in his heart and mind, his actions tormented him. He saw the despair and blood of his victims whenever he briefly closed his eyes. Good. He knew what he was doing was wrong, so he had no right to just forget as if all those nameless lives hadn’t mattered. Even if the outside world merely shrugged at the atrocities, he wouldn’t let himself off that easily. He’d bear the weight of the memories as his just punishment.

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“Knock that shit off!” A booted foot landed between the boy's shoulders, stealing his breath and forcing him violently to the ground. He could taste the blood that trickled from his mouth and nose being smashed into the hard ground. He tried to weakly pull himself up, but the boot stomped on his head, forcing him back down. He tasted the cold dirt. Even in the woods outside the gaze of others, there was no peace for him. Even as a teenager, he was still easily pushed around by his elders.

“Seeing you kneeling makes me want to puke! A mercenary praying...what a joke! Let me clue you in on something, you little freak!" The man jerked the boy's head back by his hair. "There.is no. god! Even if there was one, he wouldn’t help you!  If you have power and strength, you can bend things to your will, that’s all that matters! The strong overcome the weak and that's all the order there is to it! If that god that people talk about is real, then I’m stronger than him, just like I’m stronger than you, twerp! Think about it...he tells people to be weak but then doesn’t lift a finger to protect them? Who'd be dumb enough to actually buy into that shit? Those so-called virtues that you somehow think are better than Booze are as worthless as crap!"  The man released the boy's hair and let him slam down to the ground.

The boy couldn’t breathe as the boot ground his face down further into the musty earth. “I don’t want to see that sort of weakness around me! You’re our weakest link! Just following fucking orders and do what your told and stop it! You’re just a weapon, not anything else! That’s all we need you to be! Stop it! Stop it! Pay attention to my fucking words you damn-!” The boy disassociated and disappeared into the back of his mind as the older man continued to scream and beat him.

 The leader and the second were the most dominate over him, but most of the men were the same as this one. Whether it was the same level of violent disgust, a casual cruel comment and/or slap, or simply acting like he wasn’t there, there wasn’t anyone he had positive interactions with. 

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Entwined with his recollections of having things screamed and beaten into or out of him, were the memories of things that children shouldn’t see that were part of the very air he breathed from an early age.

Whether in sketchy taverns or their camp, the other men were constantly doing and saying things with women that he instinctively knew were supposed to be for married people. The levels of perversion and debauchery varied but, as he got older, at least he could retreat away from it all when it became too much to bear. When he was younger, he had nowhere to go, and just had to see it all. Everyone just ignored him as if he was nothing more than a rock.

Fighting and gambling were also close companions to, and sometimes even replaced, the more sensual things, and alcohol was a constant presence during it all. As a child, he couldn’t process all the chaos, just that it made him feel sick in his stomach. He could tell that the men didn’t think their actions were unusual and didn’t care what other people outside their group would think. Many even found a twisted sort of joy in making other people uncomfortable and hurting them. 

But the boy knew in his gut that he didn’t ever want to act the way the grown-ups did. As he got older, he was able to called the behavior what it was to him; wrong and cruel. No matter if you believed in God or not, there were ways in which you should never treat other living, breathing people. He didn’t start any trouble, but he would refuse to partake, no matter the coercion or mockery that he experienced. No matter how much he was called frigid, gross, or a hypocrite, he knew he was doing the right thing. He’d already caused enough harm and he didn’t want to hurt anyone else.

He couldn't escape having to kill, so he seized the one means of control and asserting his individuality that he could. He learned to escape into silence and find a measure of peace in being alone with God in his thoughts. No matter what anyone said, no matter how much he was abused, no matter how messed up he knew he was, he stubbornly clung to his beliefs. He knew God existed from an early age. That knowledge was just as natural to him as breathing. He couldn’t explain precisely what it was he felt; to him it just was. As things blurred together and the years passed in a blur of ugliness without him fully aware of them, he clung to the one belief that was fully his own.

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More shadows loomed over him in a blur, this time of every sort of person imaginable.

“Murderer! We don’t want your kind here!”

“Mercenaries are as different from the holy nights as the sun is from the moon. You’re selfish and moral-less by your very nature. How could we ever trust you?”

“Why did the king let him live? He’s just as bad as the others.”

“Even if he’s little more than a child, he’s still one of them. He’s probably killed just as many if not more than the leaders did.”

“How can he be any different? Monsters can only raise a monster!”

“Get out of here you snake! You’ll defile this place!”

“Blabber about God and spew all the empty prayers you want. There’s no way God will give you anything other than eternal fire.”

“You’re wicked to the core and your sins can never be forgiven!”

The child, now a grown man, clutched his chest and panicked, tears forming in his eyes. He wanted to escape the barrage. The pain and confusion screamed in his head, and he couldn’t breathe. “Please...Please...” He begged weakly, tears burning his eyes. There wasn’t any sympathy or mercy for him.

“You killed my grandfather! You Bastard!”

“Look at those eyes, you can see the evil in him!”

“Don’t look at him or he’ll be able to steal your soul with one glance!”

“That hair and those eyes and scars...he’s disgusting and creepy looking mommy!”

“I heard he’s allied with the demon race and that he was taught their dark arts.”

“He soul his soul to gain power.”

“Please, stop...I’m sorry!” The man begged.

More voices chimed in.

“We will never accept you as our leader.”

“Him, in charge? What a joke! He’s useless!”

“I can’t stand seeing your face. Every time I look at you it makes me feel sick.”

“You preach to us all the time, but you aren’t any different than us.”

At the last voice, the man slowly turned, his eyes wide and dilated. He didn’t want to look but felt compelled by an unseen force.

Scath stood at a tilted, unnatural angle, the hole in his torso shining with blood. “Hypocrite. Useless. All that praying and talking and you still couldn’t do shit to save me. Rot in hell!.”

“No! No!” Azreal screamed wildly, clenching his head. “I didn’t want-! You-! I never-!” Suddenly, the other mercenary was gone, replaced by someone else.

Mari, her face spattered with blood and her white hair glistening in the dark, stood in horror before him. Her wide eyes were empty with shock.

“Mari?”

She regarded him with a look of utter disgust. “Murderer."

Azreal screamed his lungs out as he bolted up in bed.