Beaten Father
Broken Child
Release your dragon
Into the wild
Place the ice
Onto the burner
Make him now
Melt him later
Freeze the blood
Into crimson ice
No one can hide
From the Frost's Bite
.-.
You know, I was once happy. A happy, perfect child. Beautiful, my mother said; with my snow white hair, pearl-skin, and teal eyes. I had a loving family, comprised of a beautiful mother and a kind father. I had loved candy, and I remember wanting a puppy.
I also remember being seen as a child-prodigy. A genius when it came to combat and weaponry. I knew every fighting technique, every different type of swordplay, and every weapon by heart along with possible modifications. I was a master of battle strategy, a true chess master along with several games that involved either colonizing or invading a new land. Politics, economics, and history were my fortes. My future was secured when I was 8.
Those things are gone now. It's almost hard to believe they ever existed. Now all there can be is blood. Blood and ice.
It was sort of like watching fireworks from up close; the explosion that threw my mother through the front window, the cold fire that seethed my skin, and the strange green ice that fell into my gaping wounds. I remember burning cold, my limbs seizing up as I thrashed in a smoldering pile of burning flesh and blood; and then cold. Nothing but cold.
Ironically, that painful fiery heat would be one of the things I missed the most about my past life.
The next couple months were kind of hazy, punctuated with a small nursery rhyme that constantly repeated itself on walls and on random scraps of lined paper. I remember the cold, and the putrid smell of alcohol. Hunger was a constant companion, gnawing at the pit of my empty stomach. The only warmth I had back then was from the blood my own father drew from me. There was pain, mind-numbing and fiery. Compared to the cold, it was an untamable beast that I couldn't help but be drawn to.
My father's pain was so much more enjoyable than my own, setting off a different type of warmth in my stomach as my small, blood-soaked hand buried itself into his gut; grasping at the slippery organs inside. I pulled out a small sack of bloody meat, recognizing it as a kidney. It didn't taste all that good, but at the same time, it was also my first time ever eating an organ. I grew more accustomed to it as I made my way to the heart, sating the hunger that had grown within me.
3 years of living alone with my father had clearly warped me, if only slightly.
I remember calling the police, my subconscious telling me that they wouldn't like that I was the one who killed him. I remember lying to them, telling them that someone had broken in and killed him; that I had hidden in the cupboard until I was found, and was forced to eat his organs. That there was blood everywhere, and that I had no idea who or where the supposed killer was.
It was my first lie. The first drop of darkness to corrupt my now-black and icy heart.
The police came about 5 minutes later, and I remember being found on the couch, sitting quietly awaiting their arrival. I remember a man with blue hair, telling me that everything would be alright. I remember him helping me to the bathroom, "helping" me force the organs up. I remember the burn of the blood coming up my throat, choking on chunks of bloody flesh. I remember the gnawing hunger coming back again twice as worse.
The man had held me during it, telling me everything would be alright, everything would be fine. I remember his electric-blue eyes that at the time seemed similar to my own. I know the difference now; how much colder my eyes were in comparison to his. The man was a fool to not notice it himself.
When in the hospital, there was nothing to draw warmth from except from my own wrists; and when they took away the blades I was left with nothing but cold. The cold was always there, never leaving. At first, I couldn't control it at all; water freezing solid whenever it was near me, people were unable to be in the same room with me after a little bit. I remember a woman with bright orange hair once and rather large breasts getting locked in a closet next to my room all night; I remembered the screams when they found her body frozen solid and dead in the morning.
I remember the scientists, the testing, the needles. I hated the needles, I hated the testing, I hated the scientists. I remember the satisfying feeling of burying one of the needles in a man's eye, watching his eye burst like a balloon and spray warm blood all over my face; I also remembered blaming another scientist for it, the cameras having been frozen over so much that security couldn't make out who had done it. The older man had never stood a chance at proclaiming his innocence; I remember how affective my tears had been on the police.
The blue-haired policeman had been there too, but he didn't seem as warm as last time. Maybe by then, all I could truly feel warmth from was blood.
All I have now is memories. Memories to remind me who I am, who I was, and what I became. Sweet, sweet memories to drive me even more insane.
They're the only things that are as warm as blood.