Day 1

I think I can hear him.

But then again, I'm not so sure.

My dearest friends are gone, you see.
Compadrés, amigos. Friends.
All gone.
I sit on the edge of the end of the lands bleached white by their christening – baptism of purification. The Purified Zones. They've got a nice ring to them, don't you know? Can't you hear the ringing, the chiming of that name – purified. Pure. Simple. Pur-i-fi-ca-tion.
He used to say those words. Pure, purified, purification. Sometimes he might use it as a compliment–
"You are pure" I hear him tell me, looking me up and down before I tell him what I have to offer.
But then it sent him mad – insane, you might say – "impure" this and "impure" that.
"You must be purified."
It wasn't the sugar that got him – he had no sweet tooth to speak of – it wasn't the corruption that sent him into a spiral.
No, no – it was the purity of this world. The lack thereof.
It drove him mad to know that this world could never be pure – it began with the removal of the damned souls, the spectres, and then grew to become mass genocide, homocide.
Butchery, murder, slaughter, carnage, killing – all with the common finalé of death.
It wasn't purity he wanted in the end, oh no, it was simple decimation – removal of any and all life he could find.
My dearest friend. My love. Mon batteur.
Was this ever really what you wanted? A boring, empty world?
I think I can hear him mumble under his breath, his voice carried on the wind.
But then again, I'm not so sure.