(mother always said that the world was a wonderful place)

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"Mother?" I whisper. She looks so peaceful right now, even though her soft brown fur is drenched in a crimson bright enough to make my eyes sting. I reach out with trembling fingers and trace the minute cracks trailing over the skull cradling her head. I watch as tears spill down my nose and flow over the dirty white surface.

"Mother," I whisper again, and I choke on the words as I force them from my throat. "Mother, why did you leave me? You said you would be here always…" But of course my mother does not answer, and the silence breaks my heart into pieces.

Mother is dead and gone, never to hold me and kiss me again.

·

The skull digs painfully into my temples, making my head pound horribly, but I will not take it off. It was my mother's, and is still covered in her scent and stained with my tears. I take a deep breath to keep memories at bay, and clutch the long bone club tightly in my hands; it still gleams white, the bleached surface so far untainted by death. That will not be true for long.

I am here to take my revenge.

I watch as the humans clothed in black sneak into this tower of the lost, the same humans who killed my mother. Their hands are clenched around long whips attached to their belts. I can sense their cruelty, seeming to radiate from them in waves, crashing into me and making my head spin and my knees shake. I must reach up a hand and touch the small cracks spider-webbing across my helm to strengthen my quaking resolve. I press my feet firmly to the floor and raise my club. The humans are almost within reach.

And a moment later I am flying through the air with a blood-curdling screech. The humans fall back, frightened, and reach for their whips, but are too slow. I smash my weapon into the first one's knee, hearing the rip of flesh and crack of bone shatter the silence of the once-peaceful tower. I throw myself toward the others, and their screams echo through the tower, bouncing wildly off the now-red walls. In a few short minutes my work is done, and silence reigns once again as I stand, panting, among the broken bodies of my victims. They shall never rise again to harm a living creature.

But as I stare at the carnage around me, the image of my mother, lying broken in front of me as these humans lay now, flashes unbidden through my mind. The bone club, now slick with blood and gore, slips from my numb fingers and clatters to the floor.

I fall to my knees and weep.

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(I have since discovered that the world is really a place of blood and sin, murder and death)


Is it bad that I find it so fun to write these?

And fun fact: the title of this is apparently Latin for revenge. Yay for Google Translate and making boring titles sound cool!

(Pokemon belongs to Nintendo)