When the World Begins to Fade – Diablo Noir

Scene 1 - Self Loathing Be My Friend

I lean back in my chair, feet resting on the desk in front of me, and stare intensely at the spit balls on the roof above my head. It's not the first time today that I've done this. Lately, most my life has been spent this way; rocking in my chair, staring at the ceiling, and trying to recall which drunken stupor it was when I spat those saliva drenched wads of paper, trying to get them to stick. I bet I laughed like a loon when they did.

Dirty lamp light filters in through my boarded up windows. I have no idea what time it is; probably the middle of the night for all I know. It always seems dark in this place. Just for a change of pace, I let the chair fall with a thump onto the hard wooden floor, then push myself slowly out of it. It gets harder every time I do this. I have to remind myself that I'm not as young as I used to be; as I head for the window my muscles and bones creak in protest, and the tell-tale pain of dry twist burns in my left hand.

Wincing, I peer through the boards, out of my run-down, termite infested shack. My nose is so close to the dusty wood I can smell the acidic goop those little bastards spit on it before eating the walls away piece by piece. Pest control in this day and age certainly leaves a lot to be desired: some guy waving a wand and chanting some drivel. How's that supposed to keep the bugs away? What a phony.

The street outside is cold and barren, the light of the oil lamps doing nothing to warm the scene. A single figure leans against one of the posts, scrutinizing her nails with bored interest. For just a second a feel my pulse quicken as I catch a glimpse of that heavenly crease between her breasts, the way they rise and fall delicately with each breath she takes. The bright red corset squeezing her already shapely midsection down another two sizes only serves to accentuate the curves further, and her skirts dangles just low enough to cover what it must. Still, it leaves very little to the imagination. I find myself wondering if the couple of gold coins I have floating around in my desk will be enough to tempt a goddess like her into spending the night with a washed out loser like me.

Probably not.

I watch her for a little longer as she undoes her hair and pulls it back into a tight ponytail. Once her people had been known as the most powerful and strong willed women in the world. They could twist a man around their little finger and snap him like a twig, or beat the foulest of demons back into the cesspits they had crawled from. Now, these 'ladies' were known more for being fantastic night companions and ferocious lovers. If you could meet their fee. Hey, everyone has to survive in this world, and if doing that means putting your morals on the shelf - far at the back along with your self respect - sometimes that's what you have to do.

I sigh and turn away, leaving the window to the world beyond. My knees ache as I trudge back to my chair, and it's a relief to sit back in its waiting arms. I swear there must be a butt shaped groove in the cushion by now, with the amount of time I spend lounging here. I wonder if I should go out and chase up some work, rather than waiting for it come to me. But the idea of getting drunk and staring at spitballs seems far more appealing.

I grab the steel mug off the desk, and bend down to the large keg I keep underneath. As expensive as that sucker may have been, it's negated the need for me to go to the pub for almost a month now. Which, of course, is fine by me. Bars are only full of drunk, self loathing idiots anyway, and there's nothing worse then sitting and listening to someone narrating the very thoughts flowing through your own mind.

I fill my mug, take a sip, and grimace. "Warm cat piss" is about the only description that comes to mind. I know it'll get better after a few though; everything gets better after a few. Or at least more bearable. That old bat, Malah, never neglects to remind me that I'm just numbing my pain. I guess I could ask her for advice; she did lose her whole family in the war, and must be somewhere around the 'eighty years young' mark Ah, who's she kidding. I bet she's got a whole darn cabinet filled with the drink. And not this watered down crap either, but the proper stuff, the kind that'll put hairs on your chest as well as knock your ass on the floor.

Good stuff, that.

I sigh, and take another sip. I lean back in my chair, feet resting on the desk in front of me, and stare intensely at the spit balls on the roof above my head. It's not the first time today that I've done this.

*****

I awake, slouched in my chair, and gaze through bloodshot eyes at the steel mug lying on the floor. Guess I never even got to finish that last drink; the dark stain splashed over the wood is still visible even though the ale has long since soaked into the thirsty wood. Probably morning by now.

My head throbs. That awful bloody dream again. Always that dream. Every night, I'm back in the war, swinging my axe and hewing demons from existence. The screams of the dieing ring in my ears. Blood coats every inch of my body, dripping onto the cold, white snow. Normal people might have found these dreams horrific. Might even call them nightmares. But it's not the case. For me, the bad part is that they're good.

They take me back to the glory times, when the Children of Bul-Kathos fought side by side with men and women from all over Sanctuary. United by a common cause. Nothing better then the sound of a monster gurgling as you hacked through its breastbone, or the shriek of a Succubus when you cleaved her pretty limbs from her body. Even traumatic events - like watching my brother's head explode as a Siege Beast smashed it with a mace - become meaningful memories, He got to die an honourable death, go out with a bang. The same can't be said for those of us still left here. Rotting in our own apathy. The "good old days" haunt us, reminding everyone of exactly how far we have fallen. That's all each day is: a never ending battle to be the fly that holds on longest to this steaming pile of crap. What the nature lovers call "life".

With my thoughts still churning, I notice my right hand is slowly edging towards the drawer of my desk. That time already? Happening earlier and earlier, I swear. I watch it, watch as it creeps ever closer. Now it's past my knee. Now it's hovering in mid air. I have no control. It has a will of its own. And it knows the way well enough: it's been there countless times before.

My hand is on the drawer handle now, and ever so slowly pulling it open. I don't really have to peer into the darkness within; I know what's there. But I look anyway. Sure enough, my mini auto-load crossbow sits innocently inside, its cartridge loaded with six-inch, silver-tipped bolts. Standard issue weapon nowadays; no one leaves home without one. Strap it to your wrist, conceal it under a coat sleeve, and presto! Any thief who thinks you're an easy target on the streets is ripe for a shiny bolt right between the eyes. I only buy the good ammo too, not that cheap steel-tipped crap. Silver is the way to go.

A bolt sits on the wire now, begging me, calling me. Better not disappoint. My hand grasps the handle, and goes through the motions that have become a ritual more then a habit. I try to decide which would be a better way to go: staring at the closed door, a dark symbol for my pointless life? Or those spitballs on the roof, my always present but slightly sticky friends?

Probably doesn't matter all that much, because by this point my hand is parallel to my head and there's a silver tip pressed to my temple. My finger is on the trigger, quivering. Is today the day? Will that bugger of a rat creep out from his hole under my bed and startle me enough to hit the release? Will some vision of a friend's death prompt a slight, yet life ending, twitch of the finger?

I can't say, and I never can. I know only that I stay motionless like this for perhaps ten minutes every day, before my arm begins to tire and I contemplate putting the deadly weapon down. My ritual, the last thing I'll be doing one day when I finally decide enough is enough. My heart beat is racing, I can feel sweat on my forehead.

Why one day? Why not just now. Get it over with, and go meet those demons I hacked up. Meet them on their own turf. Hell's got to have more potential then this place; Harrogath has gone to the dogs and no manner of hero is going to save it from becoming the arsehole of Sanctuary anytime soon. Yet, what better place for a bum like me to live? Or die. My finger is still on the trigger. I can feel pressure building up behind it.

Whatever plans I had at that point, I can't really remember. Because it was then she knocked on the door. Did she save my life, or just delay the inevitable? Either way, I wasn't about to thank her.

I did, however, consider complimenting the dress she was wearing...