A human being is a very social creature, and ninety percent of what he does is done only because other people are watching. Alone, with no witnesses, he starts to learn about himself—who is he really?
-John Vaillant
And what does he do when he is always alone? What is it he learns?
He quietly opened the door before stepping through and dropping his backpack. He walked forward leaving the door ajar, lighting the entryway, as he moved for the kitchen. It was bathed in shadow, but he knew where he was going. He knew where what he wanted was. In a fluid movement, made by countless tries only to lose his nerve, he pulled the chefs knives out of the block and to his throat.
He was afraid to do this.
He was tired of not doing this.
He was tired of the empty house.
He was tired of the pedestal that he had.
He was tired of the whispers.
He was tired of the daily grind the last 12 years left him.
He was tired of trying to find solace in religion.
He steeled his nerves as he slammed the blade through his throat. Falling to the ground freely bleeding.
"So this is what men have become."
Who?
"If you want death you must earn it. You must fight for it." A figure in blood red Roman legionary armor kneeled in front of his face. The legionary's face had more scars than untouched skin. The worst part were his eyes; they were swirling pools of anger and bloodlust. "He saw fit to send their soul perhaps I'll do the same"
. . . .No. . . I want this . . . . . . . . Don't . . . . . .
He tried to say no only for a weak gurgling to come out.
"You don't want to live. To bad. The figure stood up. "You don't deserve death. You will live again as I see fit. You will be my tool to plunge the world into an unending war. It will not become like this world. These dogs have forsaken their fangs. You will find yours then fight."
He could only scream no is his mind for a second before death overcame him. The red eyes burning into his mind.