This is a oneshot for a story I have in mind and semi started which is completely unrelated to Blood and Sacrifice, a prologue prologue if you were.

It's written differently to Blood and Sacrifice, semi poem at the beginning, but then again not.

This simply came to me as I was writing the next chapter for Blood and Sacrifice and I apologise for wavering off from the story to do this, but its only a one off, I fully intend to finish the story before I continue with this.

It's my first time doing this so yeah…tell me what you think.

Flames are accepted, but gentle criticism preferred.

Last note: if you read it slowly, its better…..i think.

From what comes of Dreams

Don't show me.

There is no sound. There is no light. There is nothing.
Nothing is something though.


There you are,

I can catch a glimpse of you,
But what is catching that glimpse.
I have no form so there is nothing.
But you are still here

You will always be here.

A blur of red in that glimpse,
Why are you running.
You don't want me to see you,
But you want me to know you are there.

You are always there

I know what you are doing,
It's always the same.

Don't show me.

The same but each time foreign
Always to horrify and galvanise,
Denying me what I need,
You don't want me to,

But you wouldn't understand peace would you,

Don't show me.

Something can't come of nothing,
But from this nothing comes laughter.
And from laughter comes flames.
This is not mirth
This is vile foul infernal

This is immortal

From flames comes ashes, from ashes comes flames
Flames are from burning
From flames destruction is born,

Please,

Don't, show me

A village from fire to succumb to fire,
You like the irony,
You relish the hate,
Why can't you be like me,

But you are me,

Please, don't show me, I know what's next,

But there is nothing, you are making this something from nothing.

I am the fire

Smells of charred and fought flame,
There are faces among the timber and rubble,
But I won't look at them,
I didn't do this,

We did this,

But I want more
No I want rest
I will never rest.

From the detritus, dust and Junk,
Movement of two,

DON'T SHOW ME!

Eyes go closed, but no eyes to close,
Remember, You are nothing,

But this is something,


Something of what is to, and will pass.

Liquid sea green, and blue of the sky,
Meet eyes of chromatic feral,
An unyielding red.

Blonde and Pink versus quivering excited rust,.
There is no need, the battle is won.
There is no sanctity

One adult, one child and One…

One what.

NO!

DON'T SHOW ME!

A claw into two of sinue and mortal.
A claw into death, into terilble laughter.
A face of feral ferocity
But why is it a voice I hold to rape my soul.

But if you are me

Green and Azure are still there
But in their, there is no life.
Looking at me, it bores deep into me

I am nothing,
But now nothing has form

Don't look down

Then I am you.

He sits up right, and screams in pain. His hand goes to the burning silver piercing in his ear scorching his conscious. There is only pain and manic animal laughter.

This pain is blinding, he does not know himself or where he is, but knows he has fallen onto hard grained wood, cushioned slightly by a thin material. He crawls to the table he thinks is there, tangled in the material but knows there is a small table close and what is on its surface.

It reaches a greater pitch, echoing in his head.

Still he can't see, but he can feel and what he feels is what he wants. He manages to pull him self up with his free hand that has reached the table, but his other has moved down to his stomach, the burning there has grown greater to that of his ear. He tries to push it in, but to no avail, it still seers. But the other hand feels cold metal, a familiar touch.

He has to stop this.

But his hand is slick with cold sweat and it trembles to much and he swings wildly in his torment as he picks it up, sailing the instrument from him, and when it lands he hears that it has not landed on wood, but another surface.

A smooth and frictionless one, another room.

The laugher has reached fever pitch, it is uncontrolled and pitiless, harvesting the enjoyment of his self persecution.

He bring his hands to his ears, but to no avail.

But now he can see, see where it is, so he scrambles for it, falling over in his desperation to cease the voice in his head.

He has made it, and clutches the kunai tightly in two hands as he yanks himself up on the porcelain with his elbows.

He will not fail this time, he will bring relief from the mocking and terrible howls of amusement.

The blade is in front of him, but so is something else, something that horrifies him.

A face of grotesque pleasure and unkempt hate. A face of malice, void of humanity. The red eyes of a devil.

His eyes.

His laughter.

Metal clatters to the floor as hands are brought to the sides of the mirror, still reflecting the demons merciless merriment.

An expletive chased by a crash and celebrated with white dots

Ended with the slap of limp flesh on cold tiles.

Silence. Glorious silence, but for his ragged breathing. He does not know how long he has lain there, but the cold damp bathroom titles numb his previously burning body. The shivers and shakes envelope and comfort him, but he knows they are not just from the cold. Warmness trickles lovingly down his forehead to the tip of his nose and the corners of his eyes, brining him to the world once more.

Cautiously he raises himself, not looking directly forward but at the floor, smeared with paint strokes of red, and touches the back of his head, only to recoil at the tender rawness of his scalp.

Slowly he lets his arm drop, and even more cautiously looks up, scared to face the demon again.

But there is no demon.

A fragmented pale and clammy boy looks back at him through the red flecked shattered glass, scared blue watery eyes are crying back at him. The blood still slowly dribbles down his nose, pattering on the floor.

Then there is a vicious flicker, and he looks away to ashamed and terrified to look any longer and his eyes fall on the blade.

Was he weak, or was he strong, he did not have the answer, all he knew was he was losing.

His back reaches the wall and slides down taking his eyes from the blade to his palms as he pressed them to them, trying to push back the tears. He does not look at his stomach as he knows what's there, and what's in there.

An age passes as he clams down, but with each second passing he solidifies what he must do, and who he must do it for.

"I don't have much time."

Ok, well then there you have it, my little experiment oneshot which will lead on my next story, which I wont start until blood and sacrifice is complete..

I'm almost certain someone has done something along the lines of what I have done in this one shot, but I haven't come across it so yeah, truth be told I doubt this is an original idea at all.

The actual story will not be written in this style, this was just an experiment for me and a bit of fun, but as I have said it will act as a prologue prologue, if there is such a thing. Criticism is welcomed as this is my first time doing anything like this so if it sucks tell me.

Next chapter of blood and sacrifice will be up probably sooner than Easter, I'm in a writing mood at the moment.