Mark Johnson stood at the gate of his house, and glanced across the barren, bleak landscape; he breathed in the gloomy stench and said to the winds of the dead, "I couldn't have chosen a better house. It appears as though life itself has deserted the place, there are no birds and the air smells of the dank odour of death,"
The once popular photo-journalist's life had taken several falls from grace since the days when he was a famed demon-hunter; now he was more demonic than the demons he'd killed.
His former friend, Pat Canella, had warned Mark of the possibility of becoming a demon the more he fought them, but Mark always said "You can't beat them if you can'r be like them."
Sadly, in his case, he used to push himself more each time, until the day he forgot his basic rule and left himself open to attack with no escape plan.
There would have been a time when he'd never consider an operation with no escape planned, but the more you fight the less you care about the outcome; other than winning the battle. The after-effects are at times as much a thrill as they are scary to consider.
Mark leaned forward to open the gates, they opened with such a shriek, if he had a soul it would have been chilled to the core, but he lost his soul a long time before he lost his mind and the will to live. Now, he fought to smell the blood as it dripped from his foe, "What a shame I have no sex drive I could get aroused with all this blood," he'd thought so often in recent times.
Sould
ReplyDelete