So Here's a Fun Idea. . .

I was thinking that I should do a weekly music thing. Up for only ONE (1) week!!! Then it gets changed and never played again on the weekly list. I'll start it, since NONE OF YOU EVER GIVE ME FETCHING SONGS! GRR!!!

Rage moment over. . . *sigh* I don't care if it drops the F-bomb a million times, or is 30 seconds long. And I probably won't ever do more than 5. Yeah, okay! Five (5) tops and whatever you want, got it? Once it caps, you are S.O.L.
Have fun, enjoy, play nicely, discover, read my older posts, I only tell you that, a million times so, you really should, do it some day, and Happy Holidays!

Infinite

I've been thinking about you lately, but that's a lie. 

I've never forgotten you. Even though we talked a couple more days since you've been gone,

I Am Alone

I think of you, I dream of you, I remember you. Do you remember me? What do you see? Do you dream of me? Do you think of me?

Like space thinks about the stars, and darkness and brilliance, the suns and moons, the dreams and thoughts and hopes. I think of your red hair, like red and blue, summer and winter, fall and spring, the autumn orange and blossoming pink, and the prism like unto a rainbow that is your eyes.

I think of holding on like a desperate man on a cliff, of loose sand and gravity. Like the purple majestic mountains and shadowed valleys, and the birds in the sky and the people on the earth. A scream in the mountain that resonates a melody in the forest. The snow and the rivers that were once snow. The snow and the rivers.

The houses and the gardens, the fruit and hunger, an itching for a snack, like a cookie and its crumble, and also the chocolate chips inside. The hunger for love and lust, of truth and deceit, the sheep and the wolf, and if it was all real . . . or not.

I think of the words you speak, and spoke, and my music I listen to. The words and their rhyme, the rhythm and meter, the poetry and meaning, and what I mean to you. What do I mean to you; it is like the fork and finger food. The napkin for clean hands, and a band-aid without wound. The fire for the heat, and the cooler for the cold, and the shower for spring morning rain.

Spring mourning rain.

But. . .

Now you are gone, and you won't come back. You left me before you ever moved away, and like the desperate boy I was, I will become a broken man to come.

Yet you hold nothing to me, nothing for me. You drew your line like chalk on a sidewalk. 

And I never rained on your parade until today.

I'm opening my eye's.

My ice.

I have no one stopping me now. You are gone, and you can't call the shots. Not now, not ever.

I am free and unbound, like the spirit in the wind that I AM!

I am unleashed, uncontrolled, and unforgiving. 

I have held back, because I have held on. The man on the cliff jumped. . .

and grew wings. I will fly farther than anyone can say I ever will.

I will reach higher than anyone says I can.

I will be stronger than the corrupter and killers of dreams.

I will dream harder than you can fathom.

I will think deeper than the greatest abyss to ever be found.

I will forget like it never happened, and

I will fight until my dying breath for it.

I am me, I am alone,

I am free.

I Am Infinite.

And don't you try to stop me

A Bit About a Friend

So, assuming that you've ever read my first blog post (implying heavily that I still ask you to read OLDER posts. . . ), I made mention of a friend who, in her infinite goodness, decided to share some of her . . . experiences in a sort of way to help me write the stories under the label of Amanalii. Yeah, the ones where she doesn't know where she is and almost gets raped and stuff. You get the point.

I owe something to her, personally. Sure, I share her stories, albeit they are tweaked a bit from original format, with consent of course. I wanted to share something about her. Since we are doing lists, why don't I just give you the likes and dislikes, and then a little note from me (with commentary in parenthesis throughout).

The likes of my dear friend Amy:
Rainy days in which to play, some yummy eggs, performances, dancing, cute shoes, leggings (I don't know what those are), sleeping with someone special (shes an adult, cool it -.- ), that favorite shirt, a good book, any sort of films, Danny, a nice kind of tease, love and being loved, #MaybeI'mLeftHanded, a cold day to be warmed, hearing about Star, English, video games (wut O.o ), that cheese from Spain I had one day, good food that speaks to my soul! A Thorn For Every Heart, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, The All-American Rejects, more bands like that. God. And a lot more about me! ~ <3 (Yeah. . . Okay, I'll type that in.)

The hates:
Parroting (It's so complicated), bad ham, soggy green (I don't even know), being ignored, being outdone on unnecessary things, ghost music (You cannot find it for the life of you), being told what to do, swimming in my dreams, trying to compare myself with others, having to wash your favorite clothes (I prefer mine clean <.<), stuck in the same place, having something not work, running out of ideas, coming out and sharing the deep stuff, wasting time, stupid rap, heavy metal (Wah! :O No you like my heavies. . .), being on the internet [like pictures and stuff](It's the NSA!!! >:O), being uncertain about God.
Thanks peeps!

So, that is just some of her stuff. Honestly, I like a lot of these, and showed her ATFEH, but my metal passion is certainly not shared. Anyways, before I ramble on about other stuff, I'd like to get to that note.

Amy,
    you are fantastic! I know you don't use a blog, and only really read this now and then, but thanks for the stories. I wish you were in this class, but you are a bit to old for that (and yes, I can mention your age without you kicking my ass for it). Yet, you are never too old to be a kid with me. We have a lot in common, and that doesn't matter right now. Brilliant, cool, creative, and more than anything, so much fun to be around. I hope you get to be with Danny someday, cause I think that would be cool. Hang tight for now! You are Grand!
-Shawn (You know my real name, but they don't!)

Thanks for reading a bit about a friend! Have a grand life, my blog stalkers. Oh. . .
P.S. Not a word from you, Alan. Not a darn word!

Red Hands of the Past

"Amanalii, I'm sure you've heard that monsters, rather demons, have attacked the towns to the south."
"Yes sir."
"And that means a lot of them will come this way, both man and demon."
"Yes. . . sir." I answered shakily.
"Normally, I might look at this with an eye for business, but if they are sending the army from the north, then I think we might be in trouble. The waves hit places no more than five days south of here."
"Sir?" I interrupted him. 
"What?" 
"Why do you tell me this?"
"Because you are priceless to me. I've watched you for thirteen years, and whether I've been right for you or not has never crossed my mind until now." The large man seemed so different to me. He seemed worried. I had been suspicious if he actually cared for me, but now I knew. Something wasn't right. It was true: there was talk of demons slaughtering the towns and cities south of here. I even heard that Deserta prison to the north had been re-purposed for supposed ex-demons as a city. Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" I inquired. He turned and opened a chest, digging through scrolls and books and papers, candles and pens and bottles, even some armor. I had never really seen the inside of this chest. "What are you looking for?"
"This," he held a sword. "I had been a soldier for sometime when I was younger. I left service and moved here to work. After several years, I found you."
My eyes narrowed. I never knew where I came from, and he never told me. I suppose he was like a father to me, but he never called himself my father. 
"Wh-- where did you find me?"
"You were by the roadside. Alone. I ignored you for most of the day, but you were still there much later. I took you in. I've taken in many, and they worked for me. You were always different. . . "
"How? Why do you tell me this? What is going on?!"
"I can't explain right no--"
"And you couldn't before?! You can't later?!"
"Amanalii, look--"
"No! What is happening? You haven't answered me. Something is wrong! What?"
"I--" He sighed.

I left, frustrated. I did this more often now. I always thought of running away, and never coming back. I didn't think I would come back until tomorrow, maybe. Steal some food, maybe a cake, and come back tomorrow. I was walking down the street, upset, my hair burning fiery red.
"Hey pretty! What'cha doing?" A group of men across the street were calling out at me.
"Hey, babe where ya goin'? 
"C'mon over here. Yeah, c'mon, right now."
"Yeah, you look stressed. Perhaps we could. . . relieve you of that!"
Obscene gestures and laughs. I quickened my pace, but they followed. I suspected they were drunk.
"Hey wait! Get back here." 
I started to run, but they followed, and they were faster. One stepped in front of me, and I collided into him, but only I staggered back. Another quickly came up behind, grabbing me, and I couldn't move. They circled in on me like vultures. I tried to scream out, but before I could I was gagged. 

"Where do you think you're going?"
"When we tell you to come, you come." He slapped me hard. I began crying, and struggling for my life. These were the kind of men that raped and killed. My arm slipped out of his crushing hold on my body, but I couldn't strike him anywhere before another grabbed my arm. One licked me on the face, and I turned my head. I struggled harder. The one in front of me pulled out a dagger, and I knew that I would soon die. As he came close, I kicked him in the face. His lip bled, as did his nose.

"Stupid little bitch! I'm gonna kill you!" The other grabbed my legs and I could only twist in place. He eyed me up and down, and just as he was about to gouge out the artery in my leg, someone tackled him to the ground. The man holding my legs dropped me, and I stood. The large man turned as the other stabbed him in the stomach. 

My eyes bulged, and with impossible strength I ripped myself free. I ran to him, tears streaming down my face. I pulled the gag out, but before I could reach him, the man from behind grabbed me by the hair and pulled, slamming me on the ground. I lay there, dazed by the sudden impact of my head to the ground. I sit up, and all the men are kicking him on the ground. "No!" I scream out. They stop and two turn to me. The rest continue beating him. They approach me slowly. I see a dagger on the closest one's hip. If only I could distract him, even seduce him. Anything to stop or slow or distract!

I close my eyes and focus on stopping him. I open my eyes, and I slowly feel something inside of me awaken, or possible be born. My hair that hangs in front of my face turns from red to pink, and the look on the faces of my enemies turn from sinister and malefic, to desperate and wild, like hungry animals. They begin calling out, strange, insensible things. Even the others, including my rescuer turn to me with the same look. What have I done? The man reaches out, but I grab his dagger and cut off his hand. 

He screams, and my hair goes blood-red again, as well as my clothes. I remember my own dagger, and it lies several feet behind me. At this point, all the remaining men, six in total, turn towards me. As I try to stand, the one handed man stomps on the back of my leg. I cry out, falling flat on the ground. I turn and slash his stomach, and he reels back in further pain, absolute hatred ingrained on his face. I crawl as fast as I can to my dagger. I turn, a dagger in either hand, as one grabs my face, a knife raised high to stab me. I act faster and stab him in both sides.

As he falls back, I use the daggers stuck in him to pull me up and forward. I rip my weapons out, stepping off him into the next target. Something within begins to burn as I look past all my attackers and see the body of my protector. After all these years, he kept me out of the way of creeps like these, and now he lay there lifeless. No I would protect-- no. I would avenge him, dead or alive! The next man approached, and stabs me in the side. I stand my ground and stab him in the chest, twisting the blade.

As he falls dead, I step backwards, looking at my wound. Nothing fatal. . . yet. The man behind me stands and pulls my hair, forcing my head back as he brings his knife across my throat. It cuts in a bit, but I jump back, losing balance for the both of us. I quickly turn on to my knees as he begins to sit up. Before he can focus I stab him. He wheezes and coughs blood on me. I don't care. I need to protect him. The man who lost his hand to me is holding a club. He swings at me, but I dodge and cut his throat.

Four left. They don't run, but pull out weapons and come at me together. Before, it was a one on one brawl. Now I was outnumbered, and soon to be overpowered. I had little energy left. I tried what I did before. Somehow, my hair turned pink, and they had been suppressed, or rather seduced. I needed that, now! I began to focus, but it came so easily and naturally that I was shocked. They approached me, letting their guard down. Quickly, I dispatched them all by stabbing them in the back, severing their spines. They all dropped to the ground, one on top of the other.

All my energy spent, I dropped the daggers, my hair turning back to normal. I collapsed next to the large man. I drag myself to his side, and turn him over. He is alive, but he has bruises and cuts all over, and he is still bleeding out from the stomach. I tear some fabric from the bottom of my shirt and fold it into a pad, and push it down on the wound. He groans.

His eyes open, and he looks at me and the seven men behind me, and the audience I collected in the melee. Several guards rush over to me, grabbing me by both arms and hauling me off. He laughs a bit, before he passes out. I am covered in the blood of eight men and myself. The ground is red, and everyone is speechless. I guess I'm going to prison. Damn. . . I wanted to avoid more people like those rapists and murderers. Once word gets around in prison that I killed seven men alone, then I suppose I won't have any trouble. 

"Varan. . . I'm sorry." I whisper quietly to myself.

I awaken, sitting up. I touch my neck where the scar is. It's not there. I had one from my stab wound. I lift my shirt enough to see it, but it too is not present. Varan. He must be the large man in all my memories. I lie down again. I remember something more than what I just dreamt. Assassinations. Deaths at my hand. I was older, about the same age I am now. Something about me that seemed to explain why I like the dark. I could meld with the shadows, move as silent as still air. I could execute with clean precision.

Oh, the things I remember. . . perhaps I could do something that didn't involve killing here. Here in this new world with a new body. No scars, no evidence of past events. I began to drift back into sleep. Something I didn't have before would soon be a part of my life; I could feel it in my bones.

Twilit Day

Daylight broke through the thin slits between each blind on the window. I sat on my bed, rocking back and forth. I had stared into the mirror many more times to believe what I had seen, but nothing happened. Maybe I was just seeing things that weren't really there at all. I couldn't shake the terrible feeling that I was forced to watch something that had been a blur before, only now in bitter detail. It was intense, frightening; at least I was able to sleep a bit.

I left the inn, and walked around the city. I went to the house, but nothing about it seemed to comfort me like it had before. Walking back through the strange, door-less structure I saw the man who sold me the mirror. I wanted to approach him about the mirror, but for some odd reason, I felt it would be best to not mention anything about it. In fact, I probably shouldn't really talk to him right now at all. It might avoid the potential to have any conversation about the mirror.

As I was walking back to the inn, I saw the Night Elf again. Wrael. He was speaking with someone, and didn't see me, or at least I was certain he didn't notice me. For the briefest of moments, I did think he glanced over at me, but I wasn't sure. Since I was near the market, I purchased some food, and a bottle of medicine, to help my upset stomach after last night.

I was unsure of what to do with my day. After all, being stuck in my room wasn't a very appealing idea, and the day outside was very pleasant. I wandered the city, after consuming some food and medicine in my room, and decided to search for a quiet peaceful place. My walk lead me to a new area of the city. Everything here was green and peaceful; it was everything I was hoping for.

I sat on a stone bench, sitting in solitude and bliss. I let my body soak the sun in, and a smile spread across my face. This was so much better than my room. But in the midst of grand afternoon, I felt a pair of eyes watching me, first from afar, but coming closer. I opened my eyes and saw the elf approaching me. I was confused. Why would he be coming towards me? What did he want? And then I looked at what he held.

"The man at the apothecary was calling for you. You had left your coin purse at his table. I volunteered to return it to you." He held out his hand for me to accept my purse.
"Thank you," I did wonder why he volunteered, "why did you decide to come for me?"
"Because I knew what you looked like. I did have the chance to meet you, after all. And I do believe you never told me your name." He explained. He did have a point; he was probably the only person who knew what I looked like that was near that shop.
I took the purse. "Amanalii", I said, "that is my name."
He smiled. "A beautiful name," he said, "my name is --"
"Wrael." I finished his sentence. "Yes, I couldn't forget it. Thank you so much for your help."
He nodded. "Of course."

I sat in silence for less than a minute, between staring at the pouch in my hand and the space in front of me. I looked over to where Wrael was, but he had left without a word. I suppose his goodbye was 'Of course.', but I almost wished he had stayed. Something about him made me feel a bit more comforted here. I had been here for a little over a week now, and he was probably the first person I really got to meet. Of course there was Gerald who sold me the mirror, that damned thing, but he wasn't really someone I just encountered much, or even someone I wanted to encounter.

I sat on the bench, lost in thought for a very long time. No one came over here. I sat in peace and quiet, only moving when I noticed the sun was starting to set. I wish the world would be suspended in this twilight. It was warm and tranquil, and everything was illuminated by the red and pink and orange of the sky and soft clouds. I liked these colors. They were very familiar to me. Very me, I almost thought. I felt that I belonged in the time were everything was red, between daylight and nighttime. Besides having the golden eyes and blood-red hair, I couldn't figure out what else it was about this time that seemed so familiar; color was only a part of it.

I returned to the inn. . .

Neverland, Wonderland, Land of the Free, My Land, Everland

What does that mean? They call it Neverland because you will never find it, no matter how hard you try. 

Wonderland is just confusing and strange. It leaves you in wonder and awe, even though it is apparently really named Underland. Whatever.

Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, King of Laws, I feel like a slave. Judged by neighbors and friends to conform to their wills. Hell NO!!!

My Land, a weird place, filled with hopes and dreams. Nothing is tangible, just free-flowing, thought forms populating the infinite space.

Everland, where everything is eternal, and great. A utopia so full of shit it makes me sick.

Dear Moon,
   What's it like to be so surrounded and so alone at all times? You have the sun, the earth, and the forever stretching heavens to blanket you from absolutely nothing. Here I am. I look up at you, but do you look back at me? Everything around me is so purposeful, but am I? What do I mean to anyone? I know I mean something, like they mean something to me, but they won't tell me. Am I selfish? I think you are. You keep your space all to yourself. Why don't you come down someday and see what it's like. Disconnected from everything, you begin to lose meaning in everything and anything. I guess you hit the point where you turned into a silver sphere that illuminates the darkness of night, and pulls the waves closer to our homes. Perhaps I've turned too much to realize you are something more.

We all want to be something more,

but when I look into the mirror I'm happy with who I am and what I've become. When I look into a mirror, the reflection is only half of it. Living is a price we pay. Reflections are the progress that we made. Here in the place where the sun is silent, the moon reigns supreme.

The worlds I hear of, and the worlds I see, and worlds I create are nothing to me. Unless I can get by with here and now, I will forever be lost in the sight of the silver titan that owns the night. Neverland, Wonderland, Land of the Free, My Land, Everland; they are nothing to the sun and stars and moon. And nothing makes sense anymore. What have I been saying this whole time? . .  What have I been saying? And I become disconnected...       once more.

If Honesty Was Worth All They Said it Was

I suppose the title is enough to give you an idea of all I'll say. Lately I find it hard to see that being so "true" to oneself really gives anything or helps relieve the soul. I suppose that I personally take the 'heartfelt' way of going about blogging, or on some posts I'm just upset. Here I'll say I'm in more of a sober mood.

I didn't have some grand, eye opening, angels-singing-from-the-heavens moment. It just, and I may hate typing this later, feels like I've accomplished nothing by being so honest, nor trying to write stuff that really entertains. I really am not feeling the love, and that has nothing to do with blogging.*

Trying to be honest for all it's worth here, I just don't see the point in writing with blood from the heart as if it is ink in a bottle, and I believe I do it a lot. Maybe not as much as some of you out there, should you ever read this or not. I commonly only do one (1) post on whatever we are supposed to do, and the rest is the Ama stories. I can't tell you if they are any good really. I'm not going to compile and publish them, and sure as hell will not stop. For all they are worth, I will continue it for myself, as it is the untold story I'd love to know more about.

Trying to keep this short, but while I'm on honesty I'd like to say I think some of us can execute whatever they want beautifully, others maybe not so much. I only have several blogs I stalk (sorry Sun if that was weird. . .). There are several more I've checked out because they had been linked on the stalked sites, but that means there is about another 55 blogs to see. And I don't know who they are, or if they are good, or what they enjoy, but at least they continue on without my support being there.*As far as my support goes, I have my heart and soul, but I can't say I like them. Better than nothing.

Here's to trying to be Honest

i Could always Change it, Ya know?

Suddenly I wish I did the song The Past, the Love, the Memories from A Skylit Drive. It's around the fifteenth song down in my playlist. I wish I did it over Dead Ships, but I could change it. I won't. Check out the new music, guys. And leave a comment saying what you want! And read older posts! Enjoy this site; I made this for you. (No Julian Smith, unless you want it to be.) 

Where the Dead Ships Dwell. . . And Me on the Ship

Where the Dead Ships Dwell - In Flames (lyrics)

-The picture slowly fades
Walls are closing in
And there I was, cursing the ground
Unable to understand
-I won't let the world break me
So I need to change direction
Nothing special and far from perfect
Light the way for me
-Feel I was running an endless mile
Last time it burns
And I'm dying inside
All of this will turn to ash
A change for a piece of mind
-Walking where the dead ships dwell
These are shores I left behind
Streets were getting smaller
And I have to leave
-Feel I was running an endless mile
Last time it burns
And I'm dying inside
All of this will turn to ash
A change for a piece of mind
-All I hear is noise
Heart so false
So guess I took it for granted
I know I went too far
I won't say I'm sorry
I got what I deserved
I got what I deserved
-Feel I was running an endless mile
Last time it burns
And I'm dying inside
All of this will turn to ash
A change for a piece of mind
-Feel I was running an endless mile
Last time it burns
And I'm dying inside
All of this will turn to ash
A change for a piece of mind

((In case there is some copyright infringement or whatever, I DO NOT OWN THIS SONG!!! All rights and stuff goes to In Flames and the record company, producers, etc. Whoever made this song.))

Beside this song being uber catchy to me, I feel like I relate. Everything I do seems to go on forever, and the joy just gets sucked out. Dying inside and burning down until there is nothing but the molten core of negativity standing, and a void, cold, lifeless husk of what was me; the shell called my body will harbor this.
Anyone care to hop aboard and save me? Or let's save the ship and be pirates. And if we are pirates, I'm taking down the copyright crap. Because we're pirates! And you can find this song midway down the playlist to the right. . .

Well, the site said to write about what our hearts feel... this is mine.

Pariah - Serianna.
If you find the lyrics, you may begin to see how I feel. . . which is off on how I usually am.
Well, if I'm supposed to write about what my heart feels, no sense holding back. On the other hand, who the heck are you people? I know some of you pretty closely, others enough to know they don't give a buck nor a dollar about me, or my thoughts. But enough about you. I do and don't care about you. It's confusing how it works simultaneously, and it does work simultaneously. Point is that I understand why I can hold back.
Let's start with something recent.

Look familiar? It would if you would read my older posts. DO  IT! I read your older posts; read mine. Compare then and now. It's what I'm doing a lot of lately. If you don't understand the context of what I'm about to write, whatever. You figure it out! I don't need to hold your hand through my thoughts.
I got back in contact. We've been. . . talking. Reminiscing on our good times. Bad times? Not so much. Why do I bring this up? It's been on my heart for years. Literally, years. And I have left room open there, but no one is on my level.

Let's talk about my level. I'm the open dreamer. Yeah, you're a dreamer. A lot of people argue they are dreamers. But I openly share and pursue mine, and have been for the past decade. So, by that standard, you are probably on a different level. And now relationships. Not the lovey dovey crap I could care less about. Parents, family, friends. I'm loyal, even to a fault. How people think that lying to anyone for personal gain is fun or cool or good or worth it is less than what they could be. Duh! So what? Why should I care? Because, like I said, I'm loyal to the fault where I will fight against the lie.

That just crawls under my skin. And then I have friends who do the same. Crawling under my skin. Lately I've felt some insane things that I won't really share or go into detail about, but when I try to get some help from a friend and they never respond to a text or pick up the phone, and seem to live on a level where something I could deem very trivial is everything to them, it starts to drive rusted nails through soul and life. How can I trust you if you won't take me seriously?

Suck it up. . . Grrrrrr! I just wanna go off, like a time bomb that has been ticking ferociously for too long. I want to go nuclear, and let what I've held back out, and make it devastating. Burn not only bridges, but bodies. The idea of just retaliating is so tempting. To crush some smug punk's face in, or to shatter some irritating  brat girls legs is just something that leaves a chilling and dark feeling. Here's the worst part. It feels good to think about. . . somewhere I'm cracking.

My level is to be true, not only to myself, but to others. My level is to be withdrawn to avoid damage. My level is to be contained lest I can't control myself, and do something I may ultimately regret. My level is to pursue the dream through infinity. Enough about my level.

Sometimes I question things to death. I don't know why, but that's something I do when I don't understand a situation, event, person. Sometimes I feel I should be more connected, and ask questions about something. I feel like I enjoy politics, but don't care about them enough to pursue. Some things don't make sense to me, and leave me apathetic. Apathy leaves me feeling guilt, and guilt makes me want to pin the source on some whatever.

I've been going on for a long time. I could write a book about everything I think. I beat around the bush a lot. Whether my plan is to be more direct or not is still a good question. If this was a live conversation, I had a pretty big pause there. I think I'm gonna get myself killed somewhere. I-- eh. Geez, I dunno what I want to get across. I'm uncertain what I want to say. I'm not suicidal; let's clear that up right now. Just. . . *sigh*.

My heart is full

P.S. I wish I could make this shorter. Short wouldn't explain my heart.

New Music!

I finally posted new music. Finally. Check it out, and, like always, please tell me who you'd like to listen to when you're here.

What I've Seen. . .

"Are you alright?" A voice asked. I didn't know who it was. Such an obvious observation, but just after seeing myself, and then falling back into some man's chest left me alert and defensive inside.
"I'm fine," I turn around and look at the man who stopped my fall. He was tall, at least a foot and a quarter taller than I. He had a beard that went down to his collar, that was surprisingly dark blue. And his eyes had a slight glow; amber-like eyes that glowed softly. And his skin was dark. Very dark. No, wait. . . was it. . . purple?!
"I'm just tired, that's all."
"Well, let me help you with that mirror then."

I wasn't sure who, or what, he was. I really didn't see anything other than myself and some people bumbling around in some strange building. Still, I was struggling with the mirror, and quite honestly he could probably handle it better than I. "Alright, here you go." I handed the mirror over to him, and I was right about the purple-like skin and the ability to easily handle the mirror. He turned his head to the left, looking down the path I was headed on. He had elf ears. Long and pointed, with the same dark blue hair that went down to his shoulders. He must be a Dark Elf or something like that.

"So stranger, what's your name?" I asked. He didn't look at me, just followed while looking ahead.
"Wrael." He replied. I was expecting some super long and tongue-twisting name. I won't complain to know someone with a short name. I really was tired. My thoughts made no sense. Why in the world would I care to observe someone's name?
"What are you?" I ask bluntly. He looks at me with a puzzled look.
"You don't know what I am? How could you not know?" He was now even looking more puzzled, his eyes scanning me. I just looked at him, telling him with my gaze to answer the question.
"A Night Elf," he tells me, "haven't you ever met one?"
"No." I wasn't sure what I would tell him. The question never came. He never asked how I didn't know what one was.

The rest of the walk was in silence. I would glance at him occasionally, but he never seemed to look at me. I honestly didn't care. I just met him on the street, and he offered to help carry a mirror. When we arrived at the inn, I took the mirror and thanked him. We parted, and I went to my room. I put the mirror up above the table like I had planned. It looked good. While the surroundings seemed pretty bland, this contrast of elegant and ornate beauty on the wall seemed to make it work somehow. Somehow.

I sat at the table and stared into the mirror for a long time. The candles on the table began to flicker. My eyelids began to droop. The air went cold and still. The edges of the mirror started to frost over, slow creeping towards the center. My eyes opened enough to see that it surrounded where my face was. In the frost I saw a face. Someone I recognized all to well, but I could not put a name to the face for the life of me. And my life it was.

I wanted to jump to my feet and put my dagger to its throat, but I was paralyzed completely. The image faded, and I fell back off my chair, and darkness consumed my vision. I then saw it all over again.

I held in my hand a sword. A relic, a legendary item of immense powers. The two figures in front of me were still shrouded in black, and I couldn't make them out at all. But one approached me, and swiftly. I dodged a swing from what might be a scythe, but before I could react, it pivoted over itself, and planted itself in front of me. A foot connected with my stomach, and I was launched backwards. 

I reached desperately as I fell off the edge. But it was no use. I fell, and this time I saw it all. Every last second of it. I smashed onto rocks, bones snapping and cracking. I had no control. The armor I wore ripped and tore, flying off into the infinite mist that surrounded me. My skin was no longer protected, and the bullets of water stung as it struck me. Everything happened so fast. I hit rock after rock, jagged, and bloodied by me. And then came the final stop. I wouldn't bounce off and fall ever into the infinite descent. No, I would just hit, and whatever's left would be beyond dead.

I shot awake, my stomach heaving. I wept and trembled. I felt so alone, and only my reflection was here. What did I just see. I spat into the garbage can, quaking, feeling so numb and afraid. I curled upon my bed. I wish I had someone here right now. Even that elf. Wrael. I eventually fell asleep, unable to cry or throw up anymore. I guess I really did die. I guess I really am dead. "I'm not dead. I'm not dead. . ."

Dead.

*beep* *beep* *beep*
Heart monitors.
They don't stop.
The lack of silence, this incessant beeping is irritating.
In the bed, suffering never ceases.
But is this physical?
It could be more emotional, but this is just a hunch.
It is a heart monitor, and it never stops beeping,
but only because it hasn't stopped beating. . .
yet.

It's always another pretty face to get yourself hooked on, I suppose.
Hooked up to it like the IVs that pump chemicals through the veins,
and they become the only way to live.
Maybe when you're outside, you are finally off,
but there you go again! Shooting up something painful.
This is where your heart stops.
Don't keep it in, but so hard to let go.

Now you are here, and now I'm here. I assume this isn't your first time here.
No, this ICU is special.
Only those who have been in this condition too many times come here.
*beep* *beep* *beep*
Only a matter of time.
You might have a few more months, or if you are lucky, you will come back later.
Much later, hopefully.


But when it feels alright, they walk in.
Hand in hand, the damned slowly approach us.
Death himself, and his lifeless stare.
So hollow, cold, eerie.
And there is the person who gave the heart an attack,
an ache so deep and passionate and painful.
"I've come to claim what is mine."

And Death unhooks all the machines and wires,
and with his scythe, cuts your chest open.
The other then reaches in.
Agonizing, traumatizing, and forgettable.
*Silence* *silence* *silence* *silence*
The heart is ripped out.
Unplugged, and they walk away.
With Death lies your body, and she holds the heart,
still warm and pumping.
And the spirit watches helplessly, hopelessly
and everything is gone forever. . .