A Story That Went No Where

I was recently, that is, about five minutes ago, browsing through some old files on my phone. And look what I found. A story I started to write, which I then subsequently completely forgot about, and now I can’t remember where I was going with it.

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The smell of smoke and death filled the air. The burning bodies, the rotting stench that follows wars everywhere has become so common place to me that I hardly notice it anymore. I stoop to wipe the blood off my knife on the body of my latest victim. Things weren’t always like this. I used to feel pity for the poor souls who fell under my blade. There was a time where I wouldn’t have harmed any living thing. Those days are far gone now though. Only the strong survive, and only if they prey upon those weaker than themselves. But perhaps I should try to put down why I lost my humanity. Now if only I could remember exactly why, or how…

Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the truth will come out along the way. I was born in a small village by the sea. The first thing that comes to mind is the smell. Not death and decay, as it is now, but clean, salty air. The waves crashing against the cliffs, the salt spray that climbed up the cliff walls and misted the west side of the village. My mother taking me for walks through the perpetual mist that hung over our small fishing town. My father coming home with a basket full of fish from the sea. These things I remember clearly, as clear as the blood now adorning the ground at my feet.

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