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Creative Writing - "Emotions".

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Immortal Creative Writing - "Emotions" I Shaking his head he cast his eyes across the room. Desolate while cluttered piles of papers, scatterings of small valuables, and furniture, all devoid of meaning. Everything had seemed to slow; every ounce of reality had come to mean nothing, and existed only to pass him on to the next recipient of his time. Sober steps carried him from his chair in the direction of the restroom. Swinging the door open he moved to stand in front of the mirror, gazing into what he called himself. Blue eyes, transparent in their opacity, miniscule spots marking the imperfections of the lens. Raven black hair, formed into a wild array of what they considered style, yet he knew style was a joke, ever cyclical, remembering and forgetting the feelings of the past, yet never exactly the same. Style was what blundered drunkenly through the oasis of eager sheep. A smile pulled the edges from his face at the thought. Style, so meaningless and fleeting, just like himself. Lately was not lately anymore, as it stretched over the past few years, but lately, he had been looking at his life, and the lives of others around him. They would all wake up and go to a job, earn their money, come home, and blow it on the trivialness of treating themselves to a movie or, save it. The people and scenarios varied, the activities contained the entire range, yet the constant was the pointlessness, the emptiness of it all. Every day, he accomplishing nothing, even many times not enjoying, simply living this moment to move onto the next, which happened to be as same as it was different. Pure cyclical dystrophy of his life was what came to be. And that is why he picked up the berretta from the counter. Dark and sleek in its cast of metal, the barrel encompassed the power grasped at by men for ages. ...read more.


He increased his pace, he was ten yards behind the man, and was yet to be discovered. He felt his heartbeat sound in his ears, the crunch of the snow filtered through the winds, and his breaths fade into the air. The cold stung at his ears, every new flake pierced his skin, not pain, yet every sensation was alive and singing exaltations of his existence. Darkness leapt into his hand as the distance closed. Five feet, the man kept moving, three feet. A new smile crept across his face, the smile of blood lust. Tonight he would kill, the mortal would know little of what was happening, and he would take what was waiting to be taken. Three feet, his left hand grasped the adjacent shoulder of the man as darkness was plunged into the side of the lower back, the blade seeking vital organs. The man's body shook, but gave no cry or struggle as it was tackled to the ground. He lay pinning the man's body to the ground for many seconds, then came to his knees to roll it over. The mortal was dead. A thin gap between his lips opened in an evil smile, he had killed, as he took the man by the ankles to drag him off the sidewalk to an alley. It was surprising that no one was about for as far as could be seen through the mist, but then, there was already over a foot of snow on the ground. No sane man would venture out without a purpose. Perhaps this man had a mission, or was insane. But he knew now that he was not a man, he was...something more. He slid his hands into the pockets of the dead man, pulling out a battered wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and a cheap throw away lighter. He didn't smoke, but it didn't matter as he held a straight between his lips. ...read more.


He had set plans. At the next door he caught the handle and casually swung it open, he looked in, and it was also empty, save for a bed, a dresser, and various meaningless pieces of decoration. It was the old guestroom. Once a few of his co-workers had stayed the night there... Shaking his head, he called out, "Mortal, I am coming for you." His words pierced the half silence of the house. "I am coming." He walked to the next door kicking it in. He felt something punch into his chest; it felt like he was hit with a pair of brass knuckles. A mass of blackening fuzz infiltrated his vision, and he extended a hand to the doorway for balance. Blinking away some of the clouds, he saw a skinny man standing in front of him, tears coating his cheeks. The man simply stood there looking at him and crying. Grinning as his vision faded again, he found his prey, raised his weapon and fired. He couldn't see where the bullet went, but hearing the cry he knew he had won, even as he fell backwards, splitting his scalp on the wood base floor, he knew he had won. Lying on the floor he was hurt, shot, but he would rise again. A mortal such as the one the stood in front of him would perish from the wound, but he assumed he would awaken by morning fully healed. A groan escaped his lips, even armed with his knowledge, the pain still hit. It encompassed his entire existence, leaving not a sensation of discomfort untouched. His chest felt wet, he was getting cold, and he couldn't lift his arm anymore. He closed his eyes, they had been open, but he couldn't see, the pressure in his skull was draining, and he felt light headed as he started to lose consciousness. This night was complete, his victims terminated, his past cleaned. Tomorrow, he would rise and assume control of the building; his current apartment was not fit to house an immortal. "Tomorrow," He sighed, and faded. ...read more.

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