Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
I’m at that point where one cannot continue. Where even eternal strife is preferred over mindless stagnation. When you know that moving forward is dangerous and fraught with peril, but you no longer care. You’d rather die than be stuck here.
That’s how I feel. I’d rather die.
And since that is not an option, there is no relief. There will be no relief. This is what my eternity looks like. Me, in this foggy little piece-of-shit town, living above this bar, listening to these ignorant, foolish people and monsters complain about their stupid problems, all the while throwing darts, and playing pool, and drinking whiskey that is probably gonna run out sooner rather than later.
Then what?
Then what are these fuckin’ monsters gonna do?
They’re gonna lose their shit, that’s what they’re gonna do.
Lose. Their. Shit.
One of these days the last human resident of Savage Falls is gonna leave to go get cigs and alcohol and they’re never gonna come back. They’re gonna get lost in the fog. Or, hell, maybe they’ll just decide, Fuck this place. Because that’s what I’d have been thinking the very first day if I were one of the humans. Fuck this place. I’d have been outta here so fast.
The very same moment that this thought is occurring to me inside my head, I hear a commotion downstairs.
“Great,” I mutter, then walk over to the door and pull it open. There’s a fight downstairs. Because of course there is. I stomp down the stairs, come out of the hallway, and just stand there witnessing the complete disregard for my bar, the utter turmoil of all the various monsters in it, and the spilt beer and whiskey on the floors.
And that’s it. This is the last straw. I duck out of the way as a chair comes flying in my direction, and then step forward, crossing the room until I’m in front of my throne. I haven’t sat in it since that day that Pell and Pie showed up and took most of the monsters off my hands. The throne is a formality. A bit of pageantry meant to convey power.
It’s nice, but I don’t need it.
Still, in this moment I think these monsters need a reminder of just who and what I am. So I sit. And the moment I do, the room changes. It becomes bigger, wider, more important than just some little hick bar.
There is regalia on the walls. Banners and such, displaying the crest of my house. And in my hand is a bow. Not a shitty fucking longbow, either. I’m talking a shoot-a-bear-between-the-eyes-and-drop-him-dead kinda crossbow complete with titanium bolts tipped with tungsten that add weight and must be aimed just so.
But I am nothing if not a good aim.
I load a bolt and shoot the nearest monster. Now, when it comes to my power, it is limited to this realm right here where I exist. Not only that, my weapons are feelings. Love and hate. That’s what I command. Some might think it’s a small power. Most will admit that the broken heart can change the course of history, but they’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg.
And ironically, love is infinitely more powerful than hate. Love can ruin the world much quicker than hate. Because a man would do anything for love. Anything.
Still, it is a hate bolt that I shoot now. Because hate manifests in interesting ways. It can be a blind rage. It can be calm and calculating. It can cause wars, and atrocities, and divisions just as well as love can. But in the name of hate, the rage turns inward on one’s self.
And that’s what happens to the big satyr I shoot. His hate is all-encompassing, his rage comin’ out of his eyes like red heat. His face changes. Right before our eyes. And he turns into something hideous.
That’s what hate makes you. Hideous.
The fighting has stopped by now and the monsters are staring, first at me as I shoot the bolt, but then at the target.
He was a monster already. He had fur, and horns, and very large teeth. But now he’s something disgusting. The degree of ugliness that outwardly manifests after being struck with one of my hate bolts depends on how much animosity and rage one has cultivated over the years.
And this one, he must have a lot. Because his face begins to melt. He looks like hot wax. He is so full of hate, it starts dripping off of him. Sliding down his cheeks, plopping onto his shoulders, running down his hairy chest.
By this time, the monsters have noticed that something unusual is happening and begin shouting and roaring in surprise as one among them starts to liquify from the inside out due to his hate—and my tungsten-tipped bolt, which has pierced his little black heart.