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Prefx · 10th October 2005, 01:41 AM

Manson stood in front of the aged mirror for a long time, tracing the scar underneath his eye without thought, like tracing the memories of his past without consideration. He found himself unable to keep his finger off the mark; for it, oddly in the shape of a crescent moon, was the only feature that gave life to his face.

He didn't know why he was suddenly fascinated by the same scar that had plagued his face for so many years. Perhaps it was the realization about how much it actually stood out on his pale cheek, or maybe it was because the mark now served as a reminder to him that he was to never forget about his purpose. There were many possibilities, but Manson didn't care for any of them. He couldn't be bothered with a mediocre concern.

A rather eery feeling staulked the silence. After standing there in the same room for hours without a purpose, Manson had grown tiredsome. It was strange. He had always enjoyed solitude before, but not now--not after coming so close to the revenge he had been starving for. Losing it was an utter defeat.

He looked around, squinting to see past the darkness that consumed the entire house. A candle was still alive, but its flame was weak and it barely casted enough light from the neighboring room.

Then, without even the slightest change in expression, Manson thrusted his fist into the mirror and watched as thousands of shards came spiraling all around him. His skin broke, and scarlet blood abruptly made its way around his fist and over his palm, but he didn't budge. Manson remained staring into the oblivion that had just been a mirror.

"Damn these eyes," came a rasp voice that could only be his.

His head sank; the long hair covering his eyes. From an outsider's perspective, it appeared as if the entire room was empty. Although the overcoat Manson wore was brown, the once youthful fabric that made it up had gone dull and dark. His slacks were already black, a color that made up must of his life.

"I will find you," he said to himself. His voice came off uneasy, almost like he was afraid, but there was a firm expression on his face. "I will kill you."

10th October 2005, 01:41 AM	#1 (permalink)
Prefx Lord of the City-Within Join Date: Aug 2005 Location: Texas Posts: 291	The Drifter Manson stood in front of the aged mirror for a long time, tracing the scar underneath his eye without thought, like tracing the memories of his past without consideration. He found himself unable to keep his finger off the mark; for it, oddly in the shape of a crescent moon, was the only feature that gave life to his face. He didn't know why he was suddenly fascinated by the same scar that had plagued his face for so many years. Perhaps it was the realization about how much it actually stood out on his pale cheek, or maybe it was because the mark now served as a reminder to him that he was to never forget about his purpose. There were many possibilities, but Manson didn't care for any of them. He couldn't be bothered with a mediocre concern. A rather eery feeling staulked the silence. After standing there in the same room for hours without a purpose, Manson had grown tiredsome. It was strange. He had always enjoyed solitude before, but not now--not after coming so close to the revenge he had been starving for. Losing it was an utter defeat. He looked around, squinting to see past the darkness that consumed the entire house. A candle was still alive, but its flame was weak and it barely casted enough light from the neighboring room. Then, without even the slightest change in expression, Manson thrusted his fist into the mirror and watched as thousands of shards came spiraling all around him. His skin broke, and scarlet blood abruptly made its way around his fist and over his palm, but he didn't budge. Manson remained staring into the oblivion that had just been a mirror. "Damn these eyes," came a rasp voice that could only be his. His head sank; the long hair covering his eyes. From an outsider's perspective, it appeared as if the entire room was empty. Although the overcoat Manson wore was brown, the once youthful fabric that made it up had gone dull and dark. His slacks were already black, a color that made up must of his life. "I will find you," he said to himself. His voice came off uneasy, almost like he was afraid, but there was a firm expression on his face. "I will kill you."