#165 Approach of the Fallen

by Thomas Joyce

Pulling at the bonds joining my wrists together I feel my freedom edging ever closer. I stalk my prey through the mists of eternity, seeking to hold that green and blue orb tightly in my grasp, to squeeze it until only grey ashes remain.

In the beginning, I was bound from head to toe by the belief in goodness and the faith that humanity was stronger than even the most terrible, wicked evil. But with every instance of man’s inhumanity to man, every occasion where a good man did nothing, I felt my strength growing tenfold and the bonds first creaked and then exploded from around my limbs and across my back until only these few remained around my wrists. And even they begin to weaken. With every step I take I am closer to my quarry, close enough to hear every murderous thought, smell the bloodlust oozing from their pores like sweat.

I can feel the last few bonds begin to loosen as whatever is left of mankind’s innocence is engulfed in flames of their own design. The hour approaches when I shall hold man’s fate in the palm of my hand and I envision the smouldering remains of another fallen civilisation.

In the distance I see a spherical shadow, nothing more than a tiny speck against the backdrop of relentless white that is the mist. Still my pace does not quicken; there is no need to rush. I simply reach out in anticipation. After all, I have eternity.

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