Kiernan {II}

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Weak minded, weak willed, soft and spiritless as porridge.

Humans disgust me.

That I was born into such an inferior species must have been some deity’s idea of a practical joke, and when I find out who it was, I’m going to kill the fucker.

I came into this world knowing things that should not be known, knowledge beyond any of these fools’ comprehension, knowledge that is not learned, simply, known. For that I have been called a freak, enigma, devil-spawn, witch – the latter I became if only to spite those who would shove Bibles down my throat – and as I got older, found great pleasure in answering to and aspecting all.

Yet my distaste is no longer one of a rebelling teenager wanting to stand out for more than just her Romanesque figure and peasant status, it is rather engendered from a lifetime of watching the human race in its hypocrisy and bigotry, condemning the shaman while venerating the  priests that molest their children.

“One God,” they say, “one Savior.”

There has never been one of anything in this world or in the other – there have always been many, each with its own attributes and idiosyncrasies. Even their own hallowed book speaks of twos and threes and tens and twelves. What makes these gits think there would be just one deity, one chess player moving the pawns, one Evil and one Good?

It is theories like this that have gained me the reputation I have, one not of favor, but contempt, and sometimes even fear.

Fear is what I relish in the most.

For the fear keeps the plastic ones away, the ones who would act the genteel soul to your face and then once your back is turned, show claws and teeth. It is this way I weed out the brambles and cultivate my Circle, surrounding myself with like mind and steel, ones who will accept my madness in all its glory and dance in my Darkness.

Sometimes, however, sometimes, I must withdraw. When those grow too close, close enough for their barbs to pierce my flesh, close enough to See inside my shields to the delicate stuff inside, I run, fearing that my already churned-up parts take another beating. I tend to trust too well those that speak my language, you see, and there have been those evil and twisted enough to worm their way through, intent to destroy what little Light I have left, that now I have barely any faith in my own instincts.

So I find solace in the crowds of sheep that people this planet, observing, moving through them and reading their vapid eyes, searching for one that will curry my favor.

I found such a one that night, but no human was he – he was that which one speaks of in scripture and poetry, never with the tongue with which the Creator wrought, for to do so would call upon such power as to make one mad with grief in the knowledge that we as humans could never aspire to such sublime beauty and grace. Arrogantly, I greeted him, enjoying the rapt gaze of surprise with which his golden eyes held me, yet quickly I ran, my shields closing about me with the force of a steel door.

I can feel him tracking me, letting him get dangerously close before shutting him out once more. I sense his frustration building to precarious levels, sense what it might be like to be mauled by this beast of God, this angel who can so readily turn daemon.

He should take care, however, that prey not turn predator, for I am a formidable hunter – even for a filthy human.

 

Copyright ©2011 Spiritwind Studios Ltd

 

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