For convincing me to continue writing.
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You all talk about hell like it’s some kind of joke.
It’s not.
Hell was my childhood home.
It’s what lives in your basements, cellars, aqueducts, sewers, laboratories and even your minds.
You can’t escape hell.
Cold cement dripping with condensation made my nursery walls. Diseased rats and flavorless gruel were my main sources of nutrition. Incoherent screams for mercy from a soulless tormentor, slack mouths’ taunting, cracking whips and maniacal cackling were the only bits of language I knew.
Until the day I found my name.
YOU ARE READING
The Named
AdventureA boy without a name / A man without a purpose / A girl without a love / A people left helpless. Together they'll ignite a flame / In the heart's of the blameless / So when push comes to shove / They will battle the heinous.
