THE SUN HAD NOT yet peeked over the horizon of the urban cityscape, and the usual bustle of the Toronto streets was dulled to a placid tranquil, it's overcrowded populous still waking from slumber. A dim glow—a mixture of pink and orange hue stained every surface and structure, organic and man-made alike, as though the morning had yet to decide. The trees were still bare from a long winter's chill. While millions of Torontonians slept in their beds, caffeinated themselves alert, or hurried out their doors, a lone woman huffed with steadied breath as she jogged along the Don River trail. Running was not part of her morning routine, as one might expect by the early hour, but rather a means to clear a troubled mind and calm her wayward thoughts.
Chelsea had been having trouble sleeping as of late, her dreams filled with visions of torment—unspeakable atrocities she wouldn't dare speak aloud, and could not shake if her life depended on it. Amongst a medley of hazed memories—twisted fragments of an all but forgotten war like pieces of an opaque puzzle that could potentially fit together if she could only focus, but only one vision seemed to stand out to near perfection. She remembered the Dark Man all too well, his shadowy figure silently lurking over every dream with great interest, as though studying her every traumatic reaction, his evil glare masked by the shade of his campaign hat, watching . . . always watching.
Weekly sessions with her psychologist had yielded little results, and prescription medication was still in the experimental stages. No chemical concoction could remedy her nightly visions, and most attempts would only make the night terrors significantly more vivid and frighteningly more frequent.
"When the body suffers, the spirit flourishes." she would often recite like a sour prayer—a means to push herself past the thresholds of her physical and mental capacities. This common phrase from her childhood had never left her; branded on her very soul, it seemed. When all encouragement seemed out of reach or generally inadequate, it was her father's disciplinary lessons that somehow remained, the words tattooed in bitter ink behind her eyelids, when the worst of challenges arose in her adult life. It was a last resort of a desperate woman. Though her dad had perished years prior, every stride felt like a punishment—every burning muscle or aching joint like a leather belt clapped against reddened flesh. A subconscious guilt weighed down her conscience, her pain somehow justified for some unknown crime, lost in the haze of a conflicted and faulty memory. And so, she would attempt to sweat her demons out, hopeful that physical exertion couldn't possibly worsen whatever was happening to her.
She wasn't sure just how long she could keep it up; the restless nights, consistently wired on caffeine during the day. How many times would she be caught drifting off in the studio, her band mates growing all the more impatient with her obvious lack of focus? At what point would she be dismissed for not making yet another deadline or rehearsal? Chelsea was in the music business, a rising star on the main stage of the entertainment industry, but that dream was quickly losing its momentum with each passing day—every missed gig or failure to remain alert during regular recording sessions.
The shift had come rather abruptly, and almost supernatural in nature. Out of nowhere, a lifetime of devout passion—such a fierce love of music and pursuit of success now seemed like a fleeting memory, her dreams slipping from her grasp with each passing day. Singing and performing was her life, and had been since childhood, but lately, the mere sight of a microphone sickened her. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, and with every breathy stride along the Don River jogging path, Chelsea wondered what would happen if she just kept running and never looked back.
She maintained a steady rhythm as the soles of her runners tapped lightly along the asphalt trail, muffled by the sound of hard metal blaring her latest sample track; a work in progress. The hard distortion and quick-footed double kick pedals were the cleanest and tightest her band mates had ever managed, but the vocals were sub-par, not nearly as crisp or perfect as they once were. This was a depressing thought, seeing just how far she had come—how hard she had pushed for so many years. She was losing her drive, there was no denying.
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First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)
FantasyThe End is inevitable; this much has always been certain. Debate as to the manner in which the world will meet its demise remains a mystery, the details cryptic and well hidden within literature of forbidden knowledge, not meant for the eyes of th...