Tales of The Cult (also On HOLD Cuz I Brain No Wurk)

Arc I, Scene I | Aaron

"I was a drunk bastard, stumbling home to a goldfish that didn't even like me," Aaron complains loudly to a small framed picture, sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

"But I wouldn't want to bore you with a story like that, would I?" he says a little more softly.

After a moment, Aaron puts the picture face down on the table and sighs.

He hiccups and takes another gulp of his bottle half-filled with wine, leaning back in his leather brown chair.

As he drinks his fourth bottle, he takes care not to spill any on his white dress shirt and pants, made of some dark expensive material. Swallowing the liquid, he relaxes.

As his right hand hangs off the side of the chair, he let's the empty bottle fall to the floor. The sound of the expensive glass colliding with the wood lingering in the air for a moment.

He throws his head back and closes his eyes.

"I wish I could get drunk," the God whispers to himself.

Suddenly, he springs up and walks to the front door. Dawning his infamous black overcoat, he slips on some leather boots and ties the laces securely. Stepping out of the quaint single story house, rain almost immediately drenches him. Without a care in the world, he locks the door and starts walking down the street.

A couple cars pass him by on the road every minute or two until twenty minutes later, when he reaches the corner of the block. There... Across the street. The gates of the town's graveyard stand, gargoyles sitting atop two pillars of stone on either side. The rain darkens their features with its shimmering moisture.

Might as well keep going, already came this far, Aaron thinks to himself.

Hands in his pockets, he crosses the slippery road without even looking both ways. It isn't like he can die from a simple car crash. Stepping onto the damp grass of the graveyard, mud squishes under his boots.

Gary Herring, Garret Tushens, Gianni Salvo...... There it is; the gravestone Aaron is looking for.

"Gwenhael Fenwick," Aaron speaks clearly through the downpour. "Been a while."

Crouching down he sighs at the grave, tracing his finger on the engraved writing upon it.

Born: 1833

Died: 1858

"You ever get that feeling that maybe something is wrong with the way a system works?" he continues talking to no one in particular. "That maybe change is... I don't know... Inevitable? That maybe the world isn't what it's supposed to be because no one does anything?"

There is a single second of silence as water taps against the ground and the cars in the distance splash their tires in puddles as they drive closer, then farther.

Aaron turns and sits with his back to the side of the gravestone, closing his eyes and feeling the rain on his eyelids as he leans slightly back. The calm peace and solemn silence makes him feel whole. Well... Almost whole...

He feels the ground around him. Salt... Mud... Grass... Water...

He listens to the world around himself. Puddles splashing... Mud splatting... Grass swaying... Rain showering...

He sniffs the air. Salt... Mud... Grass... Moisture...

.

.

.

Death

Aaron's eyes rip open as he jumps into a fighting stance, conjuring a large double-edged axe. He gasps for air wildly, feeling as if adrenaline in his body is suddenly being produced at unnatural levels. Then comes a stinging in his chest, as if his lungs are being pierced by arrows. His face feels heavy and the need to vomit sticks to the inside of his throat. His ears also ring painfully loud.