Those who have breathed before scream ever so well.


Leif Olson

It's horrendous in its beauty The sound of ghostly vocal cords reverberating with loud, hollow shrieking A sonic experience like no other, enduring the deafening agony of a long-dead wretch facing her eternal end. Especially when it is your own hand ripping out her corporeal teeth. Her soul winces and flickers violently She's almost compelled to hurt me But she was never one to hurt children Especially the one strong enough to make her undoing one of such total helplessness. Poor woman, I don't even know her.

The less knowledgeable refer to me on sight as a Stripling. The studious prefer a more suited title, calling me Mortwight. Those who've seen me work suggest that I'm a walking atrocity But words mean little to me, no less titles. Titles are for the once-lived, tools created to help their feeble minds cope with existence by attempting to dissect and identify its every aspect. Verbal utterances, cast about the air, taking up space reserved for beautiful wailing

One might ask why it is that the bellowing of a ghost's second death throes intrigues me enough to seek it out. One could say that such a fascination began at conception. I have vague memories of that moment, when the cold darkness of nonexistence parted, giving way to the premonition of new life.

And then came the screaming.

Weeping, sobbing, wailing One without ears should not hear these things, but I did. I did, I heard them well, muffled by the flesh barriers that surrounded me, and yet piercing in their torment. I know now such tortured wailing comes from deep within, and the thought has often crossed me that at that time, I was deep within the one wailing. I believe, nay, I know that I was the heart of that hideous noise.

And so I endured it, for what was apparently months. As my frail body developed ears, the screaming gained clarity and form, and I began to recognize profanities. Obscene, ugly words, words I knew with all my soul were pointed at me. I ignored the violent jarring that would plague my haven, apparently Her vengeful fist pounding at Her own swollen torso. Those pained me, but the pain was not so strong as to drown out those mind-racking curses. As they clawed endlessly at my head, they seemed to engrain themselves in me Until soon I found myself with an almost perverse hunger for them.



It came to a point when, if I was not being pelted with the most bitter words conceivable, I felt as though I wasn't whole, as if my pain was all there was to my existence. The verbal degradation, coupled with the physical pummeling, let me know that I was that I was anything. I refrain from saying that I was "alive," because I honestly don't know if I was at this point.

And then, in a sudden, bloody instant, it came.

My body quivered as that shriek, that scream to end all screams, resounded like nothing else could throughout Her body. It was time; this being would finally expel me from what little warmth She allowed I felt the pull, violent and unrelenting, dragging me to the melody of that horrible ranting. Never again would I hear such a sound, ever. After what seemed like endless chaos bound within moments, I felt the sensation of falling, a hard thud, and a cold the likes of which are unmatched

Never was their more clarity to my thoughts than when I lay there, broken, in a puddle of fluids. All that had been garbled in the womb was now perfectly comprehensible. All those profanities were that much more potent, all those screams seemed all the more godless, and the impact of beating on my frail body was now unshielded by Her own flesh.

What occurred between that scenario and my awakening in the Shadowlands is a mystery to me. I don't know whether my physical body died at that instant, or while in the womb; either way, I was dead.

I found myself swimming in the plasm of my second birth. Intolerant of the idea that I should patiently wait to be miscarried once again, I ripped my caul open and crawled out myself. There I lay once again, born anew, this time, into the shadow of existence.

It is in this dead world that I have found strength to compensate for the helplessness of my brief life. In a world where power is found in emotion, the anger of the unborn is a force to be reckoned with, as am I. It has been over sixty years since that day six decades I have learned the ways, and waxed in power, six decades I have struggled in this dismal nether-realm, six decades I have waited for you, Mother

And after I'm done killing this bitch, you're next.