The Deep, The Black

Fortuna

In this universe, this speck of assumed significance, this flash of time, there lives a brutish example of villainy. On his hands, layered in folds of flesh untouched by the star above, there clings a hardship of want. Though an emperor of clouds of mites, his whimper is laid bare before the harsh darkness of the depths of his soul. On the surface, he is a barbarous criminal of heinous wrath; below, deep, within, he is a child of memory, and of pain.

He cowers beneath the oppressive rays that leak into his crude shelter of rotting wood. The stench of his evil is thick throughout the depression that leads to his abode. No living man or woman has approached it in eons. No child has stumbled onto its secret location in the deep dark – the evil, thick and aggressive, turns away even the those creatures which slither and slink. He cowers, and yet, he looms. In the same hunched stance he takes as the day’s light assaults his dark, fetid home, he is also seen over his victims, black fluid dripping from blacker fangs.

A name he may have had, though now, tainted and buried it be, it scratches at what semblance of consciousness he has left. The memories knife through the black and red of his thick reality on occasion, stabbing nearly in time with his own wicked blades, and in flashes there are his own screams in the dark. Hands reach out to him in the night – claws press into his flesh and scrape away what little humanity hides in this vile monstrosity.

The fervor within builds, energized by the press of sunlight – what little reaches him, so minute, so volatile against the void. The mottled flesh vibrates from the twitchfire dance of nerves beneath, and the seizure grows throughout the day. He cowers and shakes, his eyes closed. Tears roll down a face of tangled, matted beard, cutting discolored rivulets into grime and dried blood.

Bones litter his domain, some chewed, some obliterated into dust by force. Rotting flesh decorates the largest holes where the sunlight invasion continues in earnest. This creature of death is no torturer, no rapist, no wicked specter of release – he is murder, violent and sudden, quantum, continuous. Naked, filthiest of soul; blatant, and blackest of heart, though not consciously striven for by he, or the twisted events that made him.

As the sunlight fades, his eyes slowly open. Red, bloody, and with violence in it, his stare shines like the full moon. Paroxysmally, he launches from his den of death into the cold embrace of night. Nothing living remains so before him – his path, though random, finds life and extinguishes it in sudden violence.

He reigns from a throne of emptiness until the sun reveals the new day.

His name is Yesterday.

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