Vice Hazzard
Aug 25th, 2001, 10:11:53 PM
<font size="1">OOC - This is a series of posts where I will attempt to practice, and somewhat train, myself. That way even though I'm not currently in training with a Master I can keep my character "rust free". Plus it gives me something to do, lol. </font>
<font color=red>Hate. Such a strong word, and for good reason. Hate is the single thing that gives you power. Anger, Hostility, Rage, these are all sub-juctions of "Hate", the single thing that binds them together. All other high tier emotions and their sub-juctions are designed to weaken your mind and body. Love, Joy, even simple complacanty has it's drawbacks. Hate, the only emotion worth possessing.</font>
Vice Hazzard, a 17 year old, sat on top of his own feet as he rested them under his body. He laid his hands on his knees, palms down. The boy's eyelids twitched even though closed.
The silver blade, not even a foot in length, layed on a small wooden tripod before him. His right hand grasped it and brought it near. Soon the cool blade rested against his neck. He begun to slide the blunt side along his neck in an eternal dance with the danger that faced him. One wrong slip and he would gouge any number of major arteries. The danger was tremendous, yet he held it with enough confidence that his fear slipped away.
He released blow apon bloody blow with the blade on his thighs, blood splattered, bones chiped, screams escaped. When he had stopped the knife layed on the floor, in a puddle of blood.
The pain was.... unbearable, but that was obviously the point. No one is idiotic enough and ignorant enough to believe no pain comes from such a horrible act of self mutilation.
Hate.... Hate came now as he blended back and forth between past and present. He thought of his foolish family, how they had shamed him. He thought of how it would feel to slide the blade that layed next to him inbetween the ribs of his brother as he cried for his mother. The pain mixed with the hate. No longer did he find it unbearable! It was still there, the pain, but it seemed only in a small dose. Yes!
He relised at that moment that the pain had not stopped or lessened, but his tolerence for it was slowly rising. He craved more pain, more anguish! The Dark Side swirled around him. Invisible, elusive. The Dark Side craved more!
His muscles tightened, strength serged through his veins. He picked up the knife once more and drove it triumphly into his thighs.
A smile escaped his lips... victory. And then the pain came rushing to him, his tolerance dropping rapidly. He screamed out in pain, his legs numb, the knife sticking out of his flesh.
In that brief moment of satisfaction he had lost his power. The Dark Side was repulsed enough to creep back and hide from him again.
Soon he passed out from the pain.... drifting into darkness.
<font color=red>Hate. Such a strong word, and for good reason. Hate is the single thing that gives you power. Anger, Hostility, Rage, these are all sub-juctions of "Hate", the single thing that binds them together. All other high tier emotions and their sub-juctions are designed to weaken your mind and body. Love, Joy, even simple complacanty has it's drawbacks. Hate, the only emotion worth possessing.</font>
Vice Hazzard, a 17 year old, sat on top of his own feet as he rested them under his body. He laid his hands on his knees, palms down. The boy's eyelids twitched even though closed.
The silver blade, not even a foot in length, layed on a small wooden tripod before him. His right hand grasped it and brought it near. Soon the cool blade rested against his neck. He begun to slide the blunt side along his neck in an eternal dance with the danger that faced him. One wrong slip and he would gouge any number of major arteries. The danger was tremendous, yet he held it with enough confidence that his fear slipped away.
He released blow apon bloody blow with the blade on his thighs, blood splattered, bones chiped, screams escaped. When he had stopped the knife layed on the floor, in a puddle of blood.
The pain was.... unbearable, but that was obviously the point. No one is idiotic enough and ignorant enough to believe no pain comes from such a horrible act of self mutilation.
Hate.... Hate came now as he blended back and forth between past and present. He thought of his foolish family, how they had shamed him. He thought of how it would feel to slide the blade that layed next to him inbetween the ribs of his brother as he cried for his mother. The pain mixed with the hate. No longer did he find it unbearable! It was still there, the pain, but it seemed only in a small dose. Yes!
He relised at that moment that the pain had not stopped or lessened, but his tolerence for it was slowly rising. He craved more pain, more anguish! The Dark Side swirled around him. Invisible, elusive. The Dark Side craved more!
His muscles tightened, strength serged through his veins. He picked up the knife once more and drove it triumphly into his thighs.
A smile escaped his lips... victory. And then the pain came rushing to him, his tolerance dropping rapidly. He screamed out in pain, his legs numb, the knife sticking out of his flesh.
In that brief moment of satisfaction he had lost his power. The Dark Side was repulsed enough to creep back and hide from him again.
Soon he passed out from the pain.... drifting into darkness.