Snippet #1644145

Would the Maker have opened your eyes if he preferred them closed?

If they echoed their Mother's fruitless philosophies, then so be it. They would all suffer the same excruciating fate. The Father would squash them like squalling insects, send them running off cliffs with naught but the air to hear their frantic pleas. Everyone feared death, did they not? Slate grey buildings with circular, rectangle and square windows for glistening eyes glowered each time they passed, reflecting the black Sedan's beaming headlights. The gutters were swollen with the rain's tears, flowing in fat streams down into the sewer drains and spilling out across the abysmal asphalt. A dreary scene for a dreary situation, it seemed. And somehow, it was fitting. His mouth formed a tight, gloomy line and revealed nothing of the plenitude of thoughts plaguing his mind. Even now, the blood curse was weighing harshly on his body. Occasionally, he'd lean forward and cough harshly into his fists, then straighten himself out and brush his fingers casually across his knees. Distinct childhood memories cast it's thick brush across his mind's canvas, painting pleasant pictures that made him nauseous. His stomach roiled uncomfortably as he regarded the thunder clapping across the skies, brightening the interior of the vehicle and leaving him feeling depleted, rather than ecstatic. The electricity died into a low, blunt thrumming that hardly motivated him.

In truth, the Father was the embodiment of the booming city with all it's splendour, and pollution and corruption and insipid creatures performing dismal crimes; destroying itself from the inside, and releasing it's toxins throughout the world. It's dark fingers would always dig through other soils, ushering them quietly into earthy graves with the promise of a quick, painless death. Earthworms and beetles held no prejudice, and judged no one's sins. The Father could offer this, or something much more desirable—a chance to change yourself, a chance to redeem yourself in His eyes. What could Nike offer to them, besides a wasted life for a fruitless cause? She was the little, melancholic town filled with plucky vigilantes and simple farmers with pitchforks, determined to make a difference in the world. How galling! The windows and neon city signs were a clash of sunlight and moonlight, collision of morning and evening; reminding the Father that he had better things to do then dwell on his shortcomings, and their exiguous pasts. But still, he couldn't escape them.

“Hey! Look at this, Connie—look! No, here!” The excited voice jolted him from his thoughts. Her voice was a song, throwing verses and choruses and string instruments through his mind. It was pleasant whenever she spoke, and so he obliged, teetering back from the bleached sands. He felt slender fingers curl around his small wrist, leading him towards a large shrub, so he scrambled alongside her; all knobby knees and scrapped elbows. She was the only place where he could escape from all of the desolate, morbid lands and confusing expectations. A hidden garden in an ugly world, never whispering about fate or balance or peace. Her eyes were Northern lights, or lighthouses beckoning him away from the sea's dangerous tides.

“Okay, okay, no pushing,” The blond boy whispered exasperatedly, though he knew that there wasn't any other place he'd rather be. The little girl knelt into the ruddy dirt, pulling on his wrists with both hands until he did the same. He peered incredulously at the thick shrub, eyeing it's drooping leaves and autumn colours—they were dying, as far as he could see. His fingers dug into the earth, dragging into minuscule trenches whilst his companion pressed her nose into the foliage. From the corners of his unusual eyes, the boy watched the little girl's fingers carefully push aside the bushy limbs, careful not to break a single branch, and then purse her lips with the effort. The breeze lightly kissed her hair, shuffling it across her forehead. In front of his own eyes, she transformed into a fabled treasure hunter who'd discovered a new, beautiful race in an exotic jungle; wide eyes dancing with wonderment.

Hushing softly, the little girl's fingers found the boy's wrist and drew him closer, never missing a beat or shying away when his cheek pressed against hers. The little boy felt guileless, even if so much more was expected from them. She was a salubrious sterling, and he was a ruffled raven. They were from different worlds, brought together by some wicked Creator. He must've had a bad sense of humour. Children didn't understand complex concepts that drove people apart; children didn't understand when they were forced into positions that caused them to turn their backs on the ones' that understood them the most. It was cruel. But, moments like these... moments like these...

“There's a little bird. A robin, I think,” As gentle as a coddling mother, the little girl swept her hands out wide to reveal the small creature she'd mentioned. The branches fell away like a curtain, and there, right there, was a small, pitiful looking nest made from lint, branches and soft mud pressed tightly in the foliage. A tufted fledgeling shook it's naked wings, squalling and extending it's long corded neck for a regurgitated meal it would not receive. It was smaller than an apricot, with a yellow crested chest. And more than that, it was alone. It's siblings were strewn across the ground in a gooey mess, revealing that the mother had probably abandoned it... or was eaten by something larger. "It's all alone,” She observed quietly, frowning. The expression didn't suit her, at all.

That was the day he discovered sin.

The little boy's fingers scraped away from the packed earth and shot past his friend's solemn face, groping for the screeching bird until his dirty fingers wound it's way around it's frail body. Without so much as another word, an explanation or an indication of his actions—he crushed the baby bird in his fist and discarded it amongst his brothers and sisters. His hands felt disgusting; the crunch of cartilage tingled through his fingers and upset his stomach. He refused to retch, but he couldn't stomach looking at her. He didn't want to see those eyes. Instead, the boy looked towards the sky, his fingers opening, closing, then opening again. They weren't allowed to have any pets, he reasoned.

"A quick death is a mercy, right?”

The robin's lifeless body was pressed tightly to her chest, clutched between shaking fingers.

This wasn't his world. He didn't belong here, and she would, after all, have to walk away from him.

And they hadn't even asked him.

The Father's mismatched eyes fluttered open. His fingers clutched into feeble fists; weak from the effort of casting his nightmarish ailments on the Descendants, weak from confronting his old companion. Now, he wondered who the fledgeling was. Were Nike's skeletal, paper-thin fingers squeezing across his cording neck, or was it the other way around? He doubted that either would be so easily cast away. It was never easy. Death courted in each abysmal corner: seeking their kidneys, or other delicious morsels with snapping jaws and slick tongues. It wouldn't have surprised him if he found himself deteriorating as steadily as Nike. They were one in the same, after all. A united phenomenon that needed the other to survive, and without one, the world's balance would collapse in disequilibrium. Instability was a fickle monster, rearing it's ugly head whenever you so much as teased those metaphorical lines. He'd already crossed them, and threatened to unhinge the world's preordained equivalence. Someday, he knew it would cost him his life.

“Please... tell me, you'll fight this fight.”

Did that even matter, any more? How much did he value his own life—how much... Lightly running his tongue over his lips, the Father leaned his head against the soft headrest. It was too much; an ugly thunder cracked overheard, filling his head with a staccato of unpleasant beats. Thankfully, they were nearing the underground parking lots. Sweltering rains pelted the car, and rivulets ran down the windows. A methodical tuk tuk tuk tuk; it might've been calming, but it only reminded him of disconsolate days sitting by sombre windows. His roots were deep. His roots would strangle all of their hopes and dreams and fickle goals; gurgle the last sliver of hopeless ambitions out of their throats. It would be a mercy. They weren't allowed to keep pets, after all.

The Father settled his rekindled convictions. Once Wesley found a suitable parking space, he lead the Cruzzola's through the parking compound. It didn't really matter where they parked, because they owned the entire lot; brick building, basement and offices included. An appropriate base of operations that had business plastered all over it. For the most part, he kept quiet. His mind, however, was alive with future dispositions, complex thoughts regarding disposing of the Descendants and dogged intrepidity. It wasn't until he reached the large expanse of the meeting area that his steps faltered. There were hardly any decorations in the board room, besides alabaster chairs and a long wooden table. Nothing fancy, nothing to gawk at. Fortunately, the Father catered to all of his assembly's needs. They could do as they wished with their chambers, so long as they kept everything to themselves.

Finally, with a soft sigh, the Father settled himself into one of the chairs. A thin sheen of sweat trickled down his neck, and exhaustion begged him to retire to his chambers. His work was never done, and so he resisted his mortal desires. "Human beings are a cancer to this planet. A disease that can't be cleansed by conventional means. They thrive on greed, and like cockroaches, crawl out of hiding to spread their ilk,” The Father rasped sourly, pressing his fingers against his throat. Shadows silhouetted his feminine features as he bowed his head. And then, a wicked smile curled across his soft lips, showing a small peek of teeth. "And we, the Cruzzola, offer the world an indefinite cure. Ha! We are doing them a favour, at the very least. A quick death is a mercy, and an easy one.”

"They are perverse creatures that are never satisfied, and we will grant them everything they'd ever wish for. And in that, they'll destroy themselves. The human race is a race of cowards; and without Nike and her merry troupe, they'll surely fall.” The Father continued, rubbing his throat gingerly. It still pained him to speak. "The more humanity advances, the more it degrades... doesn't she realize that?” Now, he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. He heaved another sigh through his nostrils and planted his fingers in front of him, eyeing the Cruzzola; one at a time. His eyes were always unsettling, and roused a feeling of discomfort. At least, he still had that.

"We will begin preparations. Foals are easier to slaughter when they've just begun to walk.”