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by Gawain on Sat Mar 20, 2010 7:19 pm
The following is part of an inscription on a primitive form of paper written circa 1700 CE. Several journals of its kind are found through out the world in the same hand writing and DNA signature. the ink is always blood. it is translated from arabic for your understanding.
How many times has it been? seven? eight times? No, more. I've killed my father at least eleven times this week. They say I can raise the dead, that I'm the best physician in the world. Like I care what they think; it's all true, I can bring the dead back as if they were only sleeping. I do it every day, cattle, men, women, babies. I've stolen hundreds of lives from the grips of satan and God alike. There's always one I keep coming to, to bring back again and again. My father, the bastard. Having tried to murder me and my family, killing my sweet Jessica right before my eyes. I don't know why he did such a horror, I don't even care. He's dead now, seventy times over. My only regret was not stopping him before he took my Jessica and my little Paul away from me.
No, my greatest regret was not saving them in time, not knowing enough to bring them back. That is my worst pain.
the page is covered in blood here, not in writing but more of a spill, perhaps out of anger or just an accident.
He came to see me again, the pale geezer. He's yet to tell me his name. All he talks about is my necromancy. How could he know my secret? If he told my fellow villagers, they would shun me! I would have no where else to go! That's why I do what he tells me. I hate it. Murdering innocents, women children. their screams are etched into my ears, their faces Oh! the terrible visages of horror! I see them whenever I close my eyes.
I cut myself again, not just for this cursed tome. I just did it. The voices went away, and so did the faces.
I have to sleep now, relive those terrible deeds once again.
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