1 What's so Great About This?

The sun split through his curtain hitting him in the eyes, a blinding white light with flecks of yellow light. His first thought as soon as he woke up was, why the fuck am I still alive?

He rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor of his attic room. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and a heaviness that he faced daily fell onto his shoulders. His eyes were heavy with sleep, that of which he constantly craved more of. He forced them open, and himself out of bed. He fumbled around his room towards the window, he screamed the curtains open. Forcing his eyes to adjust to the bright light of the day.

Another beautiful day, fan-fucking-tastic. He sighed heavily and crept silently across the floorboards to his night stand. He looked solemnly at the ring which rested next to those white candles which he lit nightly for meditation and reading. The ebony crystal ring with a scythe symbol carved into it.

The ring which belonged to the man who had caused all of this. Or rather now it did. It used to belong to his father, till he died anyway.

He glanced in the mirror, seeing his black hair which reflected his mood. Again he saw the mark of which he was born, that looked slightly like a scar in any light, which fleshed upon his right shoulder. He saw his lean body reflecting almost godly in the mirror. That was the one thing he could be proud of, even if not anything else. The body that was built by years of tending his family's farm.

He stared into those obsidian like  eyes that shone a nice purple in certain lights. The sight of his hay and wool filled mattress distracted him for a second. Then he decided it. He slipped on a new black t-shirt and some jeans. Refusing to wear socks, or shoes, as he often did. A habit he picked up from his mother. Not that any surface bothered his feet, nor hers. He wondered if that was magic, or specific evolution. He got the two confused at times.

He snuck down the stairs, almost slipping on the feathers of his step-father. That winged man never cleaned that shit up. It disgusted him. So he supposed there was one surface that bothered him. Though he should be thankful that the feathers were clean, that he could say of his step-father's cleanliness.

"Oh, hey there bucko," His step-father greeted cheerfully, in his usual manner.

"Sup, Steven?" he replied, slipping out the back door to the garden.

His feet hit the soft dirt, and he dug his toes in. He reveled in the feeling of the dirt in those spaces. The garden seemed to lighten with his presence, that seemed to be the only thing that accepted him. Would these plants live? That thought bothered him. Still he had to. He couldn't be here anymore. This was not a place meant for him.

His mother was bent over at the edge of the garden and hardly noticed him. That's how it'd been ever since that day. She couldn't stand the sight of the monster she'd created.

He walked to the edge of the garden by some bushes and stopped to look back. Fields stretched for miles on the other side of the house. His mother was still indulging the weeds. Steven had just walked out the front door, off to his delivery occupation. The only person he hadn't seen was his younger half-brother. Not that he was worried, he just wasn't interested in being followed.

Something rustled in the bush next to him, he turned as whatever it was jumped out at him. A wooden sword crumbled in his hand and his little brother fell back into the bush. Immediately he'd realized what he'd done, and it hadn't been on purpose. He waved his hand over the ashes and the sword was as good as new. Before Spencer had even seen what'd happen. He pulled Spencer out by the scruff of the neck and tossed him to the edge of the garden in front of him.

"Scram," he growled, and without saying a word the little tyke was out of there with his fake sword in a second.

He sighed and turned his back to the farm. The forest that led to those rocky cliffs looked promising, as it always had to him.

As he walked his head cleared from the morning fog and he stopped to think about what he was doing. He had to, with this they'd be free of him, and free him of those negative thoughts that plagued him daily. He was no monster, or so he had to convince himself thoroughly daily. It wasn't true. It was his power that had caused it. Even now those thoughts plagued his mind as he walked. And why shouldn't they for at least one last time. After all, why shouldn't he be reminding himself how much of a monster he was on this trek to the cliffs.

He reached the base of those jagged cliffs, and he thought to himself. Yeah those should do the job.

He snapped his fingers and began to rise, a pocket of air was picking him up. Carrying him, though slowly, to the top. He stepped onto the ledge then turned around for the final step.

Literally.

For a moment he considered it carefully, was this the right thing to do? Absolutely. It'd end those thoughts permanently and he could rest. He'd no longer be a bother to his family. He'd no longer destroy things without a first thought. He wouldn't get in the way, everyone would be free. The world would be all the better for it. He didn't want to be the monster anymore.

He    Stepped    Off    That    Ledge.

The air enveloped him, rushing past him. For that last seeming second he thought, finally.

He hit the ground and the air was knocked out of him. He didn't feel anything break, just the pain of being hit heavily in the chest.

That wasn't right. He thought, as he pushed himself up. Not even aching feet. He looked up to the top of the cliff, it had to be over two-hundred meters tall. He should be dead. That should have killed him.

Alright, plan B, I guess. He thought, and turned his back to the rocky cliffs. He felt a heavy disappointment in his chest, along with the fact that he'd just had the wind blown out of him. Fuck, he couldn't even die right.

He wiggled his fingers at plants as he walked past them, and each of them shown with a new brilliance. As he walked through the garden yet again the plants seemed to sigh with relief. Seeming even lighter than before.

With this, something seemed to darken around him. As if he were wrapped in shadows. This had been an ever constant trait of his since that event, though now the veil was darker.

He opened the door to the house and slipped back up stairs and shut the door softly before falling against it. He wept, fuck he was angry. He wanted it to be over, he wanted it to just disappear, this feeling. Tears rolled down his face till it faded and he felt nothing. Nothing but the rolling of water on his cheeks. He sat there till it dried, and he sat there for a while longer as he got a mental hold on himself. This was nothing, he was nothing.

Just a fool with a sword. And an arm that could swing it. Yes he had some magic but he prefered to use it peacefully. That's who he would be, who he should've been from the start.

He rolled over onto his stomach, next to his bed and grabbed his father's sword from underneath. Soulwalker, an arming sword, with an ebony crystal with a carved in scythe on the pommel.

Oh how my father loved scythes.

He pulled the scabbard over his back and slid out the front door, stopping as he shut the door behind him. He should say goodbye, he thought, then remembered that no one would care.

The sun was almost at peak as he glanced at the town that held no love for him. So he turned his back on it, now eastbound. Anything was better than getting in the way here. No dark aura to disturb his family, no dark thoughts to disturb their peace.

Wandering over rolling hills of grassland, he found nothing to be eventful other than the occasional groundhog. So this was the start to his adventure. Rolling hills, the setting sun, and the annoying chirp of a stray groundhog.

Fucking amazing.