Lying face first...(Ryuu From the Future)

Theme

The smell of booze brought the memories back. A dimly light room with a lot of wasted people. It was a bar, some where in Boston. Where Patrick learned how to survive on his own. Memories of both family and loneliness. It was his way. It was how he had carried on. Memories of this inevitably moved on, to worse ones. Memories that forced him to drink worse. Maybe cracking that beer wasn't the best idea. Inevitably it would bring him all the way here. All the way to his own personal hell at 259. A story that was a sad tale. The main character that one could call "fate's joke". One who had been led around and kicked down every time he might have been happy. Funny thing, it always tore him down. It broke even him.

But not quite. Through the dark nights and dreary days Patrick drove on. He wasn't quite sure exactly what it was. He thought it was an indomnitable will that had come from being raised by the streets but now he was sure not the case. He knew somthing drove him on. It was moments like this that had Patrick scared. In rare moments like these he was the simple truth of things. He was a monster, a cold and calculating murderer that was without mercy or remorse. It was not that that scared him, that he had killed and would kill again, but it was the fact that he had no remorse. Was he really that far gone? Once upon a time he might have been called a hero, but now he was an amoral individual deviod of any compassion or caring. He would kill only because it so suited him and there was no qualm within him. These rare moments were brief as in a few minutes Patrick would pass out and the amnesia of alcohol would cover over him once again. He had no strength left within himself it seemed.

Truly as now he lie face first on the cold hard pavement next to his pickup truck which had its door left open from which he fell out of. He lie in a pile of his own vomit without the strength to pick himself up. He had truly fallen far. His clothes were now ruined, his black tanktop and khaki cargo shorts, even the white bandana that was tied around his head was now drenched with the khaki fluid. The only thing that showed of him that was not truly covered in vomit were the tips of the scars that were coming out on his shoulders. The tips of the knife wounds that came together to form an intricate pair of wings. A pair of wings that were both his blessing and curse, wings that had been feared once upon a time in New York.

Funny, in such a miserable state the only thing that Patrick could utter from his lips, resigned to his fate was the name;

"Zea..."