Burn Me Right

Chapter 1

A few years later.........

Zyler Stone (his image attached)

I see thee still and on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, which was not so before. There's no such thing. It is the bloody business that informs. Thus to mine eyes- Macbeth, Shakespeare.

A Step... thud... beat... A race... A bang.... A loud sound......A barrel of the gun touching fire....... Searing skin.... A scream generated from the depths of a gut....... a meat cleaver...and a chain......... a heart waiting to be stopped.

They all lay on the table spread for their victim, wanting to taste more blood and drink it directly from the jugular of their victims. Those instruments have tasted gallons of blood. They dreamed of feasting, drinking blood, and sucking warm marrow from the bone. When iron tastes blood, it craves more of it; that is what he trained his weapons to do. The bloodiness of the battle symbolizes the brutality, but to him, war is beauty.

As he held the equipment in their hands, he wondered how many lives these instruments would take. Did he take countless lives? Yes, but did he feel bad about it? Absolutely not. Was he going to take more? Definitely.

His eyes scanned the metal instruments and wondered how many lives these instruments would take. Did he take countless lives? Yes, but did he feel bad about it? Absolutely not. Was he going to take more? Definitely, the truth is that he enjoys hurting people. It brings a particular nirvana to his sick mind. Having them at his feet as they desperately beg for their lives while he offers them no mercy. The thought gives him Euphoria, but the loud sounds make him a little irritable.

He put his pointer finger in his ear to shut off his sounds, "this asshole is whiny," prickled the tiny voice in his head. "Damn sure he is," he answered loudly, scaring the victim. He wasn't going to leave his conscience hanging.

He relished their ripe terror, tasted the delicacy in their anguish, the fear a person feels at the edge of death. It tasted so primal and addictive to him. He rejoiced in their agony-filled screams as they reached his ears, but the loud sound made him a little irritable.

Humans love to live at any cost. He had seen, felt, and lived it. They will drag other people down to perdition and deliberately make deals with the devil, knowing it is a trap.

A man stood there in a white suit. His tall frame put the pillars of the sky to shame, his sharp jawline made knives want to give in to him, and his roman framed nose made the Roman gods bow down to him. His muscles could render Zeus useless. He could complete the position of the gods, and they would all bow down to him, offering their trident, pitchfork, and thunderbolt to him. His electric blue eyes could light an entire if he opened them wide enough. The man looked the strongest as if the Devil hand-crafted him in his free time. He was the one who went in alone to the worlds that hell had all but conquered.

He looked like a dark angel and like the army of one like he was sent in when Satan believed the victory was his and, more often than not, he won.

His eyes trailed on his victim like a lion on an African safari. The room was bright but silent, and it echoed with a thud, a lash of a whip, a whip heavy that the room rattled. The man who was tied up wanted to close his ears, but fear overtook his senses as if his brain froze in his thick skull.

"I want to know what humans do when their lives are threatened?" his voice was so thick and velvety you wanted to give in to his darkness, but it could be deadly dangerous when he wanted it to be. He inspected the hot barrel of the gun, which drank the fire. Surprisingly enough, it did not hurt his skin, or maybe it burned, but he gave no reaction.