DARIEN VALENTINE
“Some say the world will end in fire, some ice, and still others claim humanity… If there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Valentine will screw us all.”
Many things can be said of Darien Valentine. Some would, at a glance, proclaim him a dishonest, spiteful monster, even more so that if you were to meet him- when he farther appears the macabre wrongdoer? Still others would utilize his face as a divine figure, something to be adulated, revered, and valued. I myself cannot show fondness to that which is made to be hated; in the same way I dare not open my mouth to spout ridicule against him. I only know what I’ve been told, and have accepted. Valentine has been dealt a set of cards that would be poor to envy, so to speak, and in his own way. . . . . I do believe his heart is in the right place. Neither whole nor half, but rather the symmetrical line that would defer to either should it be crossed. So do play on, then, but please take a moment to reminisce; mollify your expression elsewhere, love that that should be unloved, perfect the imperfect, and most importantly: depart with haste from those who would see you grieve, for can life be true without true love? Follow now as I bring you to our real anecdote, that of a perturbed individual whose quest for that exact thing carried him to a place lower than he’d ever thought possible- Death. On the path to a new future, we’ll delve into his history, his thoughts, his wants and wishes. Here, friends, lies the end of our world, not in fire, ice, or even is it human- But rather another place, another time, another species all together.
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A drop of rain can range from 0.1 to 9 millimeters, it is estimated that it will travel at fifteen miles per hour a distance of roughly sixty thousand feet. That is the only time is has to be of and one with itself, before it becomes a part of a much larger community, whether that be a body of water, land, or a living organism. So is it that I end up here. All together my life has been repetitious, I do not ask for much, neither am I given more. Day in and day out, in this manner I live: The world is in shades of grey, the pigment is immaterial and unrelated. I am a heat vision machine. My gears are corroded, my motives pilfered from the filthiest cesspools of humanity and my parts incompatible. Created for mass destruction, I’ve long since served my purpose. Ask me, and I’ll tell you what happens to timeworn mechanisms. They are sent to a landfill, because they are insufficient, inoperable, and without a purpose. When I was only a child, my parentage many a time said to me “Darien, dear, really. You feel too much, I am convinced it’s because your heart is much too large!” But at the present time I have learned to ponder, and I am very sure now that it was quite the opposite; I do not feel. I am a sick animal, whose heart is too small. To watch pain is to experience pleasure, and to me it is not a burden to brood over the blood of my kinship. No, to partake and savor of it is the cynosure of my desire. I live in the age of the blind, mute and dumb where only a few have risen from the smog of dismal to speak and to please.
I am Darien Valentine. I was native to the city, and thereafter traveled to the three corners of the world. Before I was an adult, I was a child with children. By the time I was an adolescent, I had offspring peppering the country and packs under my beck and call just as diverse. Now I’ve since lost track, but to be fickle, I’ve not laid discomfort to them. In hindsight I’ve not cared enough to. To be of me, or with me, they should do as they will. The subject is dancing on the gossamer of my consciousness, but it was in that time of. . . . Mass breeding, I was enlightened as to the purpose of Blossom Forest by a fetching dark paramour who I’d taken to be somewhat of an Ingénue due to her inclusive blue eyes, which I had taken for the common knowledge that young wolves pertain to. Children have blue eyes. Now that I’ve educated myself to the anatomy of my own body, as well of that of the opposite’s sex, I understand that along with the rare spotting of a cobalt-eyed wolf, you’ll also find that those tainted with the corporate “dog” will have the brand of dye in their orbs. Her name was lost to me, and she was not a wolf.
. . at the least not genetically whole as one. She swore an oath to take me there, in exchange for her life, none the less. Dreadfully, and somewhat remorsefully, I’ll admit that I did indeed, somewhere along the way lose interest. She may have been different, exotic, exciting, erogenous, which may seem a small feat to a passerby, but I myself have lost the sexual appetite that I once held. I’ve yet to cast exodus my youth, I assure you, but once you’ve experienced enough of something, and I did, sadly, ‘get enough’ to last a life time, it loses the appeal it once had.- [Continued]
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