A search has begun in blindness. A brick-wall towers overhead. Always a brick-wall. It towers over me, hiding everything to see from view and refusing to share what will soon occur. It is by such I search for purpose, no hints toward what will transpire down the road. I am offered no assurance and no comfort with whichever route I take. Uncertainty.
But there's more to it than that, there is more than not knowing what will soon happen, but slowly, what has once happened feels blurry. I don't know what I want to accomplish nor do I know if it is acquirable but a desperate desire exists. I can't rest until it's fulfilled. I do not know what it is or where it came from, but it is there, and it eats away at me. It has left much to be pondered upon, with a constant question ringing, what happens now?
There appears to be no way to illuminate myself, nor does there appear to be a reason to continue down this path, but it is my move. A question forever asked that must be answered. It's there. I can feel it. But the blindfold has started to slip away, pulling the censors off the once undisclosed and clearing the fog from my road. What I want is starting to become clearer.
I don't know where my feelings are directed but I know what those feelings are, and I know I want revenge against someone or something. This sickly feeling, this feeling of withdrawal won't go away without something filling the void, something feeding the unseen addiction. How solace is be captured from this discovery might be tough to understand, but I've sat on a canoe without a paddle for far too long. I have grown exhausted from having to endure every wave and splash, but I have taken sight of land.
The realization is overwhelming and even a little scary, but also good. The obstacle that remains is that I have absolutely no idea what to make of it.
What happens now?
Something rests within me that feels wronged in some way, creating anger and bringing hunger for revenge to the surface, but I am at a loss as to what it is that I am angry about and what it is I have to do to dispatch this anger. I may have gotten a peek at where the feelings were headed but they are still well-equipped hiders. I have recollections on some of my past, but they're imprecise on the happenings that occurred within them. The deeper I try to dig into my days, the fainter the details become. I grew up in an orphanage. I can't answer what happened to my parents that led to our separation. (origin story 101)
If I were to go to a therapist, they may tack that on and assign it as the reason behind my frustrations, but I don't think that's true. That it left repressed memories I haven't dealt with. A reasonable and logical diagnosis, but I find for my feelings toward the situation to be apathetic. Similar to that of a scar from a cut left years ago, I look at with only a glance.
But a scar can be seen also as a lasting aftereffect of trouble. Am I dismissing the possibility too hastily?
Franklin and Hillary Jones eventually brought me home from the pound; thinking this aging dog still had the ability to learn tricks. In those first few years, I actually started to believe I would stay at the orphanage until I could live on my own or until I was put-down. I was happy to say I finally had a home. I kept telling myself I was adopted because they had a nine year old daughter and that they wanted a son. The evidence didn't prove the theory. Instead, it contradicted it.
Franklin Jones was a well-acclaimed psychiatrist.
He wanted to fix me.
I found that life grew more and more tiresome as the days went by in the Jones family. I quickly developed the perspective that because I wasn't biologically their child, I had to earn the luxuries given. It wasn't long until I realized they didn't see me as an addition to their family but as an experiment. I won't say that didn't bother me and I won't apologize for it if I come off as complaining. After they decided I wasn't worth their time, they tossed me to the side.
They couldn't fix me.
Still, for a little while, I found contentment with disguising what I was a part of as being part of a family. I'm all but content now. I may not care for them, but I can't forget about them either, and I want to care. It was weeks after my eighteenth birthday I cut all ties with the Jones family.
The first year of my wondrous new life was spent washing dishes and making sandwiches at a local Deli. I did eventually depart from Italina, Maharris and wound up in Acera. Not a drastic move, but an effective one. It was there that I began to truly ponder upon how I wanted to spend my days, knowing minimum wage wouldn't cut it forever.
I was fortunate enough to have a friend to ride the coattails of, his name was James Schultz.
James was one of the few friends I actually made in high school and is certainly the only friend I still converse with on a regular basis. Some people would say he's the closest I've had to a family. I think that's just about right.
Now, more than ever, I've grown colder and more isolated but I still have a spot in my heart for him. These feelings aren't acquired without a sprinkling of selfishness though. James and I had some things in common. For example, we both had a troublesome childhood, but at the same time, we contrast. He had ambitions and something to prove, like me. He also knew what that something was, unlike me. James had recently found interests in being an actor, once an illogical fantasy, now seeming inevitable.
His mother recently decided not to allow for her ex-husband to continue ruining their child's life, and instead decided to feed James some of the money she had built up since kicking him to the curb. I occasionally ponder to myself whether or not acting is the passion of James or his mother, who left her family to pursue said dreams.
She must have found some type of success though, or she wouldn't be throwing money to her son, but I never matched her name with anything other than being the mother of my friend.
James moved to Acera because he believed it'd be better for his career. Either that, or he just wanted a gap between him and his mother. I came along because I was eager to continue and foresee what the peek beneath the blindfold meant. James covers the bills and in exchange, I offer minimal financial assistance, but more than that, I'd like to think I am good company.
This is not to say I stand around all day sporting an exhausted stare and accomplishing nothing of worth. I am still at a constant search trying to find whatever my frustration is reserved for, whatever this weasel hiding in the crevices of my heart, waiting to pop out, desires. In the mean time, I have found somewhere to redirect my anger, and I like to think it has relaxed my scrambling thoughts.
The only downside is I have to spend hours at a time, crossing my fingers, hoping a single crime is committed. This allows for me to rip somebody into smithereens with slight justification. The littlest justification is all I am looking for; it's all I need.
Does it make me a hero?
I remove those not deserving of living on this Earth. Many exist, and several of the many won't see it that way. I don't care either way, because it is this salvation I have sought after, this thirst-quenching treatment to the disease that protects the innocent. It's the only alternative, and it's all I have. If they'd rather have their corpses resting on top of a bloody pavement then I'll happily arrange it. I have come to realize I can't stop myself from reaching my destiny, but I can take refuge in the fact that I also help others achieve their own in the process.
There are criminals unwilling to illuminate themselves from the pitch-black absence of light that swallows them. They're not allowing themselves to see the wrongness in their actions. If I have to play the role of the blinding flashlight shining in their eyes and awaken them from their slumber then so be it. The city garners a form of unseen justice, a protection that can't be offered by the police. I acquire the closest thing I can to genuine happiness.
I, Orion Corvus, offer them the poison, and they offer me the antidote.