Dexterity Tapes Origins: 2nd Runner

The hard rain beat his motionless body as he lay peacefully in the holy grass. Hoping he had made it on the other side of heaven’s gate. Now finally able to meet his child and live a life of tranquility, one that was abruptly taken from him, without reason. He felt his hand still clenched securely around his claymore, wandering how heaven allowed Satan’s weapons in its purified sanctuaries. Then, the unthinkable approach his unstable mind. A purpose he lost all care for ever since the incident that took away his meaning. He was still alive.
He opened his pale blue, sorrowful eyes, watching the castles conical spire that mercilessly pierced the grey sky. Wishing his ugly eyes had never opened. Upset at the second chance god gave him at living. It couldn’t be, his life was no longer in the hands of god but the tainted, grim hands of the devil. Ashamed at the thought of the devil rejecting his dying wish and instead, leaving him to suffer. ‘What kind of devil he was dealing with,’ he thought as he lay ridiculously in the muddy grass.
He hoist his back off the dirty ground, now sitting on the grass examining his burnt clothes that barely covered his nakedness.
His claymore was still in the same shape; dull and unconvincing of doing a good job. Half his face was now coated in gore as it trickled down warmly from a wound to the left side of his forehead. He punched the ground repeatedly, frustrated at his endless life of sufferings. His faced looked desperate and a bit delusional. He then examined his familiar surroundings and noticed that the castle’s door was ajar. Ignorance took over his mind as he saw this as a welcome by her. ‘Devils don’t need doors to impose.’ he thought miserably as he unwillingly got to his feet. His body was now as weak as he thought possible and pressed on to the castle interiors as he dragged along his iron claymore halfheartedly.
“Why don’t you come the fuck out,” he shouted shrewdly as he walked around the grand castle ignoring it’s out of date decorations and littered floors. Peaks of light crept on the dusty, cold floor, revealing different particles of discarded debris. The castle’s maroon drapes hung mischievously, beating at him as he stumbled by. His patience grew thin rapidly, until reaching the throne room. It was lit with candles of distinct makings. The floor was stacked with an assortment of books; some opened and others closed or ripped apart. The throne itself that once harbored a king and queen was completely dismantled, reduced to rubble good enough to start a camp fire. A red cushion sat lonely in the middle of the room. For a while he focused on it unintentionally.
Then, in a split second, he felt a familiar aura emit behind him and spun immediately to face the source, now watching the entrance of the throne room. The aura sparked behind him again, and reacted by turning but this time froze as he saw her directly in front him, as if about to embrace each other. She thrust her palm in his chest, drifting him passed the throne’s entrance, plastering his body on the wall, where he slowly fell to the cold ground. He settled there in a brief juncture coughing blood before slowly raising his head to watch his attacker. His drabbed eyes were barely able to open. She stood there scrutinizing him, smiling wickedly with her glowing red eyes.
“Persistent I see,” she barked, “weren’t you satisfied with the finale you got outside. Enough to get you stimulated but not too much to send you into god’s hands.” She looked flawless; lacking bruises or burns on either her body or clothes, as if she never took part in the fracas outside.
“Why do this to me?” he questioned, barely able to speak.
“I don’t need a reason to torture fools like you,” she responded black heartedly, “look at you, weak, helpless, not to mention hopeless. Why don’t you yourself a favor and leave. Go find the missing pieces to your life. Can’t you see your efforts are hopeless; you can’t beat me.”
“Missing pieces you say,” he screamed miserably, “the fucking pieces you took away; leaving me broken and distraught.” She scrutinized him, as if watching a senile old man. “I can see you are not your average ruthless devil,” he exasperated, “you move strange, as if bonded by something; unable to use your full potential.”
“Really?” she replied sarcastically, “is that even possible; to figure out the devil. Human you’re way in over your head.”
“Oh no DM125, you’re the one who is way under your head,” he stated confidently, “you can’t kill me. No matter how much you look at it you just simply can’t.” She stood disgusted at the worn out man as he smiled reluctantly at her. There was a brief silence as the man loll in his hypothesis, gleeful as if he just overpowered the devil.
“Your reaction says a lot, especially how right I am,” he noted dominantly. She grew annoyed and impatient, raising her frustration as her cool steadily declined.
“Human’s are always the ones to make theories” she began, “a theory that stands untested.”
“Right now you look more pitiful than me,” he smirked as he tried to regain some strength, “a pitiful devil, that is merciful. Now I have seen it all.”
He sat there laughing peacefully to himself, while DM125 looked on repulsively, at her wits end with the scrawny man. She then in a twist started laughing wickedly along with the man, who stopped his snickering almost instantly; wandering what was so amusing to her. Her laughing grew rampantly, echoing through the eerie castle air. Then, in a flash she gripped him by his neck and hoisted him off the ground, still plastered against the castle wall. Her eyes glowed furiously, as she chocked him intentionally. Streams of blood poured out of his mouth, onto her chocking hand where it made its way to the ground in the form of drips. She then effortlessly sent him back flying into the throne room, where she dashed towards him, kneeing him to the belly in midair, where a potion of blood erupted from his beaten mouth and splattered onto the floor. He flew spinning and land amongst the debris of what use to be the throne chairs.
She created a fireball, which turned into a line of fire that formulated into a katana. She held its red hilt and looked at the rubble where he tried to regain his composure, still vomiting blood.
“Get your weak ass up you human fuck,” she ordered coldly, as she positioned herself into a fighting stance, “and let’s prove your theory and see if I really cannot kill you.”

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Dexterity Tapes Origins: 2nd Runner by 


Hope you enjoyed this piece. Have you read the first part to the tale already? If not click here to read.

Comments

  • S .
    S .about 5 years ago

    wow, fantastic style of writing… love the feeling of darkness that is consistent throughout this… nice writing

  • ladybroken36
    ladybroken36about 5 years ago

    Wow!! This is awesome writing! Thanks for sharing it with me

  • Prasad
    Prasadabout 5 years ago

    Wonderful expression!

  • Leon A.  Walker
    Leon A. Walkerabout 5 years ago

    This is a very interesting piece!!! A creative and exciting concept and very nicely presented!!! Nice work.

  • SMOKEYDOGSOCKS
    SMOKEYDOGSOCKSabout 5 years ago

    INTERESTING STORY, AS I DON’T BELIEVE IN THE DEVIL, I FIGURE EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. I’VE BEEN WITHIN ONE HOUR OF DYING IN MY PAST, BUT I DON’T BLAME GOD FOR NOT TAKING ME WHEN I WAS SO CLOSE TO PASSING FROM THIS WORLD INTO HIS DOMANE. WHAT DOESN’T KILL US MAKES US STRONGER, HOPEFULLY. THANKS FOR INVITING ME TO READ YOUR PIECE. BOB :)

  • Virginia N. Fred
    Virginia N. Fredabout 5 years ago

    Fantastic piece, very creative, thanks for sharing it with us……gina

  • fotosrphun
    fotosrphunabout 5 years ago

    Emotional, testing, a perspective I am willing to read more of… Dave

  • raymondoantonio
    raymondoantonioabout 5 years ago

    YES!! STRONG WRITING, I MUST EXPLORE YOUR WORLD!

  • CDeblin
    CDeblinabout 5 years ago

    Another great read sinX……BUT……
    it finished way to soon!
    Have fun with your next one – am looking forward to reading it!
    Kind regards from Cobie :-)

  • mklau
    mklauabout 5 years ago

    Imaginative writing

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