Hell is ugly. This is just fact. It is a horrid place of uncensored hardships we would take to not acknowledging out of disgust. However, Malloreigh Dawntay is unable to be so blessed. He must live, endure, and attempt to overcome the true nature of suffering. In the face of the devil one has no allies, no hope, yet if you look deep enough, fight hard enough…then perhaps you can find some that was otherwise not there before. Or that could just be madness that tricks you into believing of such clichés. Either way, mad or hopeful, how can one mortal man expect to embrace genuine misery and remain intact?
How long has it been? How long has the world literately been hell on earth? That caused a wicked cackle to burst from my lungs at the crude pun most unintended. Hell on earth. How real the saying is that most of us tossed around at the most trivial of matters. Like if the soda-machine was out of our favorite, or if we were stuck in traffic for too long, you know, silly matters such as that, but now… That saying has so much truth to it that I curse those spoiled fools that tossed it about so aimlessly, myself included. I know it has been years. I can tell you that much, but as for an exact measurement of time I am unable to know for certain. Time no longer has the same meaning, and with the sky a constant sunset-orange with pulsating veins of black that spark like a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil it is impossible for anyone to truly know… I bet there is some…probably those monsters I would wager. Regardless, day and night are but a fond memory. You are probably wondering why I am talking to you. Well this keeps me sane. Talking to the face looking down at me in my mind keeps me strong for those who need it most. They are so dear to me. You are the friend that I will, as if I can help it, share all my thoughts, allow to know all my troubles and even beseech to you all my secrets that would have those who hunt us smiling the most impish, horrid and ghastly of smiles. They mustn’t know what makes me drive forth. They must always be in the dark, or all is lost of this I am sure. Today, or tonight, take your pick, we find ourselves in the ruins of an old office building. It is far too old and razed to tell what company it belonged to. However, from the layout I would have to guess a delivery company of some kind, maybe a really impressive post office? I cannot say, but here we are in one of the few rooms that have walls as well as a roof. We are grateful for this, for it has been long since we had such a fine shelter to hide from the hunters. You are probably curious as to who we are? Well there are five including myself. Rachel, who is no more than a child, is the one I think is worth mentioning first. I am honestly baffled as to how she has continued to survive as well as to why she did not ascend. What could a child have done to deserve to remain on earth? Her face is smudged with soot and filth, like us all, her hair is a mess that struggles to be contained against a very durable rubber-band. Having seen her parents ascend, to leave her, she is past broken. No matter how hard I try she always looks on the verge of tears not even knowing the truth of what a giggle or a smile is. “Why did mommy and daddy leave me?” she asks the air “What did I do?” she would cry to nothing “Do they hate me?” I would barely make out from her sobs. Prof. James Wiles, as if his title truly matter anymore…guess pride was his downfall. He is a…well…from lack of a flowery word he is an asshole. From his pointed and cunning features you would think the little worm was the cross breed of a snake and a rat with a mindset to match. All too often did he offer his opinion to us about leaving Rachel behind. He was terrified that her excessive crying would bring forth the hunters. I would not have it, and to my dismay it was a near impossible task to convince the others to keep her with us. “That sort of thinking is exactly what got us into this mess!” I would shout. I promised that if we practiced kindness that we may one day ascend. This kept them on my side, but as time flowed forth the promise fell further and further away. I do not hate James, but I pity him. I want to help him just as much as I want to help everyone. Then we have the priest’s daughter who is always gripping her father’s rosary. Helen, such a pretty name she had, would pray over and over in a mad murmur that sounded an awful lot like the devil’s chant which was unsettling to hear. But this cleared and eased her mind. She would pray for her soul along with all of ours. On the day that we became five she prayed continuously for three days without sleeping or slowing. It torn her up for she found the most solace in the sixth member of our little resistance. They were lovers to be frank, and that bond was forcibly ripped apart when Amie sacrificed herself to protect us from the hunters. She was once beautiful I bet, a priest’s daughter, and from the little she has opened up to us a promising future as a doctor. Such a promising cliché her life was. What on earth could have made her so wicked in heaven’s eyes to keep her from being with her father. Now the broken woman is covered in a tattered dress with bruises and cuts that never seem to want to heal. I watched as her eyes transformed from big and wondrous jade jewels into the ever-widening and shifting craze that much resembles an abused dog. It saddens me to see such a soul suffer. Now we have Eires. She is the oldest of us. She was like a grandmother to Rachel and a mother to the rest of us. Trying as she might to teach us lessons, as she called them, and more often than not complain about how this was all “everyone-except-for-her’s” fault— her words exactly. Looking at us all with such hate it burned more than the air we had to breathe. She was the mother you never wanted and disowned quickly, and the grandmother Rachel would have whined and screamed at having to see— you know the type. She is a thorn in our side, but I refused to allow her to suffer. She and James may be off, but none deserve the fate that follows after being caught by the hunters. I could see the hate hurting her. “Hate only hurts the hater.” My father would tell me when I told him I hated him. “So be forgiving.” He would close with before leaving me to stew and sort things out for myself. I miss him dearly. He would have been a better aid to these people than I. Could have probably helped Rachel and Helen, and even brought out the good in James and Eires. Hell…he could have saved us all, and we would be ascending as I speak. We would know paradise. Finally I guess I should tell you of myself. Since you are only a face in my mind born with the savagery that took the earth by storm you mustn’t know at all what I look like or who I was before all this madness. I am Malloreigh Dawntay. A thirty, plus some unknown years, year old art student was me. Painting the truth of the world as I saw it through my foolishly blind eyes. I would think this or come to that conclusion only to now have it all thrown back at me with a resounding “You are wrong!” Everything I thought was flipped. Everything that was assumed by many to be right was wrong, and I felt so very dumb at the end of civilization that I thought myself having only been born yesterday. It made me furious, it made me sad and it infected me with so much self pity that I could not stand on my own two feet. But that changed whenever I met him, he was the first I came to know and also the one to bring forth such tears when taken. He gave me the ability to once again stand up. I found propose. The two of us set to wrangling up any lost souls hoping to aid them. To rectify whatever fated us to this hell. He was lost before we could know that dream as reality. He was a brother to me, but in the end even a brotherly tie will snap against a hunter’s pull. Maybe one day I will meet him again… Bearded with a wild mane I sit huddled in a corner. We all sit huddled in the corner, for whether or not one hates the other we all needed to feel another’s embrace. A caress calming our nerves like a hug when you are about to weep is something no matter who you are you can always use. Anyone to say otherwise is either suffering from pride or just plain lying— I would say both. Taking comfort we all huddled in the corner of the small room that was probably once an office of some sort. “What are we to do for food?” James asked in a hush fearing a hunter might be flying overhead.
Most writers like to tell you a bit about themselves. It can be about this or that or what have you, but I, on the other hand, shall do no such thing. I just want to be a name. I am simply D. J. Lemarr, and nothing more than that.