[~Aoria-sama~]

A drawer is pulled out, its fake bottom is removed.
An adolescent hand grips to a pencil. His fingers pale with the amount of pressure he writes with.
These words are angry.

Just like him.

Streaky stains where ashes once fell tarnish the pages.

"Small, little child with his eyes open wide.
Can't understand why he hurts inside.
Poor little boy just stares into space,
Hoping no one will see, the bruises on his face.

Small, little child can't recognize his reflection.
Someone stronger, faster, consumed by destruction.
Poor little boy now puffs on sticks of nicotine.
His fire burns bright, as his hatred serves as his gasoline."

The next few lines are scribbles out, effectively.

Why did you do this to us me?

[~Aoria-sama~]

From a similar place a journal is once more withdrawn. 

It smells of smoke and the edges of this particular page written on seem to be singed.

There words are written much neater than previously.

Perhaps a new found control? Or maybe a swift change in his mood.

In contrast to his last entry, this one seems seems...

Alarmingly calm.

The darkness wraps me in its chaotic embrace,
Others smile and rejoice - but I have yet to find my place.
Whispers from a temptress tell me I should find happiness and beauty that comes with power,
That she can’t wait to see what I will become, that I will blossom into her greatest flower.

I know the depths of my rage, will I ever let myself see?
-That she’s right, isn’t she? 

The Docro - our aim has been facing the wrong directions,
With my new found happiness within the darkness I feel, I will make the appropriate corrections.
Perhaps, mother, I am not the one who is meek.
I’ll prove it to you, with the havoc I will begin wreak.

Once more there are scribbled out words.

All of it will be mine.
YOU WERE WRONG.
Fuck.

[~Aoria-sama~]

Paper has been ripped from this journal repeatedly.

Page after page tore right from the seam, as if these words have been continuously rewritten.

Corrected, in frustration and anger.
A bloody handprint is on the backside of the page.

The stench of burning steel lingers still,

like a song does the hammer sound.

I long for the days that which I never existed,

the days where true order and progression were still around.

xx

I am wrapped in the comfort of my sins,

while the affliction of torment steers me wrongly.

Reflection brings me closer to revision and change,

toward the progression which I feel so strongly.

xx

The hiss of a snake draws nearer and it does exclaim,

that progression and success come from sacrifices.

Passionate rage rears its ugly head again and again,

deals made with the devil - come at all sorts of prices.

xx
xx
Words traced over again and again, at the bottom of the page - until they are bolden and almost ripping right through the page.

xx
xx

What am I willing to put on the line?