Insanity has a Name
They said Africa would never allow him to die. My only question to them would be, "Then why is he dead?" Every time that thought pattered its way across my brain, a deep rage filled my mind, body, and soul. That rage would always quickly dissipate in to the most profound sadness that often fear my heart would break in two.
Each day I move on hoping that I'll see him walk through his door. His regular brassy self going up to practice his long range shots. As time passes since his death I find myself thinking more and more about him. Quatermain. How I hate saying his name. It makes the whole in my chest feel as though it will never stop growing.
The League is beginning to sense something is wrong. I start to snap at them more often for reasons beyond their control. Also I have become reckless in the quests we take, making more risk than necessary almost as if I want to die. Maybe I do, after all I suppose I would see him again, wouldn't I?
Eventually I asked the League for time away from them to think things over. They complied to my wishes, and dropped my off in Africa. I had to pay my respects again to my beloved mentor and father figure.
Walking down the dusty road to the little village where he lived I passed and old woman who was sitting on porch that looked like it would collapse in a heartbeat with more weight on it. I was almost past her she called out to me.
"Come here young one, you seek an answer, but you will only receive more questions,"
I didn't know what to think of this weird lady so I tried to continue on but she gripped my wrist and muttered a few words in some foreign language I couldn't comprehend, some words I caught like confusion or world, but it seemed like gibberish so I passed it off as nothing. Pulling my hand away, one of her nails dug in forming a shallow cut. A little blood welled up in the cut and I pulledmy hand away harder. The lady released my hand but I took a tumble down the stairs I just clambered up.
I stood up and glared at the lady, while brushing my self off, I then continued down the road while scraping together all the dignity I could muster. Stopping when I passed what could only be Quatermain's house. Or old house anyways. I decided to check it out, see if I could learn any more about the great hero.
Walking up the steps to the door I hesitated with my hand hovering over the doorknob. It felt like I was about to enter into a house that a person was currently residing in, but Quatermain was dead so that's impossible. So I shrugged it off, passing it off to the heat of day rather that my little voice in my head, then connected with the doorknob.
Change in the POV
The old lady smiled wryly, then taking the blood from her finger nail she created a shallow design on her own wrist while repeating the phrase she said earlier, "su mundo pasará en la confusión cuando sus pensamientos no son más su propio, pero compartido, pero un candidato improbable."
A flash blinded Tom, and he fell backwards once again landing on his rear.
When he sat up a few minutes later he had an agonizing headache. "What the hell was that," He muttered to himself. What surprised him even more was when some very angry voice answered him.
"WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE AND WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!"
Tom leaped so high in the air looking around for the source, but he could find none. The voice seemed familiar but the owner of it was never angry, sarcastic, sadistic and manipulative, for sure but never angry.
One question raced around Tom's head like lightening, "What the bloody hell was Dorian Gray doing in his head?"
Translation : your world shall pass into confusion as your thoughts are no longer your own but shared but an unlikely candidate.
A/N – reviews would be much appreciated, be CONSRUCTIVE! I have decided to do a longer fic thanks to reviews so if it is to be continued then review with ideas on how to improve or with plot ideas… This just came to me about 1hr ago and I ran with it and this is what the result was.
Black As Gold