Death was a release. It was the safe haven tortured souls ran to when the Reaper came out to play. It is now and ever shall be the absence of life, love, and laughter. The murderers and bandits knew they were doomed to an eternity in the Devil's embrace so they quietly accepted their fate and lived as crude parodies of the afterlife. It was the innocent that cried out silently and feared the inevitable end. They feared the abyss and shed tears when their life is extinguished. And their rotting cadavers are dumped in mass graves, forgotten by all and loved by none.
The horrors of a six-foot grave can easily be felt by all living things, only the worm-eaten dead can appreciate the dark comfort of an earthy resting place. But when the flame of life is extinguished, there remains no fear of the dirt, only silent acceptance.
So imagine with me friends, the suffocating fear that one feels when awakening in a stinking pit, closed in on all sides by mud and decayed flesh. Buried alive. Dragging your starved body through the carnage and dirt, blinded by animalistic fear and tearing at the packed mud, fighting to stay alive in the worst situation.
Finally breaking through the ground and breathing the sweet, sweet air that you craved, the wind that caressed your face and kissed your worn cheeks like an old friend welcoming you back to life. The betrayal and hatred, forgotten in the wild fight to get out, are weighing down tired shoulders and constricting a raw throat.
It was once said that truth is stranger than fiction. But the truth is, is that well planned executions can go awry and enemies that were proclaimed dead may not have left this world.
Trembling fingers fisted in torn robes and bitter tears stung like ice fire, because the hangman's noose had not done its job. No, it had stolen two but left the third, as if in a cruel joke. A raw scar encircled the neck of the survivor and marked him as one of the few who had cheated death. And death would not be happy, the Reaper would come for him, for that was inevitable for all living things. But the wretched survivor would not let his remaining time on this earth wither and die without leaving a long bloody trail, forged in the fiery pits of Hades and painted in his enemy's blood.
The Spaniard would pay. As well as the filthy murderers that pledged their loyalty to him.
I am Frederico Auditore da Firenze, and I am dying to live.
Bonjour, I am not dead but I did start my freshman year a couple weeks back so...I think I died a little inside. Viva la short chapter! More like a prologue...But anyway, THIS IS NOT A ZOMBIE STORY. Though I do love zombies...My other two stories are being worked on as well, I just had this idea so I had to write it. I miss Frederico :'(