Forward
Forced into submission, he lies there in pain. Every nerve has been awakening sporadically from their three year coma, flaring in a mutinous fury of rage. Every movement, even a twitch, cause the muscles to send a most unfortunate signal to our hero's brain. Though it doesn't help, the fetal position seems to fit his sadistic idea of "rebirth" in an attempt to ignore the once-comforting voice in his head.
His senses explode. Pupils relax from their state of perpetual pin-point-dilation. The light seems so much more intense, even darkness seems brighter. The most noticable difference is the cold. How it stings, feeling the blood from his extremities recessing back into his body for the first time in years. He can hear his heart again, growing louder by the minute. Beating the smooth, soothing rhythm of the life he once knew, hope slowly spreads outward from the center of his universe.
Still, the pain. That voice SHOUTING all the time. This voice knows me better than he knows himself. The voice!
"All you need to do is succumb. My will is your own. Taste, taste! The pain will flee your body in a moment, just succumb."
It drones on and on. Why shouldn't it? The voice has yet to lose.
But, with pain goes emotion, good and bad. Our hero is a dreamer. His feet are rooted in the fruits of passion and love. For too long he has been stripped of his natural abilities, and for just as long, he hasn't really cared. Years gone by, so monotonous, no memory was worth preserving. Maybe that's the real story. Where it started. How it infected and diseased the soul so rapidly. Perhaps the story shall start further back; from protagonist to antagonist, to protagonist? Who knows. For all intents and purposes, this is the beginning. This would be the "forward" or some other page before the first chapter. So, does it really matter? No one reads those things anyway.
His senses explode. Pupils relax from their state of perpetual pin-point-dilation. The light seems so much more intense, even darkness seems brighter. The most noticable difference is the cold. How it stings, feeling the blood from his extremities recessing back into his body for the first time in years. He can hear his heart again, growing louder by the minute. Beating the smooth, soothing rhythm of the life he once knew, hope slowly spreads outward from the center of his universe.
Still, the pain. That voice SHOUTING all the time. This voice knows me better than he knows himself. The voice!
"All you need to do is succumb. My will is your own. Taste, taste! The pain will flee your body in a moment, just succumb."
It drones on and on. Why shouldn't it? The voice has yet to lose.
But, with pain goes emotion, good and bad. Our hero is a dreamer. His feet are rooted in the fruits of passion and love. For too long he has been stripped of his natural abilities, and for just as long, he hasn't really cared. Years gone by, so monotonous, no memory was worth preserving. Maybe that's the real story. Where it started. How it infected and diseased the soul so rapidly. Perhaps the story shall start further back; from protagonist to antagonist, to protagonist? Who knows. For all intents and purposes, this is the beginning. This would be the "forward" or some other page before the first chapter. So, does it really matter? No one reads those things anyway.