!FzAyW.Rdbg 02/12/10(Fri)01:19 No.8042866|
File1265955550.jpg-(153 KB, 757x1000, Prologue.jpg)
No one remembers the side that lost. No one honors their dead. At least that is what my father would tell me as he drowned his sorrows with booze. He would drone on and on about the way it was before the Uprising, before the Invasion. He’d also tell me how much I looked like my mother, who passed away shortly after I was born – the changing weather had taken its toll on her, as well as the chaos of the Uprising. She always loved the Spring, he would say. Then another drink as he would stare into the fire that warmed us both. The eyes of a broken man take on whatever they see – like the glass eyes of a doll. And in those days, his eyes simply reflected the flames.
For me, it was always Winter that I loved. The white snow blanketed everything and turned our small, miserable town into an untouched little haven. And on that fateful night, the snow had fallen heavily upon our refuge.
I was unprepared for the drunken man that stumbled into our home, and the noise of his entrance jarred me awake from my seat at the fire. Father was out, and I had not barred the door as I might have been asleep when he would have arrived home. The man was as shabbily clothed as the rest of us, and very drunk. I rose from my seat to angrily yell at him to leave, along with a few more choice profanities – failing to notice the nearly empty bottle in his rather meaty looking hand. He raised his bottle; the thick brown glass glinted dully in the flickering light of the fire, and struck me across the face with it. It sent me tumbling to the floor, and he staggered forwards to strike me again. I kicked at his leg, and he lost his balance, falling forwards with his outstretched bludgeon. It struck the floor next to me hard, and the end of it shattered into brown shining shards.