In a world made of lies, what truth do you expect? And in a fated death, what life do you plan to get? And if so legends were to tell the truth, why no proof? What was true and what was false? Only a thin line separated between the myth and the real. And if life is what we believe it to be, why not death and what’s after?
He prayed for the god of death to take his soul to where he pleased, the mighty heavens or the darkest hell. Van Gaal never bothered to care, for he had been living in hell his whole life. A knife in his hand, standing on the edge of a cliff, his dark eyes watching the horizon beyond the mountains of death and darkness. Muddy and gory they were, fairies always destroy where they live.
With a final breath he closed his eyes and shoved the knife into his chest wish a shallow gasp. sharp pain cracked his ribs, burning him from the inside. Blood streamed out until he fell down the cliff to the rocky ground cracking his bones and turning the spot to a blood pool.
'My lord, God of death. Take my soul to within your realm'
He prayed in the last moment of consciousness.
The dim sun shined through the greyish clouds, landing on his red painted face. His eyes opened, pain vanished yet he was drained. Eyes locked on nothing but the mountains before him. Van lifted his face from the muddy, rough ground and lied on his back.
"Fuck". He mumbled. He was dying every day in many different ways. Mentally damaged, emotionally dead. His head flashed back to when he had a reason to live or as he assumed, stupid boy he was believing there was something worth living for. I do it for my family, they need me. He used to say, but where were they? Oh yeah, they died. He was left alone. He lived for them, he worked for them, he loved life for them. But they died, and so will everyone.
Luck was never on his side, true. He never needed it, but now he did. Searching for the one thing he truly desired, death, the nightmare of mankind yet it was his dream. Pathetic, even when hope was a myth, dreams where only a folktale, that little dreamer child within was still dreaming. Van didn't care weather his dream was to find the mountain of peace or meeting the god of death. Dream was a dream and that's it. Except that was his last.
Walking through the muddy streets of the village, blood covered him and mud covered his face. People would look at him with different eyes, mumbled many words. Poor young man, or, the lunatic, devil's tool, witch's slave and more and more, but it's like he cared.
Van walked into the witch's cave, small workshop for the witch of the village. The door bell rang as he opened it. She turned her head to see whom it was, she rolled her eyes to see Van and walked away from the shelves, towards him. "Another failure try to kill yourself?".
He sighed and put the knife on the table. "What does it seems like to you?".
"Oh I don't know, maybe you changed your mind and found the bright side". She took the knife and threw it away with the garbage, it had his cursed blood on it.
"Bright side my ass". He was disgusted by the term. What brightness in this world of darkness, cruelty and hate. Even the sun hated humans so much she hidden away from their disgusting selves.
"Give me something new". Van said. The black haired witch turned back to him, crossed her arms with a face, so done with the man before her. "New? You literally tried every death spell, killing weapons, deadly risks and here you are standing before me with only a scratch".
He rolled his eyes. "You are witch, find something. Search in your books, use black magic or something ".
"You know I don't practice black magic and won't ruin my life and search about it for a desperate man who wants to die ".
"But you're supposed to help those who needs help, aye? Isn't that why you opened this cave in the first place?".
"And I have done enough Van. I did all in my power. You want black magic, go find it yourself". She bit on her words leading him to leave without further argument. Walked the dark streets of day to his lone house. The door squeaked as he opened it. His boots echoed on the wood floor. only a small table on the side with one chair. shelves of jars. he opened the door at the end of the hall and was led to his room. Dark like the rest, cold as winter. no difference between the outside and the house.
He took off his dirty clothes, threw them on the floor carelessly before meeting himself in the dusty mirror and the light of two candles. eyeing the brand new scar right beneath the rib cage. his whole body was an awful sight of scars and bruises. old words of the devil's witch echoed in his head. 'You shall bleed yet never die. Hurt yet never really healed. Pain shall be your only friend for eternity' .
And it had been two winters so far and three springs . oh yeah, even spring hated those humans and never visited. staring at his own deep brown eyes until rage bumped into his heart, clenching his chest. He yelled and threw everything on the table to the floor. "what else do you want me to do!". he shouted to Zynius, the god of death. "Why you don't want my soul?". He looked up. "I would be a great demon in your hell. God of death, lord of hell and underworld, take my soul to be your servant demon". he went on his knees. "Just take my soul already. you took everyone I knew and never known. the young and the old. A witch can never be stronger than you, stronger than a god, no never. Why you enjoy my suffering so much?". he said out loud in agony, his throat tensed and hurt like a blade cutting it deep but all his tears been dried out the day he lost his sister and younger brother.
He walked across the room with eyes reddish and rage. "Listen". he said, eyes gazing up. "If you are not taking my soul willingly. I am coming to you no matter what you say about it Zynius"