Frost
By: Locous Stryker

Time is a cruel, petty thing. It acts as an overseer to a bunch of warm-blooded fools who do not know what life is. That does not concern me anymore. Nothing does. Even if I had the ability to feel remorse, pain, or sorrow for them I would not.
Here we are in the dark prison where we are displayed in glass cases like china dolls. Strangers walk by staring at us as though they were in a zoo full of exotic animals. Perhaps, we are. Each in his own right a freak of nature. No, we are not to be looked at in awe, but in fear. To be laughed and jeered at yet helpless.
We are here for our own reasons. Each in his own right a madman. What drives us is simply that which we cannot have. That which is revenge. Revenge to a society that has ceased any and all uses to function properly. We are the children of a forgotten world. We are what they consider evil. Yet it is them that do not understand.
There are times when I crave freedom, crave my revenge. Then, it is, that I remember who I am and what I have become. A tiny figure dances trapped under glass. She is frozen, forever, in a single moment in time. Under glass, like us, and like me trapped and surrounded in the heartless cold of winter's hand.
Nora, my wife, my dear perfection personified into one being. In this cold cell, sometimes I dream of when a warm breeze touched my face. Or when she stood at my side and the sun would shine down and light her face. There are even times I can look into the night and see her eyes in the distant twinkle of fading stars.
Then it is shattered. Shattered by the hands of a man. I risked everything I held dear and it slipped from my fingers. Torn like a child from its mother. I look upon that day in my nightmares. Could I longer feel remorse I would miss her. I was a fool. Now I only feel revenge. One that I shall get in the end one way or another.
It never ceases to amaze me that mortals search their whole lives for what the call immortality. Yet, by accident alone have I become the very embodiment of that dream. Foolish is the man that seeks out life eternal. It is he whom I truly pity. I would trade all the world for one last touch from my Nora.
That cannot happen though. She is like the tiny figure under the glass. Forever frozen. Perfect and yet…longing. The snowflakes fall around, bowing like acolytes before the messiah. They fall around her landing without melting on her pale skin, and she dances. It isn't a slow dance…or fast…it is free. It is Nora…how she would be.
Revenge. It's the only thing that drives me. For I am the pitter fruit of frailty which they cling too. A fruit which they call life shall soon end. If not by my touch then by that of the cold grasp of death. One that shall be their undoing as a the brittle bones hand clasps with their own and they are dragged to their own personal hell.
There is a silence in this place that echoes yet remains in deepest of awe. It is only reflected by what was once my beating heart. Now it is a haunting melody that does not play. It is followed my a numbing cold in my chest. A cold that is my only life now.
I once met a fool who asked for what I have. Who asked for this sterile immortality. That is all he was: A fool. I gave him what he desired and in return all I asked was my Nora, my life, returned. It was then that I became the fool. To believe. To think that I, of all people trusted that jackal. I saw the error of my ways and ended the fools charade. Again, I had risked everything and in return I receive that which I have always had. Nothing. Thus here I remain, in a tomb of ice and glass in which I have forged from the steals of my own being.
The tears that once fell over my cheeks shatter into echoes in the darkness. They now have gathered and formed the glass cage which I am trapped. Yet still beside me the figure dances. Unfeeling. Eternally young. Eternally beautiful. Frozen. Like I am.

And still the dances goes on…