My life began the day we lost the war. I suppose that's when most things truly begin—when the world starts falling apart. I was fourteen. Old enough to understand what was happening, but still too young, or too stupid, to grasp the weight of it. Just a boy, clinging to his mother like she had any answers. Her desperation wrapped around me like wet clothes.
I remember the chaos vividly. How could I forget? My mother, clutching me as though I were her only tether to sanity, her heartbeat so loud I half-wondered if it might drown out the dying screams. A comforting thought, but as useless as a broken sword.
"We need to go," she whispered, barely audible above the din.
Really? Go where? The world was burning, and she thought we'd find safety somewhere beyond the flames. "We lost?" I asked, though I didn't need an answer. It was painted in the terror around us.
The horn signaling retreat echoed from the distant battlefield, and for the first time, the city walls—those grand fortifications that had always promised safety—felt like a prison. Pure anarchy reigned. Law and order crumbled the moment the last defense line shattered. The city had forgotten itself, descending into madness. People looted, robbed, their eyes wild with a hunger for survival—or perhaps something darker.
A man with a sack of stolen goods shoved me aside, his eyes a mix of triumph and terror. My mother yanked me back, her grip so tight it hurt. "Stay close," she commanded, her voice trembling. What else could I do? Run?
We moved through the tide of frantic humanity, a sea of faces twisted in fear. My mother's eyes locked forward, her face resolute. She was a level 35 warrior in a world gone mad. She pushed through the crowd with a ferocity that belied her fear, each step a battle against the wave of desperation threatening to drown us.
Then it happened—so fast I didn't even understand at first. One moment, her iron grip was my lifeline in the storm. The next, it was gone. I stood frozen, the crowd swirling around me like a maelstrom. I searched desperately for the flash of her red cloak.
That's when the hand gripped my shoulder—rough and strong, like a blade in the gut—jerking me around. For a second, hope flickered in my chest. I thought it was her, thought she'd found me again, ready to whisk me to safety.
But no. No, of course not. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a wretch of a man—eyes wide with insanity, his breath a fetid stench that made my stomach churn. He looked like he'd crawled out of some nightmare, like one of those half-dead things that scrape and moan in the dark corners of the dungeons mother used to tell me about.
"I've been looking for you, Jeremy," he croaked, his voice like gravel grinding in a tin can
Jeremy? Who the hell was Jeremy?
Isn't that just perfect? The world's falling apart, and this lunatic decides I'm his long-lost son.
"I'm not Jeremy," but madmen never listen. His grip tightened, fingers digging into my shoulder like I was the last solid thing in his crumbling world. The worst part? I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
His rough fingers traced my face, trying to mold it into the shape of his lost son. "You ran away. Left me behind. But I found you, didn't I? I'll always find you."
It would've been comical, really, if it wasn't so utterly terrifying. The way he clung to that delusion, the way he wanted me to be Jeremy. Because in his mind, that meant something—something I couldn't understand at the time. Hell, maybe I still don't. But what I do know is that the grip of a madman is stronger than reason.
I tried to pull away, but he held fast. "You ran away," he rasped, twisted affection dripping from his words. "But I found you."
Wonderful. Just what I needed—a deranged reunion in the middle of the end of the world.
"Mum!" I shouted
"Yes your mum at home" . He shook his head, his expression shifting to something softer, tender. "Jeremy, my boy... Your mother hasn't been herself since you..."
"I'm not fucking Jeremy," I repeated, if I received a coin everytime i repeated that I would be three coins richer.
"You ungrateful son of a bitch!" he suddenly spat, his face contorted with rage. His hand rose, and I braced for the blow. There's a moment, right before pain, where you wonder if it'll hurt as much as you think it will. Spoiler: it always does.
I was about to shout when, suddenly, the nightmare ended. My mother appeared like a shadow. Her sword—Enlil's Storm—flashed, and red sprayed across my face.
The man's arm fell away, severed cleanly at the elbow Silence followed, broken only by the soft plop of his hand hitting the ground. I could only stand there, stunned as warm blood trickled down my cheek.
"Keep your filthy hands off my son," my mother snarled, standing over him like an avenging goddess, her sword dripping blood. The blade was as long as my arm and looked forged for the sole purpose of cutting through madness.
Funny, isn't it? How even the most violent of acts can be wrapped in the thin veil of love. A blade in the dark, all in the name of protection. Poison slipped into a drink, whispered as a kindness. Or a mother's arms, tight around you as the world collapses, even when she knows she can't save you. Love's a funny thing. It twists and contorts until it's barely recognizable—just another excuse to do whatever needs to be done, no matter how bloody.
The man screamed as the reality of his dismemberment sunk in. My mother didn't spare him a glance. She lifted me like I weighed nothing. "We're leaving," she said, her voice cold. But beneath it was something that still sends a chill down my spine: fear. Real, raw fear.
We disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind the man, his severed limb, and the madness that had consumed him.
As we fled, I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving behind more than just a broken man. Perhaps it was a sickening inclination that everything has changed, way too fast, way too violent. Or maybe it was the feeling of losing my innocence? If I ever had it, it was gone now. Trampled in the mud along with the man's dismembered arm. Like a maiden's blood staining fresh white sheets on her wedding night. A necessary stain. A permanent one.