Geschichten Von Zorn

 

 

By Elite_Saiya-jin_Jenny

 

 

Author’s Note: Sad to say, this is my first original piece. I am ashamed to think of it that way. Nevertheless, you may like it. I am not going to describe anything now as I’m sure you will find everything in this to be fulfilling of your curiosity. So for now, enjoy.

 

 

Note: Everything within this piece is mine, minus the characters created by some close friends of mine (whom I love to death and hope you don’t mind me using them in the story). Steal my characters and others and there will be consequences beyond your reckoning. Also, this piece is NOT for the light-hearted. There are very dark things within this, including hints of rape, gore, and other things that I don’t really know right now but rest assured would be considered morally offensive to those really sensitive. Continue if you feel such walls do not bind you.

 

 

Chapter 1 – Einleitung

 

 

    To begin with, I am a very simple person with very simple motives. It’s not uncommon that I’ve been called an animal, simply based upon my tendencies to react upon instinct rather than use that thing we call a head. In fact, there really is no point to a brain when I think about the way my body works. I don’t blame those who point at me, I really don’t. If I were to somehow turn myself inside out and look inward, I’d be a little frightened.

    I am Zorn von Eisenberg, born in a town you’ve never heard of. It’s somewhere in between Kartsruhe and Heidelberg, Germany; quite close to the Rhine river. For those of you, my sweet bundles of flesh, whom have never been there, it’s a pleasant place-during the summer, that is. Winter is harsh and near freezing, probably explaining my deterrence to the cold. Though I cannot fully blame the fact that I was raised there most of my young life. In fact, I don’t blame it at all. I am a monster. But that’s a little ways away, my friends. Going back to where I was, the town itself is called Wenigberg, meaning ‘little mountain’ in my native tongue. Sounds nice, doesn’t it. But don’t get your hopes up, and certainly don’t make a trip there for a vacation. You won’t find it on any map, no matter how accurate and detailed it may be. You won’t find it at all. You see, I destroyed it a long time ago. Whether or not it was for the best, I won’t ever know.

    I’m writing this because I feel it’s about time my pathetic and miserable excuse for a life were kept somehow. I want it to be immortal, like I am. I have no children, and I probably look too young to have any. But I’ve been alive for some time now, and I feel that the physical part of me must finally part this existence. I would, however, like to be remembered in some way, hopefully not dying out like a star much like other humans would. Only the lucky ones who benefit humanity in some way are remembered. Yes, even those that we looked down upon as the scum of humanity, the failed experiment. I suppose I’d fall into that category. Nobody likes a murderer, but notice how they are known more than those who were good during their short life. And yes, I am a murderer. Because not only I must do it to live, but I do it because I feel morally bound when I don’t. It’s too constraining. So in a way I guess I’m thankful to those who made me the way I am, for if they didn’t, I’d be constrained to a human body, with a human soul, living a dull, constricted life. My life hasn’t been dull, though it’s had restrictions like all lives do. But it has, in no way, benefited humanity. Whether or not that deters you from continuing is not my business, and nor does it strike me in any way. I don’t like humans, but I hate people like me, monsters, even more. I’ve lived long enough, and if this is my only way to really be remembered, then so be it. But I could just be lying to myself. After all, everyone remembers a bad guy.

    I’ll begin at the beginning, as far back as I can remember. But note before you read on, my dear humans, that I am in no way expecting pity. What I expect is an understanding as to why I am the way I am and how I became that way. Therefore, I just want to enlighten you, not scare you or sadden you in any way. I hope you like my life, as I myself have failed to enjoy it.

   

    I was born and raised until the age of six at the village I mentioned earlier, Wenigberg. Though I was not raised by my actual blood-parents. Who they are or probably were, I will never know. I do know, however, that by the age of three, I did not fall into the normal standard of children, and was discarded somewhere near Wenigberg. It was probably winter (when else does one abandon a child?). Anyway, I was discovered by a man named Viktor von Eisenberg. He returned with his cute and adorable bundle of love to his wife, Anka von Eisenberg that lived with him in central Wenigberg. For those of you who just imagined a bustling town with lots of shops, clear your mind and don’t be so hasty. Wenigburg, be it the center or outskirts, was a shit-hole. The only difference between the center of the town and the outskirts was the fact that more people lived in it and it had a more distinguished and disgusting smell, at least from what little I recall.

    The town itself wasn’t like how you’d picture a stereotypical European town. It didn’t have the classic structure and grace of normal homes and shops. It was nowhere near uncommon for one or two buildings to collapse a day. There were no flower boxes lining the streets, and there were no patches of green next to white snow. There was just snow and dead trees, be it summer or winter. Another big downfall to add to the big list of Wenigberg was that most cities, states, and countries recovered from the Red Death long ago. Not Wenigberg; it was ridden with casualties and corpses. Seeing a victim lying in the streets was not looked upon twice. In fact, I specifically remember dear old Viktor being a victim himself. By the time he found me, he was at least fifty-two years of age, more prone to the horrible disease than those that were younger, more than likely. But I’m no scientist, so how would I know?

    The year I remember most was my sixth year of life. In comparison, the beginning of the year was considered quite pleasant when set next to the months of chaos and death that would follow, those being Wenigberg’s last months. The town was inhabited by many children, each considerably happy when compared to their older counterparts that were plagued with worry and anger. I was considered normal back then and would often take part in the play that occurred in the forest that was next to the town. Sadly, the forest, like most others, was ridden with wolves and there were often deaths related to them and the other children. I, myself, was almost a casualty to add to the shadowed statistic.

    I remember specifically running through the woods, searching for the few that I considered my actual friends. The woods were clear, each tree stretching near beyond my vision, and all one could hear were leftover leaves falling from the late trees, and the squish of boot against snow. I ran for a long time, and my lungs were quite strained from it. Though somewhat accustomed to it, running in the cold for an extended period of time can be quite taxing on me and other children. Especially since it was January. I stopped after a few hours, taking in my now unfamiliar surroundings. Others whom were present during the ordeal away from me say I was lost for at least three days, one of which I don’t remember at all. It was nightfall by the time I had finally sat down on a stump and gave up on finding them. Night, like in most forests, was extremely different than one can recall during the day. Since there were almost no cities nearby, there was no smog to cover the sky, and the only light was the moon and the stars. This, however, was nowhere near enough to give me the gift of sight. An odd thing about me as a child, and now, which will become more important as I continue later, was that I am entirely blind in the dark. I cannot even make out silhouettes when the night falls. You can only barely imagine how frightened I was. It was hard enough just to find the stump and sit on it, giving up after a long day of running. Luckily, I had (and have) very gifted senses of hearing. Even when a leaf hit the foot-thick snow, could I make it out quite clearly then and now.

    I sat there for what seemed like hours, hoping that some of my playmates would become concerned and send someone out for me. That false hope tending to my crying form until sleep came. Sleep, however, for me comes very quickly and fades very quickly. I woke probably only a half-hour later, hearing snow crush under an unknown weight only a few meters from where I lay. It was freezing already, and my already bare outfit did not help this any. My clothes consisted of thick boots of fur, a thin coat also made of fur, and a small red t-shirt under that. Had I been able to see, I probably would have very easily spotted my breath as I exhaled. The footsteps quickly became closer and more irregular. My adopted father Viktor was a hunter and told me whatever he knew, being one of the few kind humans I’ll have ever known. From his teachings and my keen sense of smell, whatever was coming my way was not alone.

    Then I heard growling, very harsh and accompanied by others. It soon came to where I could hear that the source of the growling was surrounding me and was only a few feet away. My breathing, if it were possible, became more harsh and loud. I knew then that my time on Earth very well might end and what would end it.

 

 

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