Cracked Heart
folder
Paranormal/Supernatural › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,219
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Paranormal/Supernatural › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,219
Reviews:
12
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited
Prologue
Written by, Raven of Darkness Shadows
Prologue
Normally there’s an interesting story about your life before death. When you die, people are supposed to remember you, and celebrate your life. Friends and family are there to honor you, speak kindly of you, but not for me.
My life wasn’t exciting. My father barely even acknowledged my existence half the time. The only times when he really noticed me was when I was costing him some kind of money, like for school, or when he had to go shopping for more food because I was still eating, or when he had to take me to a doctor because he couldn’t stand the sound of my coughing or sneezing. I didn’t hate him though. I didn’t pay enough attention to him to care.
At school, I was quiet. I never raised my hand to ask questions, or to answer others. I never made friends. I didn’t care. My classmates stopped trying to talk to me after awhile, and that was just fine with me. I just never cared.
My death was considered an accident, after getting hit by a car in the rain at around midnight. I don’t even remember why I was outside in the first place. I guess after I left my body, it just wasn’t important enough to remember anymore. My father gave me the cheapest funeral he could, grumbling about how I was still costing him money. My classmates came, but only because their parents made them.
As years went by, people started forgetting I ever existed to begin with. I watched as other spirits, ghosts, souls, whatever you want to call them; listened to the words of their loved ones whenever they visited the gravesites. I never had any visitors. My own father couldn’t even be bothered to visit the grave of his only child, and he would never have another.
Other murdered souls often asked me why I never wanted revenge. My answer was simple enough: I just didn’t care. I saw no reason to haunt anyone. My life wasn’t worth remembering. Nothing really mattered to me at all. So I spent my days, weeks, months, and years at the cemetery. Finally, after I don’t know how long, I got bored of it, and went to the city.
Everything had changed since then. There were more lights, more buildings, everything was so modern. I even saw my old home, where a new family lived. A mother, a father, a daughter, and a son… and that was when I first felt “alive”.
Prologue
Normally there’s an interesting story about your life before death. When you die, people are supposed to remember you, and celebrate your life. Friends and family are there to honor you, speak kindly of you, but not for me.
My life wasn’t exciting. My father barely even acknowledged my existence half the time. The only times when he really noticed me was when I was costing him some kind of money, like for school, or when he had to go shopping for more food because I was still eating, or when he had to take me to a doctor because he couldn’t stand the sound of my coughing or sneezing. I didn’t hate him though. I didn’t pay enough attention to him to care.
At school, I was quiet. I never raised my hand to ask questions, or to answer others. I never made friends. I didn’t care. My classmates stopped trying to talk to me after awhile, and that was just fine with me. I just never cared.
My death was considered an accident, after getting hit by a car in the rain at around midnight. I don’t even remember why I was outside in the first place. I guess after I left my body, it just wasn’t important enough to remember anymore. My father gave me the cheapest funeral he could, grumbling about how I was still costing him money. My classmates came, but only because their parents made them.
As years went by, people started forgetting I ever existed to begin with. I watched as other spirits, ghosts, souls, whatever you want to call them; listened to the words of their loved ones whenever they visited the gravesites. I never had any visitors. My own father couldn’t even be bothered to visit the grave of his only child, and he would never have another.
Other murdered souls often asked me why I never wanted revenge. My answer was simple enough: I just didn’t care. I saw no reason to haunt anyone. My life wasn’t worth remembering. Nothing really mattered to me at all. So I spent my days, weeks, months, and years at the cemetery. Finally, after I don’t know how long, I got bored of it, and went to the city.
Everything had changed since then. There were more lights, more buildings, everything was so modern. I even saw my old home, where a new family lived. A mother, a father, a daughter, and a son… and that was when I first felt “alive”.