He awoke with the first touch of morning light. The mountains rose majestically before him, embracing the sky. Everything seemed closer out here. The sun and sky during the day. The moon and stars at night. He hated it.
Get away, his father had said. Go up to the cabin and relax. Take a vacation. It was all crap. He knew what this was. Exile dressed up in all the pretty trappings of a vacation. He was the first-born son. He should be at his father’s right hand learning to some day rule the family empire.
He hurled his coffee cup across the deck, the shattering of porcelain breaking the quiet morning. His father’s guards gave him a wide berth, but he could feel their hatred. Nurse maids, that’s what they were. Here to make sure daddy’s sick boy doesn’t slip away and go hunting.
None of them liked him. He could sense their eyes, looking at him, judging him. Didn’t they realize who he was meant to be? Wanna Be’s, all of them, hired guns without the balls to rule. Who were they to judge him? They killed because his father told them to. He killed because he enjoyed it. Who was the real man here? They wrapped themselves up in his father’s authority to protect them. Kept the taint of death from their skin with the deflected responsibility. They were all fakes.
He was a hunter, the death dealer, and they all knew it. He hated this place. Moving slowly down the steps he walked toward the lake. The morning sun hit the cold mountain water. So far off the main road, there were no visitors, no sweet tender girls for him to play with. His father had chosen his son’s prison well. A light fog oozed off the lake and slowly roll toward his feet in the early morning cold.
He watched fascinated as it moved from the water, spreading out to hungrily cover the earth. For the first time since arriving in this hell hole he felt as if he could relate to something. There was an evil in the fog that spoke to his soul. He didn’t know what it was, but he welcomed it.
Rushing in towards the cabin, the fog rose up and consumed him. Music, heavy, loud and metallic filled his ears. The vicious chords shaking his body.
” I Rule the midnight air, the destroyer born, I shall soon be there, deadly mass, I creep the steps and floor final darkness. Blood lambs blood painted door, I shall pass.”
He took a step back as a new feeling began to seep inside his skin. This new feeling was fear.
“So let it be written, So let it be done, I’m sent here by the chosen one. So let it be written, So let it be done, To kill the first-born pharaoh son .”
“Oh God no. God Please.” He cried out for the first time to his creator. The Creator turned his face from the killer. Shaking, he tried to find the source of his fear. Stumbling further into the fog he cried out, “Who are you?” He asked
From out of the core of the white depths a voice whispered, “I’m creeping death”.
The first-born son died. The souls of the lives he had taken rejoiced and sang in gratitude.
Inspired by the song Creeping Death by Metallica