Victor Frank Monologue

No matter how hard I try, they always come crawling back into my dreams, or should I say nightmares, the phenomenons, they’re ratchet, they’re horrible. They seem start with heat, light, and sound, sounds of crying, no, screaming. I stand there, as little as I was, crying, yelling out for my mum. I remember hearing her faintly yelling out for me, “Alistair! I’m here! I’m here!”. Piece by piece, I slowly remember, “I can’t find you mummy! I’m scared!”. As soon as I saw her, I saw the glimpse of a subtle smile. She started to run, she started to. Before she knew it, before I knew it, a bloody brute of a demon or simply man had bludgeoned her to death. As the cherry-red blood blossomed in the midst of me, I suddenly wake up with beads of sweat
My father somehow and evidently prompted my uncle’s memories of him. I can’t explain it, but I have if you could say, an “inkling”, when I hear even the slightest notion of my great father. It’s as if I can see the peaks of the vast mountains, the grassy green hills running amidst me, or even the bellowing depths of this land where I stand. I want to be like my father, I need to be like my father. He was one of the reasons why me and my mother were alive, he fought for freedom, even with his freedom. Messenger, what a pity. More can be made out of me, much, much more.

But no matter what circumstance in any way of life, you must make the most of it. I want to seek revenge for my father, a hero of war, for my mother who was ravaged and killed in a raid of our village, slain before the eyes of an innocent child. Yet in reality, I couldn’t. I have no training, I have no courage, I have no parents. Will I have to sacrifice my life to be a hero, to be the avenger, or to be pushed aside as I once was? Can I do it? Could I do it? Would I do
Forbes and I have talked about it, over and over. The guards couldn’t have possibly done it. The only reason why they would have done it is if they were paid, but who would pay enough for such a horrid task? It just can’t possibly be the guards. Anyways, if they weren’t paid, how else would they benefit from the death of our king? Someone killed him, but who? Why now? Something in the lands which we live in, isn’t the same, and never will be again.

They hurt, their simple, yet vibrant flames intensify. They howl at my expressionless face. It burns and burns. When it scorches my arm I scream, waking up from the dream of dread. My arm is red, it’s sore to the touch. I look at the tip of my hand, the skin from my arm is embedded in my nails. They tingle, with fright, or with grit? They seem to be getting worse, now I can’t even sleep peacefully.

When I get out of bed, I head into the next room, my uncle was just sitting there. Doing