[dream] [week 21, day 7] Like a Phoenix
Darkness.
It surrounds you with its thick void, inky black and dripping with fear and sorrow. This is the womb from whence you came, your heartbeat pulsing for the first time within the embrace of the shadows. Maybe this is why you wrap yourself in it always, shunning the sunlight that was denied you all the years of your life. You wear it like a cloak that drapes around your scars, but not to hide yourself. No, it is the hollowness that you seek, the nothing that stretches forever, further than your arms can reach, beyond the sight of your all-seeing eye.
Your fingers curl around the cold weight of the rod, your birthright. It has come to you because your other half is cowering upon the floor too distraught to claim it for his own. It is the moment you have waited for, and with your greedy hands you take it for yourself.
With a flash, its powers flow through your veins, a sacred and ancient song that echoes through your being and yields unto you the secrets of the priests of old. It awakens within you all that you have desired. Freedom, rushing with fiery energy - it beckons for you and you answer.
At last.
But there are those who would take it from you. He calls upon you now to give up what is not your own.
No, it is MINE.
You turn and fix your eyes upon him, your father, the one who had carved you out with his own bloody hands and brought you into this world through pain. His reign had been absolute. With a cruel and unyielding hand, he had ruled this household, lording over a tomb that was long forgotten by all others. Pathetic. A useless relic, a slave. Why should you owe him any allegiance?
A smile splits your face as you cut him open with a dagger. The disbelief frozen upon his face is just as thrilling as his hollow screams that reverberate through the chamber. Death cannot come quickly enough.
You reach down with your hand and trace the gaping wound upon his chest almost lovingly.
Worry not, Father. I will make you proud.
The sound of your laughter drowns out the small voice of protest in the back of your mind, the pesky little thing that is your other self.