Song Mono. Not that great.
(( No Poetic Device by AFI ))
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
Cracked faces and medicated smiles.
Set fire to my home before I turned and walked back in.
For every needle open my chest and insert ten pins.
I just anticipate what awaits when I awake... break!
I (die) die in my day dreams.
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
The gardens have all been overgrown.
I pushed my hand through the thorns to crush the final rose.
A deadly secret only I suffer to know.
I can't eradicate what awaits when I awake... break!
I (die) die in my day dreams.
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
Sweet sleep. Sane dreams. Normal lifestyles. No death. No… more… blood…. Flycker awoke with another headache. Always a headache. No medicine could cure him. It was the headache from thousands of screaming voices within his mind. Screaming for what he did to them. He put a pale hand to his forehead, before sliding it off, to the side of the bed, where he got off. He made no sound as he crossed the room to the bathroom. He took a quick glance in the mirror. He looked the same everyday. Pale skin, lean, slightly muscular. Cold eyes reflected in the mirror, back at him. He turned away, and got into the shower. He showered quickly, before getting out, and getting dressed. The same clothes, but always washed. Black pants. Black sleeveless shirt. Black boots. Black gloves, with worn finger holes. A specially tailored dark blue coat, that touched to his knees. At least it did when he first had it. Now it was an inch or so above his kneecaps. Black hair draped over the back of his head, somewhat cut to keep out of his cold, blue eyes.
The coat couldn’t completely wash the stains of blood, so it looked a bit darker than it should. There was no place safe from the bloodshed of his sword, which he picked up, and tied the sheath to a belt buckle of his pants. He unsheathed it for a second, and took a double take, when he first thought it was covered in the red of blood. He recovered it, and took a gun out from a dresser drawer. Both weapons were also made only for him. The sword was longer, and wider than most double sided straght swords, and yet shorter than two handed broad swords. The hilt of it was slightly bent to fit his style of fighting. The gun had a longer barrel than most and contained no sight to aim. It also contained a built in silencer. He pulled out the empty clip that he loaded it with when he went to sleep, and put a full one into it, and banged it in on the top of the dresser. He placed it in the holster, and buttoned that to the opposite side of his sword.
Flycker stared at the small mirror, trying to read into his own eyes. To look back into the past, when he left everything behind him to become a killer. Family. Friends. Job. Home. Left it all behind to learn the art of killing. But he never regretted it. It was always his decision. It was his choice to risk it all on a single throw. His choice, to pick up a sword. His choice to shed the blood of thousands. His choice to lay down his life to please himself.
Another look into his mind, and he found himself, in the city of a thousand dead faces. Steps echoed loudly through the ghost town, that closely resembled a hellish version of his hometown. Even though he tried to contain the noise, he couldn’t. His footsteps were heavy, and chains clattered around his ankles. Chains held his hands together. His feet stretched as far as they could before being stopped by the heavy chains. His face looked panic, as he felt the burden of thousand’s of pairs of eyes, follow him as he walked. They had a transparent figure, while his was opaque. He just kept walking, he knew where he was going. The same place, always the same.
He just kept his eyes forward as he walked. Many of the yes sneered threateningly. He knew what lay behind him. He was a prisoner in his own mind. He stumbled over the chains, and his back bent, right before it was kicked back straight with incredible force, by what lay behind him. Garbled language, that he didn’t understand. He just kept walking. Layers upon layers of smoke could be seen in the sky, and a huge fire, resonating from one spot. Where his house should lay. He stares at the burning house, that resembled his own. Somehow the chains started to burn and melt off of his hands and feet, and was molded into a sword.
He picked it up, and turned to face the exit. Loads of ‘gaurds’ lay in front of him. Waiting for him to make the first move. Now he had to fight his way back. He tried with the first. Some sort of test. He stuck the sword through where the persons heart would be. Nothing. He pulled it out, and tested it on himself. Red among a field of grays. He stared, as the ‘gaurds’ started to laugh hysterically. Laughed at his own misfortune. It was their turn to go at them. They were invincible, and helpless. They were the ones with weapons. It was his punishment, and he was ready to accept. “Bring it.” He said, letting the sword sidle with the back of his arm.
He pulled himself back out of his mind, and shook his head. “Damnit.” He muttered to himself. A low, yet delicate voice, that could still be heard. It was his own. He placed the gloved hand to his forehead again, and he stepped away from the mirror in front of him. His footsteps were soft again, and barely heard, even as he made his way quickly down the stairs of the hotel. He pushed open the door, that led outside to the city, and let it slam behind him, to the yelling of the owner yelling at him for not paying. He’d be back later, so it didn’t matter to him. At least he planned on it.
The city was bustling with the weekend crowd, kids playing in front of crammed together houses. The smell of gasoline, smoke, and sweat filled the street, as people stressed to stay cool, under the scorchering sun. A lot wore sunglasses, hiding their identity behing them. He didn’t care, he was used to the heat. One of few. Sometimes people would taunt him for wearing such dark clothes under the sunlight, but he just basked in it.
He stepped into the crowd, and was flooded by people, who hurried by, as he took his steps slowly. He didn’t care about time. He had all the time in the world, and if he didn’t, he would fix that. Same place always. The bar. His life revolving around the soothing warm liquid. Something about it that stirred his soul. What got him going. He always knew where the local bar was, even if he had never been to the town was. It was like a sixth sense.
He turned on his heel, sharply, and opened the door into the bar. No one was in it. He wasn’t even sure if it was open yet, but he walked up to the bar, either way. The tender gave him a weird look, before asking him what he wanted. As if he had to wait for the question, he sat down on one of the stools, leaned over the bar, eyes on the waxed wood. He saw slight movement in it, as he looked at the cloudy reflection of the circling fan above him. He looked back up at the bartender. “One bottle of the strongest thing you have.” The bartender didn’t hesitate, but got up off of his ass to get it for him. He returned with the bottle and a shotglass. “I don’t need that.” He said motioning, to the shotglass, but still looking back down, towards the bar. The bartender left it alone, but popped the top off of the bottle for him. Flycker, took it back wildly, His hair fell back, as he lifted his head, to take in the alcohol.
He sat there, for another couple of hours, in which the bartender took a couple attempts of making conversations at him. By the time he awaited was up, he answered it all with a single statement. “Look, you supply the boose, I drink it. No questions and you keep your consumer happy. Got it?” The bartender nodded, and Flycker stood up. He dipped into his pocket, and fleshed out a wad of bills. He took out a little more than the alcohol cost, and set underneath the empty bottle. “I’ll see you in half an hour.” Flycker said, as he picked up the sword, that he had leaned against the bar. It was time for todays first.
Flycker took up a bit more speed, as he walked this time. Today’s first target, needed to be done in a limited time frame. It was the person’s lunch break, and he had half in hour. Flycker waited until he was inside of his own home, to eat lunch until he unleashed holy hell upon the man’s life. “Your sins have caught up with you, your life has been ended by me, burn me with your burdens, and I will see you in hell.” He said shortly, before pulling out the man’s pocket, and taking out all of his cash, and left. He may be a thief, but he had no other way of making money. Flycker left, and cleaned off his sword, as he walked back to the bar. The tender supplied him with another bottle, and he started on the second. It was another hellish day in the life of Flycker Gris.
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
Cracked faces and medicated smiles.
Set fire to my home before I turned and walked back in.
For every needle open my chest and insert ten pins.
I just anticipate what awaits when I awake... break!
I (die) die in my day dreams.
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
The gardens have all been overgrown.
I pushed my hand through the thorns to crush the final rose.
A deadly secret only I suffer to know.
I can't eradicate what awaits when I awake... break!
I (die) die in my day dreams.
I've been dreaming, I've been dreaming I was lucid.
Blood was seeping, it was seeping from my pores.
Who'd believe that it was all my own decision?
Sweet sleep. Sane dreams. Normal lifestyles. No death. No… more… blood…. Flycker awoke with another headache. Always a headache. No medicine could cure him. It was the headache from thousands of screaming voices within his mind. Screaming for what he did to them. He put a pale hand to his forehead, before sliding it off, to the side of the bed, where he got off. He made no sound as he crossed the room to the bathroom. He took a quick glance in the mirror. He looked the same everyday. Pale skin, lean, slightly muscular. Cold eyes reflected in the mirror, back at him. He turned away, and got into the shower. He showered quickly, before getting out, and getting dressed. The same clothes, but always washed. Black pants. Black sleeveless shirt. Black boots. Black gloves, with worn finger holes. A specially tailored dark blue coat, that touched to his knees. At least it did when he first had it. Now it was an inch or so above his kneecaps. Black hair draped over the back of his head, somewhat cut to keep out of his cold, blue eyes.
The coat couldn’t completely wash the stains of blood, so it looked a bit darker than it should. There was no place safe from the bloodshed of his sword, which he picked up, and tied the sheath to a belt buckle of his pants. He unsheathed it for a second, and took a double take, when he first thought it was covered in the red of blood. He recovered it, and took a gun out from a dresser drawer. Both weapons were also made only for him. The sword was longer, and wider than most double sided straght swords, and yet shorter than two handed broad swords. The hilt of it was slightly bent to fit his style of fighting. The gun had a longer barrel than most and contained no sight to aim. It also contained a built in silencer. He pulled out the empty clip that he loaded it with when he went to sleep, and put a full one into it, and banged it in on the top of the dresser. He placed it in the holster, and buttoned that to the opposite side of his sword.
Flycker stared at the small mirror, trying to read into his own eyes. To look back into the past, when he left everything behind him to become a killer. Family. Friends. Job. Home. Left it all behind to learn the art of killing. But he never regretted it. It was always his decision. It was his choice to risk it all on a single throw. His choice, to pick up a sword. His choice to shed the blood of thousands. His choice to lay down his life to please himself.
Another look into his mind, and he found himself, in the city of a thousand dead faces. Steps echoed loudly through the ghost town, that closely resembled a hellish version of his hometown. Even though he tried to contain the noise, he couldn’t. His footsteps were heavy, and chains clattered around his ankles. Chains held his hands together. His feet stretched as far as they could before being stopped by the heavy chains. His face looked panic, as he felt the burden of thousand’s of pairs of eyes, follow him as he walked. They had a transparent figure, while his was opaque. He just kept walking, he knew where he was going. The same place, always the same.
He just kept his eyes forward as he walked. Many of the yes sneered threateningly. He knew what lay behind him. He was a prisoner in his own mind. He stumbled over the chains, and his back bent, right before it was kicked back straight with incredible force, by what lay behind him. Garbled language, that he didn’t understand. He just kept walking. Layers upon layers of smoke could be seen in the sky, and a huge fire, resonating from one spot. Where his house should lay. He stares at the burning house, that resembled his own. Somehow the chains started to burn and melt off of his hands and feet, and was molded into a sword.
He picked it up, and turned to face the exit. Loads of ‘gaurds’ lay in front of him. Waiting for him to make the first move. Now he had to fight his way back. He tried with the first. Some sort of test. He stuck the sword through where the persons heart would be. Nothing. He pulled it out, and tested it on himself. Red among a field of grays. He stared, as the ‘gaurds’ started to laugh hysterically. Laughed at his own misfortune. It was their turn to go at them. They were invincible, and helpless. They were the ones with weapons. It was his punishment, and he was ready to accept. “Bring it.” He said, letting the sword sidle with the back of his arm.
He pulled himself back out of his mind, and shook his head. “Damnit.” He muttered to himself. A low, yet delicate voice, that could still be heard. It was his own. He placed the gloved hand to his forehead again, and he stepped away from the mirror in front of him. His footsteps were soft again, and barely heard, even as he made his way quickly down the stairs of the hotel. He pushed open the door, that led outside to the city, and let it slam behind him, to the yelling of the owner yelling at him for not paying. He’d be back later, so it didn’t matter to him. At least he planned on it.
The city was bustling with the weekend crowd, kids playing in front of crammed together houses. The smell of gasoline, smoke, and sweat filled the street, as people stressed to stay cool, under the scorchering sun. A lot wore sunglasses, hiding their identity behing them. He didn’t care, he was used to the heat. One of few. Sometimes people would taunt him for wearing such dark clothes under the sunlight, but he just basked in it.
He stepped into the crowd, and was flooded by people, who hurried by, as he took his steps slowly. He didn’t care about time. He had all the time in the world, and if he didn’t, he would fix that. Same place always. The bar. His life revolving around the soothing warm liquid. Something about it that stirred his soul. What got him going. He always knew where the local bar was, even if he had never been to the town was. It was like a sixth sense.
He turned on his heel, sharply, and opened the door into the bar. No one was in it. He wasn’t even sure if it was open yet, but he walked up to the bar, either way. The tender gave him a weird look, before asking him what he wanted. As if he had to wait for the question, he sat down on one of the stools, leaned over the bar, eyes on the waxed wood. He saw slight movement in it, as he looked at the cloudy reflection of the circling fan above him. He looked back up at the bartender. “One bottle of the strongest thing you have.” The bartender didn’t hesitate, but got up off of his ass to get it for him. He returned with the bottle and a shotglass. “I don’t need that.” He said motioning, to the shotglass, but still looking back down, towards the bar. The bartender left it alone, but popped the top off of the bottle for him. Flycker, took it back wildly, His hair fell back, as he lifted his head, to take in the alcohol.
He sat there, for another couple of hours, in which the bartender took a couple attempts of making conversations at him. By the time he awaited was up, he answered it all with a single statement. “Look, you supply the boose, I drink it. No questions and you keep your consumer happy. Got it?” The bartender nodded, and Flycker stood up. He dipped into his pocket, and fleshed out a wad of bills. He took out a little more than the alcohol cost, and set underneath the empty bottle. “I’ll see you in half an hour.” Flycker said, as he picked up the sword, that he had leaned against the bar. It was time for todays first.
Flycker took up a bit more speed, as he walked this time. Today’s first target, needed to be done in a limited time frame. It was the person’s lunch break, and he had half in hour. Flycker waited until he was inside of his own home, to eat lunch until he unleashed holy hell upon the man’s life. “Your sins have caught up with you, your life has been ended by me, burn me with your burdens, and I will see you in hell.” He said shortly, before pulling out the man’s pocket, and taking out all of his cash, and left. He may be a thief, but he had no other way of making money. Flycker left, and cleaned off his sword, as he walked back to the bar. The tender supplied him with another bottle, and he started on the second. It was another hellish day in the life of Flycker Gris.