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There is no Joy
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Post by
273605
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Zoltas
Im not trying to get into an argument, I am merely pointing this out.
It talks about 'no joy' and having 'no joy' about anything he has done, I wonder, though... I wonder how it feels to be happy. To feel joy. The joy I have never felt. That single emotion that has eluded me for so long I have convinced myself that it is wasted. I claim that my power lords over any joy possible – but can I really judge that which I have never experienced?
But in the previous paragraph it says
The room from which I have ordered all the acts of villainy and hatred against these people. The room from which I have
enjoyed
every one. Even now, it brings a smile to my lips.
I thought he had never experienced joy :S
Post by
273605
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Hyperspacerebel
There is no joy. In all that I have done, in all my many acts... there has been no joy. No happiness. No love. No kindness. There has been only power. The power, the lust for power that brings such great rush to my soul that no other feeling could compare. The hate, the anger, the rage, the sadism... the power.
I have been called a tyrant. A despot, a dictator, an abuser of power... A false prophet, a being of hate. The fools do not realize what I am...
what I have done. What is a dictator, then? I am just one who has seized power, the rush, the joy unlike any joy on the planet
;
and these fools – they see me as their evil, their enemy, their sole hatred.
The room is dark. A single ray of light enters from the window on the far side of the room. Little light dares to enter – it is soon consumed
I can hear them outside now. The angry calls, the
ir
shouts, the
ir
anger
they show me
. They call me cruel... and I am. The power, the power so intense that there is no feeling comparable, it
has lead me to the truth. The only true emotion. There are no lengths too far
that's not a normal phase--at least where I'm from
, no methods too extreme. The power is all-consuming, the power is all I am. Their squeals, their pleas as the flesh is ripped from their bones... it is the only feeling I need. It is my joy.
I walk to the window... They are standing there now, gathered in a horde. They are angry, ragtag. My people, my citizens...
Their loyalties are cast. Their fates were decided the moment they chose to strike against me. They stand there now, a crowd of thousands, shifting nervously in the roads. They hold sticks, rocks, makeshift maces.
There is one
... one
standing in front of them all. He carries nothing. He stands tall, strong, staring at my palace. Into my window. He cannot see me, yet he knows I am here. He is their leader, the one they look to as a light in the darkness. He is their martyr
Lies! He is nothing. He is simply another me. They see him as their savior, but I know. He pretends. His magnanimity is a facade. It is a front for his inner self. He is fueled by the same lust for power that fuels me. He is consumed, just as I am.
Or maybe -...
. He is a pretender. That is all he is, that is all he ever will be. Even now, I can see them watching him with hopeful eyes. The fools, the cowards, they assist their new dictator in claiming his hold over them, and he has already succeeded. I can see that they would die for him.
I find myself sitting again, once more staring at the single ray of light that dares to enter my room. I know he is outside, still watching. The Pretender knows I am here, and he watches. I cannot bear to sit and wait. I pace around the room that has held me for so long. The room from which I have ordered all the acts of villainy and hatred against these people. The room from which I have enjoyed every one. Even now, it brings a smile to my lips. There is no sound like the cries of agony from an innocent -
Why would I think that? There
But there
is no innocence. There are no innocents here. These people deserve what has been wrought upon them. They deserve the pain. Every drop of blood spilled, every child wrested from its home, every man skinned alive, every woman beaten and raped
--
they have deserved it all. There is no joy for me
, and there will be no joy for them. They no longer laugh. They no longer smile. That is my greatest achievement.
I wonder, though... I wonder how it feels to be happy. To feel joy. The joy I have never felt. That single emotion that has eluded me for so long I have convinced myself that it is wasted. I claim that my power lords over any joy possible – but can I really judge that which I have never experienced?
I stop in my tracks. The carpet is worn from my time spent here. Pacing, always pacing, never resting – but I have stopped. I heard something, a sound I have not heard in years. Laughter. They dare to laugh. These fools, these peasants, they deserve pain! They deserve anger, rage, the only feelings I have had – all but the power.
It is too much. I find myself at the window, staring down at the crowd. The Pretender is there, standing, staring. He is the one who has laughed. His raucous laughter, his insanity, is ushers from his mouth and permeates the crowd. They chuckle.
They deserve pain. My cry rings out across the citadel. The arrows fly. More pain, more pain for the fools, the weak ones. I see them fall in dozens, but thousands still stand. They will not be felled – yet I still smile. The power, the power has rushed through me once again. The Pretender stands, his laughter quieted, replaced by a visage of rage. He feels what I feel. His anger is my anger. He shouts something I cannot hear
,
and the people begin to move. They march. The clash of steel begins on the citadel gates.
The window is shut now. I cannot hear their cries. I am sitting once more. Hate – hate is my strongest feeling. More than power, despite the rush it brings, triumphs hate – no! Hate is not a strong enough word for what I feel. There is no hatred, there is loathing. There is a loathing so intense that were I to live a thousand lifetimes, speaking of nothing but hate, performing no action that would not act as a channel for my hatred, I would still not have shown the hatred I feel for just one member of these people.
The Pretender, though – I have invented a whole new hate for him alone. If you were to combine the hatred I feel for every single member of the riot, every single citizen of the world, every living being, every single tangible object in the universe – it would not be visible next to my hate for The Pretender.
However
,
there is something nagging at the side of my hatred. It is a feeling I have not felt for as long as I have lived. Respect. No, no, it cannot be! There is no respect, only hatred. For he is as I am, and my hatred for him rivals my hatred for myself. There can be no respect, no respect for one as awful and hateful as I am.
Unless... No! No, there is nothing but hatred.
My door opens. A guard stands in the doorway, trembling. Sweat drips off of his brow, he shivers. Can this riot be so powerful, so strong that my guards fear it? No, he trembles for other fear. For he does not speak – he needs not to do so. I know what news he brings – that the gates are breached. They have entered my fortress. He has born bad news. That is why he trembles.
He does not scream as the pike passes through him. It happens too fast, there is no time. He slumps to the ground
,
but he still lives. I will relish in his death. It cannot be quick for he is like the rest. He deserves the pain. I throw him in the corner, his mouth gasping but unable to speak, his listless eyes showing barely a hint of the draining life behind them. He will bleed – it is pain enough. I would take a vested interest in his death, but there is no time. There is only time to think
.
To think of anger. The anger that lies behind my hatred, fueling it, giving my reason to hate. The anger is not as strong as the hate, it is not as powerful. It has no force, no direction, no outlet. It is simply anger, pure unjustified rage that permeates every fiber of my being. The anger fuels me. It allows me to justify what I do, it allows me to create my hatred.
That is odd. I need not justify what I do – why would I say such a thing? There is no justification needed – they deserve the pain! My anger gives me power, it adds to the rush, it allows me to strike with full force.
It is said that anger is a double-edged sword. That it should limit me, impede me. This is not so. It frees me from the burden of guilt.
Watch! There it is again, my need for justification... I have not slept well recently – that must be why. I'm not myself. My anger strikes out at myself as it does at others – and it drives me to be stronger, to acquire power to sate it. My power allows me to sate my anger, to lash out.
I am sitting once more. A stampede of feet echoes down the hallway. It is only a matter of time now. They will come, and they will die. They could bring a thousand trained soldiers, a thousand swords, and I would not fall. Their joy makes them weak.
… Joy. What a strange idea. I wonder what it is like... To be happy. He laughed. The Pretender laughed. I wonder what it is like...
I want to laugh.
I am standing. I stand at the window, facing away from my chair, away from the door. I can hear it slam open. I turn. There he stands – The Pretender, now holding a spear – once held by one of my guards. His people file out from his sides, forming a circle around the room. Despite their lust for vengeance, they see the unspoken tension between myself and The Pretender.
I smile. Is this joy? Perhaps... For I know, I know how this will end. I know that it will end. Finally, it will end. It will end in the sweet relief that only death can bring.
A clash of steel rings out throughout the enormous room. A weapon has been cast, and the relief has been brought.
He is on his knees now, with a metal pike where his heart once was. Like the guard, his mouth opens, but no words escape. He mouths something. A single word, a thought, a question. “Why?”
His people are shocked. They know not what to do without their leader, their false prophet, their pretender. They disperse. They have no strength of their own. Only The Pretender and I remain in the room. He is lying down now, but there is still life in him. Not for long.
I laugh at myself. Thinking of joy... power will do. Power suits me. The rush is indescribable. I have no need for joy.
There is no joy.
There is no end.
I don't know if you were looking for a critique, but that's what you got.
I have to say I am not a fan of fiction in the present tense, but you pulled it off well enough that I didn't even notice it until near the end.
Post by
165617
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Zoltas
Yeah no problem!
Otherwise I think it's great! very dark but
enjoyable
^^
Yeah it's great, the ending is powerful without the feeling of overworked cheesiness.!
Post by
273605
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
Queggy
All in all, I like it!
Post by
273605
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
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