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Scarlet Letter

Scarlet Letter

Dear Vincent,

How paradoxical is our brand of brokenness. Mine was inflicted, yours, self-imposed.

In my last defiance against your cult, they melted the skin from my face, violently, without mercy. Left me in darkness, killed me, yet I persisted, I survived.

Each beat of my heart, a drum pounding the anthem of my defiance. Each breath, a prayer for revenge.

I am reborn in the crucible of agony, the man you knew as Walther now but a phantom in the abyss of my mind. I am a preacher of pain, not by choice, but by cruel fate’s wicked design. I deliver sermons scribed in blood and lit by the dim light of despair.

Vincent, you are blind, but I truly see.

I perceive the world, not through a physical lens, but through the throbbing ache of existence, the gnawing hunger for vengeance, the melancholy echoes of loss. I see the lies you wear like a cloak, the deceit you wield like a sword. They took your sight, but you gave away more than your eyes.

You surrendered your soul.

They’ve filled your skull with promises of power, of dominion, but you are not free. You are the mutt who, believing he has broken his chain, still runs in circles, tethered by invisible strings.

Every whisper from your mouth is a thorn in my side, a slap in my face. It rankles, it burns. Like the waters did that night.

But I will endure. For the pain fuels me, hardens me. It is my compass, my guide, my salvation. It reminds me of the man I was, of what I am, of who I will be.

Betrayal is a peculiar kind of blindness, Vincent. It is a fog that shrouds one’s path. You see only what they want you to see, you hear only what they wish you to hear. You betrayed me, but it is you who have now been betrayed.

The scars we bear, the pain we preach, are our shared legacy. I am the shadow to your light, the echo to your voice, the sight to your blindness. In this dance of despair, we are intrinsically bound, two souls aflame in the pitch of hades. There is no release but in the finality of death, no peace but in oblivion.

So, we dance, Vincent, we dance.

Blindly, yet seeing. In pain, yet numb. In despair, yet hopeful.

The pain is our unending dirge.

And so, it is in this paradoxical kaleidoscope of torment, we find our meaning.

We are the preachers of pain, the seers of despair, the dancers in the theatre of the damned. And in our agony, in our torment, in our despair, we find a grotesque semblance of unity, a perverted form of solace.

For it is in the darkness that one truly sees, in pain that one truly feels, and in despair that one truly lives. And that is our curse, our blessing, our damned destiny. That is our Vision, the sight that defines us, binds us, guides us.

A vision of pain.

Embrace it.

 

Your partner,
Walther

GRIMSKULL

Grimskull