| Welcome to Full Intensity Wrestling. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Forgive me father... | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 1 2005, 08:15 PM (68 Views) | |
| Samoan | Feb 1 2005, 08:15 PM Post #1 |
|
Unregistered
|
Darkness surrounds us. From that darkness a glimmer catches our eye. The slimmest hint of light reflecting off the surface of a shallow pool. "Forgive me father..." The words cut through the darkness before fading away into nothingness. Sounds of breathing begin to pick up. The heavy breaths are joined by a light scratching. Those scratching sounds persist until giving way to a reddish orange glow... a lit match. Following the burning stick as it falls in the darkness, it catches long enough for a second reddish orange glow to join it... a candle. "...for I have sinned." The heavy breaths grow louder, threatening the flame's further existance, causing it to dance wildly in the darkness. From that darkness the source of the breathing comes into the light. The flame's erratic ballet is rivaled by that of the shadows dancing about the red face of our 'mystery' breather. Swytch: It's been a long time since my last confession... so very long. Eyes focused on the tiny flame, his hair hanging loosely over his face, Swytch never lifts his head. The flame rises, seemingly floating in the darkness. Suddenly the flame is joined by a second, a third, and a fourth. The first candle is set down in it's original place. The newly lit candles give us a glimpse to Swytch's whereabouts. He raises his head, slowly taking in his surroundings. Swytch: So much is made about this place. This holy place. From behind the pulpit, Swytch comes down to the floor. We see the source of the glimmering from the earlier darkness. A small stone column topped with a large, round stone dish. In the dish is a shallow pool of water. Swytch looks into the pool, the crystal clear water creates a frightening reflection of the man and stares right back at him. Swytch: This place that cleanses the soul. Washes away the dirt and soil caused by sin. Holding his hands out in front of himself, Swytch slowly dunks them into the water until his palms rest just under the water's surface. The once clear water takes on a new hue. A crimson cloud surrounds Swytch's hands and filters through the clear water. Soon the pool is overcome and the crimson crude takes over. Swytch: The power to wash... these filthy hands. I've got to get clean. This water, this holy water, will cleanse me. And I'll wash these filthy hands. He raises his hands from the water, watching the crimson fluid cascade down from his palms to the pool below. He holds his hands there, letting them drip, slowly drip into the pool. Swytch: The power to make things right. To make right the wrongs of the past. Giving the wicked, the depraved, and the immoral the chance to atone. Swytch pulls his hands apart, letting them fall to his sides. His gaze lingers on the pool, no longer does his frightening reflection stare back him. Instead his eyes see nothing. As if staring into his own heart, his own soul, he finds emptiness in the red pool before him. Swytch: Some could spend a lifetime in this holy place and never find the peace they seek. Some could spend their days in here and abuse the thoughts and beliefs this place holds. Abuse the idea of God and the teachings of His book. Others make claims that this holy place conveys into their work. They speak of how a simple ring, a structure created to house violence and pain, is their... holy place. Some even claim to transcend He who is worshipped here. They claim to be above the rest of mankind. Ending his words, Swytch turns his back. Slowly he climbs the stairs to the pulpit. Standing on the other side of it as he did before, but now with his back turned. He looks upward. His head tilted back so that his eyes can take in the massive crucifix before him. Swytch: Unmercifully tortured and beaten. What must it have been like, to feel the sting from each blow. The flesh torn from your body with every crack of the whip, every strike of the cane. The sheer pain of a nail driven through your wrists and ankles. Pain they claim they can withstand... because they're Gods? Lowering his head, Swytch turns to face the church. He steps forward to the podium, placing his hands atop it as he looks out across the empty pews. Closing his eyes, Swytch draws in a sharp breath and opens his eyes as he exhales it. His red eyes gaze out into the emptiness of the church, shifting from one side to the other, from the front rows to the very back ones until resting on his hands. Swytch: They are not Gods. Brighty, Bradley Johnson, Silent Rage. No more than mere men. One who has fallen from grace. Once at the pinacle, a World Champion. Now he only knows failure. Raising his head slightly, his hair hanging loosely in front of his face, Swytch looks through his fallen locks into the camera. His red orbs exude nothing but the emptiness inside him. Swytch: Another, a walking contradiction of himself. A man no better than any other, yet he claims to be. Basing his claims on an ability week in and week out, like so many others before him. From his mouth he spews the same message, trying to hide it in fancy dressings, but I can see it. I can hear it. A man who's pure luck has brought him quite far. A man who's dumb luck has gotten him something more rightfully deserved by me. Enjoy it while it lasts, because it doesn't last forever. The corner of Swytch's mouth is tugged slightly, almost giving in to a grin. The somber expression that has been etched on his face remains however, refusing to submit to the temptation of his wicked grin. Swytch: And a man who's legacy precedes him. A man who's legend is dying. A man who's lived at the top for so long finds himself falling like so many before him, like so many by his hands. Falling from his pedestal, landing in the depths of mortality with the rest of us... to die... like the rest of us. Closing his eyes softly, Swytch hangs his head. Relaxing his muscles, his head begins to loll from side to side. Swytch: For those of you who claim to be on a higher plane of existance, those who claim to be more than a man, those who claim to be the almighty God... I have but one thing to say to you. God... isn't here today. Slowly raising his head, Swytch opens his eyes. His arms rise from his sides, stretched outward. His somber expression gives way to his sinful grin. The peaceful silence is disrupted by Swytch's maniacal laughter as he takes on the pose illustrated behind him. Pulling back we see the 'crucified' Swytch, his laughter ringing in the hallowed hall... Fade |
|
|
| « Previous Topic · Pre-Volt PPV Roleplays · Next Topic » |
| Theme: Zeta Original | Track Topic · E-mail Topic |
7:07 PM Jul 11
|





7:07 PM Jul 11