Darko Cernovsek
Soul Of Vengeance
THE EXPERIMENT
How much power is too much power? How much of it could a simple, everyday person handle, before it goes completely to their head? Especially a person that craves revenge? For injustices real or imagined, for slights real or perceived, or for something that their own mind cooked up as a problem? Overcompensate for their own insecurities? How would the cattle behave, when suddenly given the shepherd's staff?
Those errant thoughts ran through Vikrion's mind one night, as he watched the latest news. A school shooting. The crimson-maned, tall, somewhat lanky, fair-eyed individual shook his head in amusement, letting his fangs flash momentarily beneath his lips. It was always the most pathetic ones of the human cattle, the weakest and therefore most spiteful, that made the most noise, when they snapped. Yet it certainly made for more interesting viewing then the mundane nonsense usually covered.
For a Vampire of early Aspirant age, 331 years old, he had things where he wanted them. He settled down, outside the mainstream of supernatural activity, away from the Council and their meddling, away from the Chairman's decrees, away from the Shadow Hand's influence, that pretentious bitch Ixis and her private little - despite her own arrogant assumption that it was world-shaking or something - crusade against the Coalition, and far away from his own Master, languishing in a nicely secluded mausoleum in rural France, in self-imposed sabbatical, being one of those of the Kind, who chose to abstain from participating in the current - schism, deeming it transitory and therefore irrelevant. Vikrion certainly didn't mind. Ever since his coming-of-age as an Aspirant, thirty-so years ago, it was his master's choice to leave him to his own devices, with only a few guidelines on what would happen to him if he broke the Creed and caused exposure. Certainly later then most left the nest, but...
Vikrion obeyed them. He wasn't a rebellious type by nature. And his Master's restrictions were always reasonable enough. They kept him from biting-off, often literally, more then he could chew, and kept him safe from the Order's hunters, low enough on the 'supernatural troublemaking' radar, that they didn't bother going after him, the way they went after more... flashy... ones of the Kind, like Ixis. This of course meant, that he didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things, and that he would never rise above being just 'one of the rest', and catch the eye of anyone in the Council, least of all the Chairman. He had no particular ambitions to be noticed, no particular skillset he cultivated, beyond what was normal for one of the Kind of his age and experience. He had no aspirations, despite being an Aspirant now. No bones to pick, no causes to take up. Yes, he had his share of skeletons in the closet, but... he preferred to leave them locked up in there. If he was left alone, he would leave the world alone. No particular willingness to risk his own well-being. He was perfectly content to maintain his own - current - little mask of humanity, in his little corner of the world, feed when necessary, keep a low profile the rest of the time, maintain occassional relationships, and just 'live' out his lives, one after another. A productive, law-abiding - seemingly - member of society. He never even took a Ghoul, for one. Just never felt the need to. Certainly entertained no notions of Turning a fledgeling of his own, any time soon.
Except one thing. It got boring.
Repetitive. Normal life and routine was boring, even for the undead. And this little incident on TV, just inspired - aspired - him to conduct a little experiment of his own. And perhaps discover his own purpose in the process. Experiment on the nature of anger, revenge, power, and it's effects on human cattle. Now... he just needed to find a proper - test subject. Someone weak, jaded, impressionable, and vengeful, but also cowardly and repressed, with their own - inner world of escapism. Preferably on antidepressants, too. Certainly no shortage of those, in USA public schools. Now, if that individual happened to be bullied, too... a perfect candidate! Those were the types that engaged in school-shootings. But for what Vikrion had in mind - a school shooting would likely be a picnic. The vampire's lips curled into a more vicious smirk, as he limberly got up from the sofa, gliding over to a laptop on the table, for a listing of the county's middle-schools. He wanted a... less reputable one, but with large attendance. Bigger pool of candidates to... audition, following observations. Yet he avoided ghetto ones. Those tended to crush their bullied ones into submission quickly, not to ever develop desires for revenge. Not considering himself a racist, but certainly not seeing all of the human kind in equal light, Vikrion had existed long enough to observe that the negro and hispanic populations tended to be more... utilitarian, when it came to culling their weak at the root. And that their weak, as a rule, were less inclined to do anything about their lot in life, but meekly accept it. No... for what he had in mind, he wanted a caucasian. Likely a typical teenager, only child, with nothing much standing out about him or her - most likely him - at all. At first glance, anyway. Those were the... ticking bomb - ones. The ones that interested him, for the purpose of this experiment.
***
THE CANDIDATE
Two weeks later...
Josh Emmer, 16, had just got off the bus, hoisting his rucksack over his left shoulder, thin forearms shoved deep into the pockets of his faded grey jeans, keeping his slightly-vacant brown-eyed gaze on the pavement, as he walked down the block at a clipped pace. He had almost no build, recessed chest, stick-like arms looking like a typical female's. His downcast gaze also hit a bruise on his cheek, a latest 'gift' he received today evening in the school restroom, when he failed to provide lunch money to a group of three bullies that cornered him. A stained T-shirt under his jacket, which he hid under it, and a faint smell of urine, also indicated they did more then just hit him. His vacant gaze momentarily flashed with impotent rage, as he stomped up his suburban home's porch, and unlocked the front door to enter.
"Close the damn door!" - his foster-father shouted from the living room, over the sound of a ball game on TV, while his mother, a chubby, annoyed-looking woman, approached to look him over. Her gaze stopped on the wet stain on his T-shirt, and a bruise on his cheek.
"You fall again? C'mon, take that off and let's get it in the wash. And hurry up, I don't wanna miss Jeopardy."
"I... y..yeah. I... I fell. Fuckin' stupid..." - he muttered, not looking her in the eye as he shucked-out of the jacket and handed her the T-shirt.
"Language! Go clean up, take a shower, then come down to dinner before it gets cold. You smell like somethin' a dog dragged in." - she admonished him none-too-gently, already stomping off.
"Fuck you..." - Josh thought, stomping upstairs. He hated everything. Himself for being so pathetic, the school, his mom for divorcing his dad and picking up that hick asshole, his new 'dad' for being a hick asshole, the school for not doing anything about those pricks, those pricks for doing what they were doing to him almost every day, and again, himself, for putting up with it. For a moment, he glanced at the bottle of pills on the nightstand, that he was prescribed to take every day, but shook his head. Those things just made him woozy.
"That's gonna change. I'mma be a god one day! That's what Satan says. That we're each our own gods... full of unfulfilled potential. I performed the ritual. I drew blood I put it on paper next to my signature, then burned it in a black candle... I made the first step!"
He thought, as he entered his room. It was plastered with posters of Anton LaVey, founder of LaVeyan Satanism, excerpts of scripture from the Necronomicon, as well as the Satanic Bible, and a few more obscure metal bands that espoused Satanic rites in their music. And a picture of himself, framed inside a pentagram, with a writing below that said, in Latin translated 'God To Be'. Other then that, his room was a typical pimpled teenager's room, where a mid-grade gaming setup dominated one wall of it, though the fact that it was a few years old setup, indicated that his family was not well-off.
He plopped into his slightly-squeaky gaming chair, just about to fire-up CoD, ignoring his mother's admonition to go clean himself, but then Josh heard a shout from downstairs:
"Oh, the mailman came by today, with some kinda... what was it... invite? Looked like somethin' from those silly-ass loser Satanic-stic-wannabe outfits you chat with. Whatever. It's on the table in the hall!" - his mother's half-mocking tone came from below.
That got the young man's attention, as he was back on his feet in a flash, surprised, an open-mouthed half-grin on his face. This was the FIRST TIME, that any response ever came to his blog posts and mails. And a home-delivered invite, no less?! He stormed out of the room, and was down the stairs in three seconds, heading to the hall. The envelope was plain-looking, yet a Luciferian seal was printed on it's back, along with a watermark of the local Coven he corresponded with. Expertly forged. Eyes bright with hopefulness, Josh ripped it open, to get to a finely-printed letter of invitation within.
Vikrion had certainly done his research.
***
THE MEETING
00:35 past midnight, the next day...
"A library? Makes sense..." - Josh thought, as he stopped his bicycle and tied it up to a pole nearby, looking over the dark building. Usually dark, that is. The upper floor still had lights on, indicating that someone was indeed waiting for him. And the fact that they had the keys to the library, meant they were likely a staff member.
"Of course! Where else would the Coven's base be, but where knowledge is? Knowledge is power! They must have vaults of ancient texts, this library is just a front!" - the young teenager reasoned, pushing-in the door, and making his way inside.
At the top of the double-helix stairwell, a cloaked figure was standing, a tall man with startlingly blue eyes and crimson hair, dressed in the robes and cloak depicting a stylised image of Lucifer.
"Welcome Josh, Child of Lucifer. This meeting had been a long time in coming. Of the blind, you have chosen to open your eyes. I salute you for that, for it must not have been easy." - the man greeted him gravely, with a nod and a formal bow. That voice! So... resonant, yet inviting, and stately. It made the young man shudder in delight. He felt - welcome.
Then the stately man extended his hand, palm splayed downward. Expectantly. Josh knew what it meant, as he bowed as well...
"Ave Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi." - the teenager spoke in Latin, feeling his hairs stand on end. In excitement, expectation, and just a trace of fear. Finally!
Carefully hiding a smirk, Vikron then nodded, keeping his grave, stately expression, motioning the young man to come upstairs. All human religions were the same. Including this contrary reactionary nonsense. All steepled in their own brand of empty, meaningless rituals, attempting to bring meaning and purpose to a species of meandering, aimless, petty, insecure, spiteful cattle. Seeking for 'higher guidance'. Be it 'god' or 'satan', or whatever other form of imaginary being. Guidance, or power. Or both. Well. Josh would receive both, tonight. At a price.
Once in the... priest's... study, Josh assumed, the stately man motioned him to have a seat, in a comfortable leather sofa, as he took another. The teen felt a bit self-conscious, in his T-shirt, jacket and jeans. He wished he had worn something more formal, for this. The man must have seen his consternation, as he favoured him with a beneficent smile:
"Be at ease, Josh. Concerns about appearance, are nothing but trappings of societally-imposed standards of one's value. But you and I both know, that a person's value is in his convictions, not his appearance. Do we not? You have already accomplished, what so many never do, that clad themselves in fine attire and expensive jewellery, and consider themselves powerful and important as such, presenting an image. They are NOTHING, compared to you. All they have, is their image. You have liberated your mind, and embraced Father Satan in your life. Feel pride in that."
"I... I do, F-fath... Mister--?" - Josh paused, unsure how to address the other man. He continued to marvel at the stately individual's posture and poise - the way the air itself remained still, when he spoke. This man must have incredible breath control. Likely the result of Chakric breathing, he assumed. He read about it, as one of the advanced meditation exercises for Satanists.
"Vikron will do, child. It is a name not given to me by my mother or father, but by Father Satan, in a vision. Once you commit yourself, you shall receive a similar vision, and be named properly by the one who recognises your true value. But first, you must prove yourself worthy."
"I ah... I performed the ritual. I drew my- my lifeblood and signed a pact with Lucifer. I--- ah..." - Josh begun, the hairs on his hands standing a bit further on end. Despite his elation... something about this man was unsettling. Then again, it could just be his fucking FEAR talking. The fear that already made him miserable enough times in his life. He brutally squashed it down.
Vikron nodded.
"The ritual is the beginning of the journey, that has no end. It demonstrates your desire for ascension to godhead. Now, you may think of this as a set goal, Josh - but it is a state of mind to achieve. To step outside of yourself. The journey is what is important. The journey will make you powerful, and able to achieve your full potential. That is what I mean when I say, that there is no end. Think of it as a neverending ladder. Your potential is unlimited. But to realise it, and to allow Father Satan to guide you in the process, you must focus your efforts. Tell me - what do you want, from life?"
Josh took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet that penetrating blue gaze, that felt a bit... unnatural, for some reason. He thought back to his experiences in school, and his powerlessness to protect himself. His fear, that crippled him most of his life, and paralysed him with indecision, whenever the moment would come to act. Leaving him victimised.
"I want... I want to not be afraid anymore! I want to make... well... certain people PAY; for making me feel that way! I want to be in control of what happens to me. I WANT TO BE STRONG!" - he bit out, then shrunk back, about to apologise for his angry outburst, but Vikron forestalled it.
"Do NOT apologise for your anger, Josh. EVER! Do I make myself clear? Your anger is a manifestation of Father Satan, an outcry from your entrapped soul, screaming for release, and realisation. A plea for retribution that you were denied for so long! But venting it, is counterproductive. Focus on it. Let it fester. FOCUS on it." - the man emphasised, his gaze now showing just a barest, ever-so-fleeting trace of red. Or maybe that was just a trick of the room's candle lighting, and Josh's... stimulated... mind?
Josh was silent for a moment, his fists clenching. Vikron nodded.
"Now. What. Do. You. Want?" - he asked softly.
"I want to make them all suffer. All who ever hurt me. And I want to NOT be afraid of them hurting me!" - the teenager growled.
Vikron smiled slightly.
"Revenge. Payback. And power to prevent victimisation of oneself. Both natural, healthy traits, that the modern society considers 'evil'. Just as it considers Satan 'evil'. It is the kind of society that allows bullies to prosper, since their victims are conditioned to accept it, by venting, in false-catharsis, then 'moving on'. Or establishing little support circles of mutual victim-admiration. Do you see the paradox? The cruel joke played on the world?" - he asked leadingly.
Josh nodded, slamming his fist on the table, ignoring the flash of pain through it.
"The school never did anything! NEVER! And they knew! They knew those fuckers are doing it. And not just to me! Bastards!"
"Fostering and abetting injustice and suffering, instead of preventing it. What does that tell you, Josh? How far down the line does the trail of revenge lead? How many people beyond those bullies, are responsible for your suffering? How many need to pay the price, of keeping you from achieving your potential? Of denying you your birthright? OF KEEPING YOU THEIR VICTIM?!" - Vikron followed-through, adding some very convincing religious 'fervour' in his tone now.
"ALL OF THEM! THE PRINCIPAL, THE PROFESSORS, THE SCHOOL BOARD... all of them! They ALL FUCKING KNEW! And they didn'd do shit! And I'll KILL THEM ALL FOR IT!" - the teen bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, literally shaking in fury.
"What of your parents? Did they ever attempt to find out, what was happening?" - the disguised vampire pushed on, rising from the chair, approaching Josh and putting a 'fatherly' hand on the teen's shoulder, boring through his eyes, his limited skill at Domination now accessing more and more recesses of this pathetic wretch's mind. Bringing all the repressed angst to the surface, and forcing the young man to deal with it squarely.
"THEY DIDN'T CARE! Dad left... mom found a new asshole who sees me as dirt! FUCK 'EM BOTH!" - Josh raged, through tear-filled eyes now.
"Now do you realise what you have to do, to begin your ascension to godhead? To prove your worth to Father Satan?" - he asked quietly.
For some reason, the strangely - cold - grip on his shoulder served to focus Josh past the rage, and calm him. But was it just the grip? Or... something in those eyes... reaching to him... ? Whatever. For the first time in a long while, he felt focused. Laser-focused.
"I need to kill them all, Vikron. All of them. They're all holding me down. Making me weak. But..." - he blinked, then wiped the tears from his eyes.
"But..?" - Vikron prompted.
"I'll ruin my life. Or end up dead. I'm afraid." - the teen finished.
"Afraid of consequences? Of course. However, that is where Father Satan will help you. Like he helped me, long ago. Tell me, Josh... does anything about me seem - odd? In any way?"
"You're... you're so calm. So sure of yourself and everything else. Like... like you got all the answers. Like you're not afraid of anything." - Josh admitted, in a slightly - awed - tone.
Vikron smiled softly.
"Fear is the first thing that gets lifted from you, once you prove yourself to Father Satan. Once it does, you begin to realise how limiting it is. How inferior and pathetic it makes a person. How society uses it, to keep people powerless. Do you wish to get rid of your fears - all of your fears - forever?"
Josh nodded.
"That's what I ultimately want, from Satanism. To get rid of fear." - steadily. Whatever... magic... this strange man's gaze was applying on him - it was keeping him so calm, and focused. Yet remaining angry. A focused anger, like the tip of a sword, so different from his usual self-pitying rants and impotent raging.
Vikron nodded, those cold hands gripping him lightly by the cheeks, then kissing him in the forehead. The sensation of those... cold... cold, yet... calming lips on his forehead was divine.
"Then do what needs to be done, to begin you on your path. And do it cleverly, for Father Satan does not approve of fools. Be patient. Be focused. Plan. Analyse. Before execution. Once you are done, once your tormentors are all dead, if you survive, you will receive another summons, but this one, in a vision. And this one from Father Satan himself, embracing you into the fold, as you prove yourself." - the vampire instructed, maintaining full Domination effort over this broken mind. A young Aspirant, his Domination ability was very rudimentary - but Josh's mind was an open, impressionable book, desperate for validation and empowerment. The teenager nodded, eagerly, his eyes full of imposed determination.
"And at any point, feel free to visit me, for guidance in your efforts. I shall be only too happy to provide it."
***
THE AFTERMATH
Vikron watched the news, a month later, of another school shooting - this one much more bloody then the one earlier, also accompanied by arson and mutilation of certain victims. And this one, with the perpetrator, one Josh Emmer, aged 16, was still at large. The news anchor conveyed how the police was intrigued by the level of prior planning and preparation that apparently went into it, as well as shocked at the discovery of his murdered parents, several hours later.
The vampire steepled his fingers in front of his chin, red eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
"Well well... what do you know. I never entertained the notions of Turning my fledgeling, but... he did survive. He planned it well, he heeded my advice, he executed it well, and he is still at large. Well done, Josh. And well done myself... I may be the youngest of the Kind in a long while, to have my own Turned. If he returns... and he should. He literally has no one else to turn to, now. He'll have the power he wants, and I'll finally have a purpose beyond simply existing."
THE END
How much power is too much power? How much of it could a simple, everyday person handle, before it goes completely to their head? Especially a person that craves revenge? For injustices real or imagined, for slights real or perceived, or for something that their own mind cooked up as a problem? Overcompensate for their own insecurities? How would the cattle behave, when suddenly given the shepherd's staff?
Those errant thoughts ran through Vikrion's mind one night, as he watched the latest news. A school shooting. The crimson-maned, tall, somewhat lanky, fair-eyed individual shook his head in amusement, letting his fangs flash momentarily beneath his lips. It was always the most pathetic ones of the human cattle, the weakest and therefore most spiteful, that made the most noise, when they snapped. Yet it certainly made for more interesting viewing then the mundane nonsense usually covered.
For a Vampire of early Aspirant age, 331 years old, he had things where he wanted them. He settled down, outside the mainstream of supernatural activity, away from the Council and their meddling, away from the Chairman's decrees, away from the Shadow Hand's influence, that pretentious bitch Ixis and her private little - despite her own arrogant assumption that it was world-shaking or something - crusade against the Coalition, and far away from his own Master, languishing in a nicely secluded mausoleum in rural France, in self-imposed sabbatical, being one of those of the Kind, who chose to abstain from participating in the current - schism, deeming it transitory and therefore irrelevant. Vikrion certainly didn't mind. Ever since his coming-of-age as an Aspirant, thirty-so years ago, it was his master's choice to leave him to his own devices, with only a few guidelines on what would happen to him if he broke the Creed and caused exposure. Certainly later then most left the nest, but...
Vikrion obeyed them. He wasn't a rebellious type by nature. And his Master's restrictions were always reasonable enough. They kept him from biting-off, often literally, more then he could chew, and kept him safe from the Order's hunters, low enough on the 'supernatural troublemaking' radar, that they didn't bother going after him, the way they went after more... flashy... ones of the Kind, like Ixis. This of course meant, that he didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things, and that he would never rise above being just 'one of the rest', and catch the eye of anyone in the Council, least of all the Chairman. He had no particular ambitions to be noticed, no particular skillset he cultivated, beyond what was normal for one of the Kind of his age and experience. He had no aspirations, despite being an Aspirant now. No bones to pick, no causes to take up. Yes, he had his share of skeletons in the closet, but... he preferred to leave them locked up in there. If he was left alone, he would leave the world alone. No particular willingness to risk his own well-being. He was perfectly content to maintain his own - current - little mask of humanity, in his little corner of the world, feed when necessary, keep a low profile the rest of the time, maintain occassional relationships, and just 'live' out his lives, one after another. A productive, law-abiding - seemingly - member of society. He never even took a Ghoul, for one. Just never felt the need to. Certainly entertained no notions of Turning a fledgeling of his own, any time soon.
Except one thing. It got boring.
Repetitive. Normal life and routine was boring, even for the undead. And this little incident on TV, just inspired - aspired - him to conduct a little experiment of his own. And perhaps discover his own purpose in the process. Experiment on the nature of anger, revenge, power, and it's effects on human cattle. Now... he just needed to find a proper - test subject. Someone weak, jaded, impressionable, and vengeful, but also cowardly and repressed, with their own - inner world of escapism. Preferably on antidepressants, too. Certainly no shortage of those, in USA public schools. Now, if that individual happened to be bullied, too... a perfect candidate! Those were the types that engaged in school-shootings. But for what Vikrion had in mind - a school shooting would likely be a picnic. The vampire's lips curled into a more vicious smirk, as he limberly got up from the sofa, gliding over to a laptop on the table, for a listing of the county's middle-schools. He wanted a... less reputable one, but with large attendance. Bigger pool of candidates to... audition, following observations. Yet he avoided ghetto ones. Those tended to crush their bullied ones into submission quickly, not to ever develop desires for revenge. Not considering himself a racist, but certainly not seeing all of the human kind in equal light, Vikrion had existed long enough to observe that the negro and hispanic populations tended to be more... utilitarian, when it came to culling their weak at the root. And that their weak, as a rule, were less inclined to do anything about their lot in life, but meekly accept it. No... for what he had in mind, he wanted a caucasian. Likely a typical teenager, only child, with nothing much standing out about him or her - most likely him - at all. At first glance, anyway. Those were the... ticking bomb - ones. The ones that interested him, for the purpose of this experiment.
***
THE CANDIDATE
Two weeks later...
Josh Emmer, 16, had just got off the bus, hoisting his rucksack over his left shoulder, thin forearms shoved deep into the pockets of his faded grey jeans, keeping his slightly-vacant brown-eyed gaze on the pavement, as he walked down the block at a clipped pace. He had almost no build, recessed chest, stick-like arms looking like a typical female's. His downcast gaze also hit a bruise on his cheek, a latest 'gift' he received today evening in the school restroom, when he failed to provide lunch money to a group of three bullies that cornered him. A stained T-shirt under his jacket, which he hid under it, and a faint smell of urine, also indicated they did more then just hit him. His vacant gaze momentarily flashed with impotent rage, as he stomped up his suburban home's porch, and unlocked the front door to enter.
"Close the damn door!" - his foster-father shouted from the living room, over the sound of a ball game on TV, while his mother, a chubby, annoyed-looking woman, approached to look him over. Her gaze stopped on the wet stain on his T-shirt, and a bruise on his cheek.
"You fall again? C'mon, take that off and let's get it in the wash. And hurry up, I don't wanna miss Jeopardy."
"I... y..yeah. I... I fell. Fuckin' stupid..." - he muttered, not looking her in the eye as he shucked-out of the jacket and handed her the T-shirt.
"Language! Go clean up, take a shower, then come down to dinner before it gets cold. You smell like somethin' a dog dragged in." - she admonished him none-too-gently, already stomping off.
"Fuck you..." - Josh thought, stomping upstairs. He hated everything. Himself for being so pathetic, the school, his mom for divorcing his dad and picking up that hick asshole, his new 'dad' for being a hick asshole, the school for not doing anything about those pricks, those pricks for doing what they were doing to him almost every day, and again, himself, for putting up with it. For a moment, he glanced at the bottle of pills on the nightstand, that he was prescribed to take every day, but shook his head. Those things just made him woozy.
"That's gonna change. I'mma be a god one day! That's what Satan says. That we're each our own gods... full of unfulfilled potential. I performed the ritual. I drew blood I put it on paper next to my signature, then burned it in a black candle... I made the first step!"
He thought, as he entered his room. It was plastered with posters of Anton LaVey, founder of LaVeyan Satanism, excerpts of scripture from the Necronomicon, as well as the Satanic Bible, and a few more obscure metal bands that espoused Satanic rites in their music. And a picture of himself, framed inside a pentagram, with a writing below that said, in Latin translated 'God To Be'. Other then that, his room was a typical pimpled teenager's room, where a mid-grade gaming setup dominated one wall of it, though the fact that it was a few years old setup, indicated that his family was not well-off.
He plopped into his slightly-squeaky gaming chair, just about to fire-up CoD, ignoring his mother's admonition to go clean himself, but then Josh heard a shout from downstairs:
"Oh, the mailman came by today, with some kinda... what was it... invite? Looked like somethin' from those silly-ass loser Satanic-stic-wannabe outfits you chat with. Whatever. It's on the table in the hall!" - his mother's half-mocking tone came from below.
That got the young man's attention, as he was back on his feet in a flash, surprised, an open-mouthed half-grin on his face. This was the FIRST TIME, that any response ever came to his blog posts and mails. And a home-delivered invite, no less?! He stormed out of the room, and was down the stairs in three seconds, heading to the hall. The envelope was plain-looking, yet a Luciferian seal was printed on it's back, along with a watermark of the local Coven he corresponded with. Expertly forged. Eyes bright with hopefulness, Josh ripped it open, to get to a finely-printed letter of invitation within.
Vikrion had certainly done his research.
***
THE MEETING
00:35 past midnight, the next day...
"A library? Makes sense..." - Josh thought, as he stopped his bicycle and tied it up to a pole nearby, looking over the dark building. Usually dark, that is. The upper floor still had lights on, indicating that someone was indeed waiting for him. And the fact that they had the keys to the library, meant they were likely a staff member.
"Of course! Where else would the Coven's base be, but where knowledge is? Knowledge is power! They must have vaults of ancient texts, this library is just a front!" - the young teenager reasoned, pushing-in the door, and making his way inside.
At the top of the double-helix stairwell, a cloaked figure was standing, a tall man with startlingly blue eyes and crimson hair, dressed in the robes and cloak depicting a stylised image of Lucifer.
"Welcome Josh, Child of Lucifer. This meeting had been a long time in coming. Of the blind, you have chosen to open your eyes. I salute you for that, for it must not have been easy." - the man greeted him gravely, with a nod and a formal bow. That voice! So... resonant, yet inviting, and stately. It made the young man shudder in delight. He felt - welcome.
Then the stately man extended his hand, palm splayed downward. Expectantly. Josh knew what it meant, as he bowed as well...
"Ave Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi." - the teenager spoke in Latin, feeling his hairs stand on end. In excitement, expectation, and just a trace of fear. Finally!
Carefully hiding a smirk, Vikron then nodded, keeping his grave, stately expression, motioning the young man to come upstairs. All human religions were the same. Including this contrary reactionary nonsense. All steepled in their own brand of empty, meaningless rituals, attempting to bring meaning and purpose to a species of meandering, aimless, petty, insecure, spiteful cattle. Seeking for 'higher guidance'. Be it 'god' or 'satan', or whatever other form of imaginary being. Guidance, or power. Or both. Well. Josh would receive both, tonight. At a price.
Once in the... priest's... study, Josh assumed, the stately man motioned him to have a seat, in a comfortable leather sofa, as he took another. The teen felt a bit self-conscious, in his T-shirt, jacket and jeans. He wished he had worn something more formal, for this. The man must have seen his consternation, as he favoured him with a beneficent smile:
"Be at ease, Josh. Concerns about appearance, are nothing but trappings of societally-imposed standards of one's value. But you and I both know, that a person's value is in his convictions, not his appearance. Do we not? You have already accomplished, what so many never do, that clad themselves in fine attire and expensive jewellery, and consider themselves powerful and important as such, presenting an image. They are NOTHING, compared to you. All they have, is their image. You have liberated your mind, and embraced Father Satan in your life. Feel pride in that."
"I... I do, F-fath... Mister--?" - Josh paused, unsure how to address the other man. He continued to marvel at the stately individual's posture and poise - the way the air itself remained still, when he spoke. This man must have incredible breath control. Likely the result of Chakric breathing, he assumed. He read about it, as one of the advanced meditation exercises for Satanists.
"Vikron will do, child. It is a name not given to me by my mother or father, but by Father Satan, in a vision. Once you commit yourself, you shall receive a similar vision, and be named properly by the one who recognises your true value. But first, you must prove yourself worthy."
"I ah... I performed the ritual. I drew my- my lifeblood and signed a pact with Lucifer. I--- ah..." - Josh begun, the hairs on his hands standing a bit further on end. Despite his elation... something about this man was unsettling. Then again, it could just be his fucking FEAR talking. The fear that already made him miserable enough times in his life. He brutally squashed it down.
Vikron nodded.
"The ritual is the beginning of the journey, that has no end. It demonstrates your desire for ascension to godhead. Now, you may think of this as a set goal, Josh - but it is a state of mind to achieve. To step outside of yourself. The journey is what is important. The journey will make you powerful, and able to achieve your full potential. That is what I mean when I say, that there is no end. Think of it as a neverending ladder. Your potential is unlimited. But to realise it, and to allow Father Satan to guide you in the process, you must focus your efforts. Tell me - what do you want, from life?"
Josh took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet that penetrating blue gaze, that felt a bit... unnatural, for some reason. He thought back to his experiences in school, and his powerlessness to protect himself. His fear, that crippled him most of his life, and paralysed him with indecision, whenever the moment would come to act. Leaving him victimised.
"I want... I want to not be afraid anymore! I want to make... well... certain people PAY; for making me feel that way! I want to be in control of what happens to me. I WANT TO BE STRONG!" - he bit out, then shrunk back, about to apologise for his angry outburst, but Vikron forestalled it.
"Do NOT apologise for your anger, Josh. EVER! Do I make myself clear? Your anger is a manifestation of Father Satan, an outcry from your entrapped soul, screaming for release, and realisation. A plea for retribution that you were denied for so long! But venting it, is counterproductive. Focus on it. Let it fester. FOCUS on it." - the man emphasised, his gaze now showing just a barest, ever-so-fleeting trace of red. Or maybe that was just a trick of the room's candle lighting, and Josh's... stimulated... mind?
Josh was silent for a moment, his fists clenching. Vikron nodded.
"Now. What. Do. You. Want?" - he asked softly.
"I want to make them all suffer. All who ever hurt me. And I want to NOT be afraid of them hurting me!" - the teenager growled.
Vikron smiled slightly.
"Revenge. Payback. And power to prevent victimisation of oneself. Both natural, healthy traits, that the modern society considers 'evil'. Just as it considers Satan 'evil'. It is the kind of society that allows bullies to prosper, since their victims are conditioned to accept it, by venting, in false-catharsis, then 'moving on'. Or establishing little support circles of mutual victim-admiration. Do you see the paradox? The cruel joke played on the world?" - he asked leadingly.
Josh nodded, slamming his fist on the table, ignoring the flash of pain through it.
"The school never did anything! NEVER! And they knew! They knew those fuckers are doing it. And not just to me! Bastards!"
"Fostering and abetting injustice and suffering, instead of preventing it. What does that tell you, Josh? How far down the line does the trail of revenge lead? How many people beyond those bullies, are responsible for your suffering? How many need to pay the price, of keeping you from achieving your potential? Of denying you your birthright? OF KEEPING YOU THEIR VICTIM?!" - Vikron followed-through, adding some very convincing religious 'fervour' in his tone now.
"ALL OF THEM! THE PRINCIPAL, THE PROFESSORS, THE SCHOOL BOARD... all of them! They ALL FUCKING KNEW! And they didn'd do shit! And I'll KILL THEM ALL FOR IT!" - the teen bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, literally shaking in fury.
"What of your parents? Did they ever attempt to find out, what was happening?" - the disguised vampire pushed on, rising from the chair, approaching Josh and putting a 'fatherly' hand on the teen's shoulder, boring through his eyes, his limited skill at Domination now accessing more and more recesses of this pathetic wretch's mind. Bringing all the repressed angst to the surface, and forcing the young man to deal with it squarely.
"THEY DIDN'T CARE! Dad left... mom found a new asshole who sees me as dirt! FUCK 'EM BOTH!" - Josh raged, through tear-filled eyes now.
"Now do you realise what you have to do, to begin your ascension to godhead? To prove your worth to Father Satan?" - he asked quietly.
For some reason, the strangely - cold - grip on his shoulder served to focus Josh past the rage, and calm him. But was it just the grip? Or... something in those eyes... reaching to him... ? Whatever. For the first time in a long while, he felt focused. Laser-focused.
"I need to kill them all, Vikron. All of them. They're all holding me down. Making me weak. But..." - he blinked, then wiped the tears from his eyes.
"But..?" - Vikron prompted.
"I'll ruin my life. Or end up dead. I'm afraid." - the teen finished.
"Afraid of consequences? Of course. However, that is where Father Satan will help you. Like he helped me, long ago. Tell me, Josh... does anything about me seem - odd? In any way?"
"You're... you're so calm. So sure of yourself and everything else. Like... like you got all the answers. Like you're not afraid of anything." - Josh admitted, in a slightly - awed - tone.
Vikron smiled softly.
"Fear is the first thing that gets lifted from you, once you prove yourself to Father Satan. Once it does, you begin to realise how limiting it is. How inferior and pathetic it makes a person. How society uses it, to keep people powerless. Do you wish to get rid of your fears - all of your fears - forever?"
Josh nodded.
"That's what I ultimately want, from Satanism. To get rid of fear." - steadily. Whatever... magic... this strange man's gaze was applying on him - it was keeping him so calm, and focused. Yet remaining angry. A focused anger, like the tip of a sword, so different from his usual self-pitying rants and impotent raging.
Vikron nodded, those cold hands gripping him lightly by the cheeks, then kissing him in the forehead. The sensation of those... cold... cold, yet... calming lips on his forehead was divine.
"Then do what needs to be done, to begin you on your path. And do it cleverly, for Father Satan does not approve of fools. Be patient. Be focused. Plan. Analyse. Before execution. Once you are done, once your tormentors are all dead, if you survive, you will receive another summons, but this one, in a vision. And this one from Father Satan himself, embracing you into the fold, as you prove yourself." - the vampire instructed, maintaining full Domination effort over this broken mind. A young Aspirant, his Domination ability was very rudimentary - but Josh's mind was an open, impressionable book, desperate for validation and empowerment. The teenager nodded, eagerly, his eyes full of imposed determination.
"And at any point, feel free to visit me, for guidance in your efforts. I shall be only too happy to provide it."
***
THE AFTERMATH
Vikron watched the news, a month later, of another school shooting - this one much more bloody then the one earlier, also accompanied by arson and mutilation of certain victims. And this one, with the perpetrator, one Josh Emmer, aged 16, was still at large. The news anchor conveyed how the police was intrigued by the level of prior planning and preparation that apparently went into it, as well as shocked at the discovery of his murdered parents, several hours later.
The vampire steepled his fingers in front of his chin, red eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
"Well well... what do you know. I never entertained the notions of Turning my fledgeling, but... he did survive. He planned it well, he heeded my advice, he executed it well, and he is still at large. Well done, Josh. And well done myself... I may be the youngest of the Kind in a long while, to have my own Turned. If he returns... and he should. He literally has no one else to turn to, now. He'll have the power he wants, and I'll finally have a purpose beyond simply existing."
THE END