FROM THE JOURNAL OF A NAMELESS SOUL-
by nexus_dragon


Far be it for me to claim innocent (not literally, of course). I 
suspect there's not much time to have before someone comes after 
me. Who knows? All of us are different and insignificant. I 
mean, compared to where we came from. So I'm writing a few 
things down I hope remains here in the world after I'm gone once 
more. Call me crazy if you like. It's all true.

Lucas was killed (or sent back, or whatever) yesterday. I hear 
conflicting stories. Someone said it was one of those "X-Files 
lone gunmen" who came out of the shadows and shot Lucas' eyes. 
Of course, the guy was drunk at the time. Another colorful (and 
slightly unreliable) source says Lucas was killed by some green-
glowing woman with black hair. All I know is my friend is dead, 
and there's a killer or two out there picking us off as they 
find us.

Hey, none of us are saints. We came out of the biggest twist of 
a wink anyone could imagine. Hell is apt. It's not your 
stereotypical charnel pit, howling souls, stripped, beaten, and 
burned. Think of it as a quiet prison, a cellblock of lives who 
sit around with the memories of their conscience. Occasionally, 
we're aware enough to interact with each other, but it happens 
rarely. We dream. My crime was something small, an accidental 
shot, though to this day I still haven't recalled breaking the 
lead. Shot a guard holding a bank. The gun was a showpiece, one 
of those cheap pawnshop jobs for a hundred and fifty. I melted 
lead into the barrel, but it still fired. Damned if I know how. 
It's out of the commercials.

Before my descent, I did a bit of writing here and there. 
Nothing notable, just ramblings and journal entries. So there's 
bound to be a few pages lurking about. I'm not trying to put a 
dent in society or be remembered, or go back to monetary habits. 
I'm simply trying to survive. Imagine that. Doesn't matter 
whether we're alive or dead, it's still trying to wake up alive 
the next day. Some of us go right back to what condemned us. 
Others seek repentance and salvation. I simply try and live. 
Heaven, Hell, God and the Devil can contend all they want. I 
just want a place to stay, food, and a friend and lover. It's 
not much, and the powers that be can kill each other until 
"Revelations" takes hand. I don't care to go back, too tired to 
pray, shrug the church and quote, "the Good Book", and serpent 
green-eyed queens can jump into the faerie-tale books. I'm a 
normal, middle-class man with average looks and an unremarkable 
name. Will I be left alone? Probably not.

Every once in a while some damned soul crosses my path, either 
trading information or bodily harm. A few are territorial. And 
language is not my forte. I couldn't speak any of them except my 
native English, and I still can't. It does, however, lead itself 
to humor on occasion. There's a mongol running around with a 
stolen Arabian who screamed at a glass frame window. He charged. 
He broke it. He didn't come back. Kinda makes one wonder.

I don't know what to make of this genocide of souls. Too many of 
us have died to ignore a suspected killer (or killers). So I'm 
leaving, running again in hopes I'm overlooked or ignored. I 
don't look behind and hide in shadowy corners. I walk among 
large crowds and sleep in hotels at night. I use commuter 
transports and happily smile to my peers around me. Any one of 
them could be our killer. Sooner or later I'll run out of places 
to go, but there's still time left. And time is a precious 
commodity to a condemned man. When you're running from both 
Earth and Hell, the options die quickly.

So that's my reason for writing this. My time will die, like 
myself, and I'll be back down inside Hell's gates once again. I 
hope by some mystical intervention I'll somehow survive the 
approaching slaughter. Who knows? There may be something out 
there in the world I'll find asylum in, or a place where gods 
and devils don't exist. A place, a home for someone like myself. 
Or perhaps there's a leftover relic I can use as a weapon. A 
soul should have a right to defend himself, don't you think?

Besides, no natural force could have removed the melted lead 
from the barrel. What did I do to merit a sly, wide grin and a 
Devil's brand of fun?