WishfulWrath
They are a stain upon our world. The idea that one can be fixed is dangerous; now is a time to improve our self-image, not critisise it in favour of something make-believe.
He had fabricated every lie in the book to cover for him. On Tuesday, he had been riding. On Wednesday, he was at friend's. On Thursday, he was ill from overexerting himself. If he was not dead already, the elf swore he would kill him.
He was a plague to this world, perhaps, or this world was a plague to him. It loathed him; he loathed it. What was he really? A token of salvation that they would never accept. He wished they would burn.
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