Cynthia Clark

The Edge of Time Cynthia Clark

He had been watching, waiting, feeling. Yes, feeling. But how could this be so? He had no soul. Oh, he had the souls of old that he carried with him, but he had grown numb to their cries. At least he tries to tell himself that. He never pitied them, never wondered how they came to be his, for his soul had been long gone. For eternity, he must wander aimlessly; no life, no thoughts, no direction. Such is the price of selling your soul. In the long run, all he achieved was desolation, isolation, and emptiness. They say with no soul you feel nothing, yet the evil one did leave him rage and madness. He wished him to suffer, oh and suffer he did. It does no good for no one is aware of his agony. No one cares. They fear him, for he can add their soul to his ever-growing collection, but they do not care for his ills. They bring him sacrifices, lost souls, drinkers, the ones that kill, the ones that steal, till they found no more. Then the innocent they would bring, drug them, tie them up, till he found them. Why would he wish the innocent? Did they not know he could not keep them? He did not wish to keep them? Yet they continued their sacrifices to save themselves, never knowing their days were numbered and they would still be his. He cared nothing for the innocent souls.