(A fist slams into the side of my face causing my head to turn sideways. The fist's owner is named Fatalia. Her eyes have black circles painted around them with streams of black running down from them. They represent the tears she cried the day her best friend died. The day she considers to be the day she herself died. She's a focused disciplined fighter. The opposite of the woman behind me. Mutilatia. She, unlike Fatalia, is wild, chaotic. You wouldn't even have to look into her eyes to know she's completely psychotic. Her face is painted like a twisted, black and white jack-o-lantern. The mouth is a warped, crooked smile with jagged edges. Both of them are my father's apprentices. Both of them are extremely skilled in the art of combat.

After being freed from the government agency that held me captive I've done nothing but train. This is just my latest form of training. These two women are as close to being as dangerous as my parents as a person can get. My father his pushed them beyond their limits for years and it's done nothing but make them stronger, faster, and more insane. Taking them both on at the same time is the perfect way to test my abilities. Sure I haven't been trained by my father, but I have the blood of both my parents and I was raised in the harshest environment I can imagine. That dimension was a hellhole and I endured it for nearly two decades. Both my parents stand off in the background, silently watching as I'm pushed to my limits by the two creatures I am now stuck in between. Their eyes never leave the scene of battle.

Fatalia moves in with another punch that I duck while Mutilatia kicks me in the small of the back. It sends me forward into Fatalia. I twist with my momentum and roll backwards. I pull her with me and flip her onto her back before jumping to my feet from the floor. I manage to drive an elbow into Mutilatia's throat. She staggers back, choking. The choking slowly warps into morbid laughter. She enjoys pain. She's been known to cut herself open for pleasure. Fatalia is already back on her feet. I block a roundhouse kick from her only to have her twist back and sweep my legs out from under me. I hit the floor hard. The wind is knocked out of me. Gasping I roll between the two as they each try to stomp on my face. If this keeps up I won't last long. I manage to jump back up on my feet, unfortunately as soon as I'm on them I am struck in the face by a fist from each of them. I stagger backwards while feeling blood run from my nose and lips. I've gotta do something and fast. These two will work me over as a team until I'm pulp if I'm not careful.

Each of them kicks me in the ribs next. The pain is intense. It's as if my rib cage is crushed from each side and wants to crush the organs inside. The pain gives me focus. It causes the rage I hold inside to swell within as if it's a tangible force. That's it! They each throw a punch that I block with my forearms. I roll away and drive an elbow into the back of Mutilatia's neck. I take advantage of the fact it stuns her by driving a knee into her kidney as hard as I can. She'll think of me when she's pissing blood tonight. For good measure I punch her spine with all the force I can muster. Fatalia drives in to attack. I push Mutilatia into her. Their heads collide. Mutilatia falls to the ground as I launch a punch. Fatalia sees my fist to late. It plants firmly into her nose. Her eyes water and blood runs down her face. Perfect. I plant a foot on Mutilatia's back to re-introduce her to the floor. Gotta keep her out of the fight now. Fatalia moves to strike at my throat with her knuckles. I catch her arm in mine and slam my head forward into hers.

There's nothing like headbutting someone. You feel meat and bone slam against meat and bone. Your head feels dense and throbs. You almost picture your vision going black and red. It's beautiful. I ram my head against hers a few more times before kicking her in the side of the knee. I restrain so that I don't snap it, but it's enough to drop her to the ground. Mutilatia tries to get up again. I stomp on her back before crouching on top of her. I look over to my father. For a moment I swear he's smiling beneath the paint, but maybe it's my imagination. His, intense, piercing eyes look us over with their usual crazed zeal. He nods before his dark, raspy voice fills the air.)

That's enough for tonight. Nicely done.

(That's about the best you can get from him typically. He's not someone who likes to talk alot or express a ton of emotion. He has his moments though. I move and the apprentices get to their feet. We're all bloody, sweaty, and completely exhausted. Hours of nonstop combat will do that. I look over at my mother. Surprisingly she nods too. That's probably the closest she's ever been to accepting me. Closest she's come to showing anything that might show she acknowledges me as her daughter. I'll take it. Mutilatia pats me on the back with her unnerving, twisted smirk firmly planted on her face. She licks some of her own blood from her face before laughing as she walks off. I know we're all dead monsters with mental problems, but she is fuckin nuts. Fatalia bows to my me and then to my father before walking off as well. Even when fighting, eating breakfast, or relaxing there always seems to be an undertone of melancholy in her features. Now I'm left with the biggest monsters in the house...my parents.

They don't fight as much as they used to. I'm sure mother hasn't come closing to forgiving him for killing her again. I'm sure he still has his own issues with her, but somehow lately they've seemed to be able to find some way to co-exist. I wonder how long that will last though. For being such a solitary being my father sure is bringing more and more people into his fold these days. I'm not sure if this place is more resembling a training compound or a halfway house for the criminally insane. Either way for the first time in my life I almost feel like I'm home. He steps forward and looks at my bloody face almost as if studying the damage. As if seeing things no one else does. His hand moves up to my face. A meaty thumb traces a deep gash in my cheek sending throbbing agony through the nerves. I wince slightly.)

I think it's time for the next step. Come with me.

(He begins walking away. I look back at my mother. She actually smiles. I can't believe it. After all I've been through and all the hatred she's sent my way she's now smiling at me. I will never forget this moment no matter how bad things go from here on out. I quickly turn to follow my father. Making him wait when his mind is set on something isn't a good thing. We arrive at my bathroom oddly enough. He faces me into the mirror before pointing at the counter. I look down to see a bottle of 190 proof alcohol...Everclear. Next to it is a needle and some thread. My eyes go wide for a moment then return to their normal state. I know what recipe these items are the ingredients to. My father hates hospitals and doctors due to when he was experimented on by a sadistic doctor in a psycho ward years back. His hated of them led to him coming up with his own way to treat wounds. His apprentices use this treatment. Looks like he feels it's my turn to follow in his footsteps. Now I know why my mother was smiling. This is part of my father's world. It's part of his ways. For him to have me do this means I've earned his respect and the right to be fully accepted by him and the household. My heartbeat flutters with nervousness.

I look at his reflection and see him nod. I grab the bottle and twist off the lid. Everclear, his antiseptic of choice. I take a deep breath to steady myself. The harsh reality of things is following in my father's methods is always painful. Always. I tip the bottle and begin pouring the alcohol into the wound on my cheek. I can hear the sizzle as it bubbles up. The alcohol forces its way deep into the exposed, open flesh sending searing pain coursing through me. In reaction my stomach tightens and I grunt and moan in pain. My free hand wants to grip the counter but I can't help but pound my hand on it instead. I set the bottle down as I gasp for air and breathe heavily. It burns. It's as if I just poured acid into my face. He watches me...stoic, silent. Still I can feel his pride over watching what takes place. I wipe my wet hands off and spend the next minute trying to thread the damn needle. Finally it cooperates. Once again I take a breath. This shouldn't hurt as much as the last part. With one hand I pinch the wound shut and hold it that way. It doesn't tickle. Then I push the needle through one side of the wound till it pierces through the other side. I pull it out and feel thread move through the newly created holes in my face. Blood and alcohol seep from the wound as I continue shoving the needle and thread through the wound till it's laced completely up.

My stomach feels shaky, somewhat ill at ease, but I ignore it. I cut the thread and tie a knot then look back into the mirror again. My finger tips brush across the threads. I smile lightly and turn back towards him. He steps forward and inspects the patchjob I just performed on my face before nodding again. There's a hint of pride in his voice as he speaks again.)

Welcome to the real world Eclipse. You have just taken the first step to something deeper. Get cleaned up and meet the rest of us in the bar room.

(I look up at him with a smile. He turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. A week later I find myself back in my bathroom, looking at the stitches in my face again. Looking into the mirror. Does it show what is truly there or just what I want to see? I ponder this as I pull on my black, hooded cloak. For so long I fought what was inside. Denied my true nature. What did it accomplish? Nothing. Nothing positive at least. It brought me pain and confusion. I was tormenting myself daily because of it. I now have come to terms with who, and more importantly, what I am. Still it took a long time. It was a hard road. The way my parents are is something I've begun to understand. It's the rest of the world that lives a lie. They accept the parts of themselves that others try to pretend isn't there. They accuse each other of various things, but never believe they are capable of them. They scoff at the crimes they see and try to pretend the criminal is an alien or a monster while they are so pure. Deep down inside everyone is capable of much more than they want to admit. Most hide their nature from themselves while allowing it to guide them. It's that kinda falsehood that sickens me now.

It's one of these people I'm going to meet up with very soon. I've been thinking about it alot. She's probably forgotten me by now. She's probably spiraled further into depression and sickness while pretending to herself and the world that she's a prideful athlete who deserves the good things life has handed to her and doesn't deserve all the bad things. She thinks she sees the darker nature within herself. She thinks she's seen pain and torment and horror. She's too blind to see anything. I'll show her. I'll show her everything. I pull the reflective mask over my face and laugh with delight.)

Alexis...time to give you sight...