The Creators: Book One by

“You’re a piece of shit.” I laughed, touching his cheek affectionately.

“That’s high praise coming from you.” Brandon chuckled. We stared into each other’s eyes, both knowing beyond any doubt that this would end horribly, both not caring in the least. It was a bastardization of love, an abomination manufactured by a being that only sought chaos and destruction, but it still compelled me. Why should I fight it? Why should I try to define where my soul ends, and Corruption’s begins? I’m not Willowbud Autumnsong, not anymore, and I probably won’t ever be again. Astrid is losing the will to save me, Angela probably never could, and Brandon wants me as I am. I feel good with him, I feel love with him, so why should I care whose love it is? I am Corruption, and Corruption is me. Corruption loves Brandon, and so do I.

Our lips connected in the dark, and our tongues found their way between them. Our mouths spoke the language of love, and our bodies translated it as we pulled clothes from flesh. Somehow, I knew Brandon didn’t love me like I loved him, but he’d learn. He’d learn, or he’d die.

CORRUPTION

Memory is a fleeting thing. Even the deepest scars of the mind will fade with time, and I am rich with time. The eternal sentience cycles through decay and renewal, and old memories are turned-over for the virgin seeds of thought. I know that I am ancient, but I do not know how old. Tens of thousands of years string together and fray, blur and clarify like an ebbing stream. I know that I am evil, but I do not know why. They whisper my name with fear on their lips, and that fear breeds my label, but I care not. The laws of morality are as fleeting as memory, and are redefined with each successive generation. I’ve borne witness to countless iterations of slaves, shackled to the stones of their passing morality. I am a liberator.

I do not have a purpose, as purpose is a lie. Purpose is the thing mortals sum their lives to, a convenient label to attach to their existence.