Drafts of the Script Writer: A Hologram Reality 1

I remember the days, before I was a teacher, I was a father. Like any parent would be to their offspring, they would teach and hover their hands over their fragile little backs and give them a good pat. Back in the day, I was a man before a phenomenon who would always remember. Her habits of tugging my shroud is something I couldn't mistake for any other than her. She kept asking me if fairies were real, if the heroes in the books she read will come to her one day. I told her


It was my daily bread to have her come to me so that I may hear her words, a dream that came to reality. I was the paradise of knowledge a well of guidance for her to drink from so that she may lead a life brighter than any of those in the Council of Magic. She has a life ahead of her and as someone such as myself, may not do nothing but sit and watch her wings spread and fly to wherever she needs to go.


Returned forlorn, tragedy befell her like a curse, my pain means nothing if I see the image of her in tears. I would bury her in my shroud and be there just for her, answering all her inquiries and becoming the solution for her mistakes. We think and we dream the days be never as colder than the bodies that left us.


Fragments of the heart can only be replaced with another so similar, a predecessor must take charge and heal the wounds. Like any parent should, I nurtured her, I healed her, I listen and I illuminate. I laugh when she laughs, I cry when she cries, we rise and we fall, her joy is my own and when everything falls, she runs and returns to me, her only home. Moments were ever so fleeting, moments I can still remember and I will always remember, the love that I fed her so that she in turn may love the world again.


The birds sing their song, who grew with grace and wisdom who paints the canvas and giving life to art. My grin widens, never have I been proud as an artist, to mold a small piece of flesh from my own. Dearly beloved, resemblance couldn't be ever so real as I remember, her smile was that of a woman I used to know, the whimsy joy of her mother. Standing tall with her head held up high, walking towards the horizon only to never look back, she marches to a future that she can reach.


Ill, contested I was, a light flickers much like a candle. Tragedy came on thy doorstep and like the storm it blew and raged.  Colors were mixed, painting it crimson and black. I remember... When I took the handle of the shovel and scraped the earth only to bury the tree that provided me thy bread, who succumbed and departed with a smile.


Mad, insane, relentless and confused. Lost and immersed, isolated and now an outcast. Misfortune was never done with me, stop at nothing till came the day that my image disappears from the mirror. Tainted black, bliss fleets before my grip and only if I can turn back time, I'd live the moments again and embrace my little one. I can still remember and will always remember that I told her.  


The scourge gave me scars, a memory I wish not to remember, tears of blood continued to stream down as my mouth waters for the sweet succulence, till crowned by fate for that I lost my mind, my reason. Vivid memories remain wondering...

"Where are you... my little one?"