Scraps and Sketches

I have a few scenes--or a few hundred--that, sadly, will never make it into any of my books. Or, if they do, they will most likely be refined from the raw state that I originally typed them in, and in some cases prefer to read them. So, for the enjoyment of all to read and criticize, here are a few of my favorite scraps and sketches from a variety of stories that may or may not be published. Ever.
**Note: There may be some content viewed as graphic for violent/gore purposes, mixed with far more mild scenes.

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1. Introducing Scar

I remember.  Two words that haunt my nights and days equally.  I 
remember the complete, sharp moment when my wife died in my arms; the 
sweet moment when I confronted and beat her murderer, my first an only 
victim that mattered.

I remember when my former friend--the town's dear pastor--led a mob to 
my front door.  I remember the screams of my mother and father when 
the pastor tried to lynch me.

Oh, and I remember the flames that rose up from the farmhouse.  The 
irony that my one safe haven was darkened and condemned to a hellish 
nightmare still makes me laugh.

Why had we not seen any of this coming?  Hope, I do suppose.  Hope and 
the ever-treasured love.  The great weaknesses of humans.  Lucky me, 
that I am far from humanity, hm?

Of course, only my face reflects the inhumanity of many of my 
victims.  I am a mirror image, the final glimpse they see of 
themselves before they leave this world.  My methods and habits 
reflect them to the naked eye, but beneath the thin surface the vast 
ocean of differences is astounding.

My children understand that.  I saved them from the cruelty of 
humanity, gave them shelter and a broader insight into the world. 
They care for others like them in return for my kindness.

None of them are aware, however.  None of them know what happens in my 
apartment, any of the rather...unpleasant things I do to my "guests.". 
And I pray that my children never know.  After all, they deserve 
everything that I could never have, and nothing that I deserve.

The question is then, "What does the Scarlet Angel deserve?". Hm, 
well, nothing.  And there is no imagined hell so terrible as deserving 
nothing.

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