As the fog cleared, the silence became more like a revelry. It was as if the lifting itself of the fog was the very thing the opened everyone's eyes. The truth lie blatantly before them, and although to some it seemed grotesque and others thought it inhumane, it was artwork to Brent. The spatters of blood shot in every direction. The stench of rotting flesh eeked into the nostrils of everyone near, and it compelled them to investigate. For Brent, it was merely the reward for a time well spent. It was a task that reaped good harvest.
Staring down at the palms of his hands, he shivered. His sight was merely flashes of reality. Every movement slowed in a pattern best represented in strobe lighting. Instinct took over, and the core of fear built on the rock of his soul was the driver behind that instinct. As the veins in his hands pulsed and the tendons tensed, he backed himself against a tree. Who am I, he thought. What have i done?
Mutilated faces pierced through his skin, and he scratched to fight the itch. His efforts came to no avail. The taint of their flowing blood stained his eyes. It was at that point that he was positive that there would be no return. The souls of those fourteen teenage boys would haunt him forever, empowering, and crumbling him. It is the fate of those who tread such ground, and the meadows they cross upon cannot sweep away the blood stained eyes of the soul harvesters...