The Broken man, part 1

The broken man wandered. His appendages glowing brightly, protruding obelisks from his flesh. Iridescent in color, the changes in its hue were as erratic as his very own movement.

Singing its sad song, or whatever sound came from its lipless mouth, it wandered about the lonely streets, horrifying all who saw its abominable sight.

Mister Edgar Vance, a scholar, an intellectual, a handsome man, with a manner of dress that oscar wilde would have enjoyed himself, walked the streets today. Edgar was a man of knowledge, poring over ancient tomes, trying to learn all he could of the unknown, especially. Death, religon, whatever man had created to cure his fear of it.

I believe this was the fascination that created the broken man. He had let his mind run free, and the broken man, had, well, broken. His mind was seperated, and what was left was this strange un-proportional heap of geometric paradoxes and unexplainable movements.

But Edgar had seen him. That night, wandering the streets. and he did not run, but stared intensly, he must find out more. Journals and journals lined his house. sketches, observations, he loved the broken man. Like some nightmare, his room had become some strange shrine to his supernatural glory.

He began to murder, create offerings for the broken man. he gave him blood, books, prayer, praise.

"I love you, broken man! You, who have given me knowledge! A purpose!" He had given into him, and become broken himself.
End of part 1