Day 330 - Demon Ax

Demon Ax

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Had he found the ax or had the ax found him? Chase wasn’t sure. His muscles flexed and his hands clenched it tight when he would swing it through the air. He felt powerful. He was a weapon, the ax a part of him, an extension of his arm.

At night he would dream of a thousand warriors, all armed and deadly. He was a soldier and cities quivered in fear at their arrival. His arms grew heavy from battle and the blade dripped blood and drank the souls of those he conquered. And when Chase woke, his body was stiff and sore as if he had actually been at war. The dreams seemed real, and felt more like reality than his life. He found himself sleeping more and more trying to chase the high the first dreams gave him.

Chase began to wonder if there was such a thing as a past life. After much consternation and consideration, Chase sought after answers. He tried to find weaponsmiths who might know the history of the ax. And for the dreams he sought the council of psychics and seances. None were of much help; answers few and far between.

The ax sat on a mounted rack, on the wall of his living room. He would take it down day after day, practicing his swings, mimicking attacks he had seen in movies, imagining himself to be some great holy warrior. Perhaps he had been in the Crusades, a member of a grand order such as the Templar Knights. Maybe he had saved a kingdom or a damsel. He was sure there was something special, if only he could remember.

No one gave him any indication that he had lived a past life as a spectacular warrior. But Chase didn’t stop believing. They were wrong. They were bad at their job. They didn’t really possess any spiritual connections to the past. If anything, he had more mystic ability than any of them. His dreams told him so.

He told himself these stories and tried to ignore the darkness that grew within his heart. His dreams turned mean and sadistic. His heart grew fond of the killing, the feeling of flesh splitting beneath his ax. He woke up feeling a sinister happiness that in killing he had found his true purpose. The dreams were real. He knew they were. They had to be, or what else would the purpose of his life be? He had found the thing that gave him energy, pleasure, happiness and meaning.

If the ax could have smiled, it certainly would have.

The ax no longer lived in the living room, but stayed beside Chase in bed.

In his dreams, he drank their blood and consumed their souls and was free to do as he pleased. They were all beasts, and would have done the same to him. When he woke, he was afraid to look in the mirror, unsure what he had become.

The ax called for him, drove him, spurred him on. He wanted to touch it, to lift it and swing it through the air. Sometimes he wondered if he was actually asleep, which was the dream and if perhaps his dreams and reality had merged.

The ax dripped with blood. Chase wasn’t sure whose it was. He didn’t actually want to know. But the ax whispered to him, begging for more. The voice sounded like his own, but it was something more. Something dark, something sinister. The shadow was calling. The bloodlust grew strong.

Chase fought the urge. But soon it would be too late.

He lifted the ax, lost in-between day and night, right and wrong. The desires overwhelmed. He picked up ax, not sure when or where he was. He picked up the ax, the hunger inside demanded it be fed.