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super_tigris

PROMO: Understanding (part I)

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A memory like fade overtakes the view, and an image overtakes what had seemed like the present, replaced by a man who looks on dazed, almost stupefied. The camera pans to the left revealing a younger Michael Cross complete with baggy, ratty clothing and cleanly shaven – no younger than the age of 16. The man stalks over him by several inches, and stutters and slurs his words as he approaches a situation – what seems to be a broken lamp, laying shattered into thousands of pieces on the floor.

 

“You did…YOU DID THIS,” spits the older and raggedy looking man, wearing a stained wife beater, his greasy skin and tattooed arms tensed at the sight of the broken lamp, “YOU DID THIS!”

 

The young Michael Cross looks down at his feet, and then looks back to the man. He smirks, and responds, “Your own masochism did this – you were drunk last night.”

 

The man grimaces, and turns his head away and shrieks angrily, “NO! That’s a lie!”

 

“It’s not; you’re more like me than you understand. You and I share a common disrespect for our bodies, but unlike you, I am pure, and unlike you, I enjoy the pain I put myself through.” Cross’ face looks sedated and demonic, as he stares down a man who seems to have once intimidated the young Cross.

 

“You’re a son of a wench, you unholy bastard child,” the man spits out the devastating truth, crippling the smirk and graceful arrogance that had swept the young Suicide Machine. Cross’ face dies and what replaces is a look of confusion and complete destruction, his eyes mirroring nothing more than empty rooms. They gleam on the light, as the tears fill his eyes.

 

“You deserve no family, you abomination,” the man now sooths his voice, attempting to convince the deranged mind of the young Michael Cross that there is no hope for him, manipulating his mind.

 

Cross looks down to his feet and reaches out to the glass, picking up a large sliver of glass which he holds up to his eye. He looks at it, the glass distorting the pupil, making it larger than the other and emphasizing the near-insane antics of the young Cross who moves the edge down to his chest, pressing it to the cloth of his raggedy black shirt, and tearing the strings that make up the large shirt. The blade makes its way to the flesh, tearing and ripping away thin layers of skin, leaving a slit like line which blood trickles from – deep and gruesome. Cross’ eyes reflect the pain, but not a sound comes from his mouth as the blood oozes from the deep gash.

 

The image fades to darkness with the remarks “…You abomination” echoing.

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