The beginning. In the beginning there was nothing. Or in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. Or in the beginning there was a primordial singularity. Untime and unspace. The laws of the nature as we know it moot and void. Waiting. Waiting to expand. To explode. Only to eventually fade back into darkness.
Or shall we Dickens this? Record that I was born? But I know nothing about that. I know neither the time nor the place of my birth, and had never come across anyone who did. I do not even know that I was born. Who’s to say I didn’t grow from the earth, insinuating myself into life until no one could remember a time before me? Or fell from the sky? Dropped by unknown entities from unknown origin along with yesterday’s unwanted trash?
Or maybe I should start, like so many other things in my life, on the green hills of Brittania. Dirt under my fingernails and the taste of blood metallic on the back of my tongue. That adolescent current of electricity running under my skin, urging me to break. To break out, break free, destroy something that had been forced on me my by the elders of whatever society I had found myself in. The sensation of screaming constantly riding in the back of my throat, barely restrained, rarely indulged, never satiated. Outrage so righteous I thought I could choke. Hunger so intense I thought I would die.
Probably I was dying. That was before I realised that the hunger was real and physical. A need rather than a desire.
Or maybe I should start on any of the hundreds of formative experiences since.
Or maybe I have been deceiving myself.
Because I know where all of this starts. I know that everything else is just background radiation. Backstory. Senseless excuses for what I have become. For what I thought I should be doing. But none of that is the beginning. The beginning is both mundane and exquisite, as painful and irrelevant as only personal experience can get. The beginning was when I pulled my own carpet out from under me. The day I severed the only tangible link I had to this world. The day I started bleeding and never really stopped. The point from which there is no further roll back. No more power to undo, revert, regret. The point from which I can only go forward. Logic dictates that, by sheer process of elimination, this point, this personal singularity, would have to be the beginning.
And so the beginning is this: I killed Corvus on a Wednesday afternoon.