What is history? Is it the oral story passed down to us by friends and relatives? Does it reside solely in the written word?
It is a difficult question to answer. Even I cannot claim to know the truth of the past for I know that my own experiences have been colored by my emotions, the hatred and rage which drove me to commit deeds most would consider heinous. And what of the way history can be manipulated? I have destroyed entire families. Wiped their existence from the memory of Cross, destroyed their lines from the eldest to the youngest and purged the earth of any stained by relation to them.
When we apply the question of history to Cross, I may answer without reservation that I am Cross’ history, and Cross’ history is me.
I was born after my father settled in this place. I have seen nature ravage it and witnessed the supernatural do the same. Bloods have shed blood in Cross for over three hundred years, and I have soaked the town in the same.
I do not know how long I will live or how long I want to live. My relations are all distant. They are long-lived, but not the way I am. Their blood is too thin.
Why does history weigh upon me this evening? This sweet-tempered evening in September?
Because I am going out tonight, and I am loaded for bear as the saying goes. Some men are coming into town. It is a reunion at the high school. I’m not fans of any of those men, and I will be planting their bodies in my orchard before the sun breaks the horizon.
My Colts are oiled and my fingers itch.
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