Knight of Rage
Politeness, manners, obedience - something instilled within us for as long as we can remember, and perhaps even longer than that. Respect your elders and figures of authority, follow the rules or else you will be punished, play within the confines set forth by a system so unfairly created yet largely followed. Do it, or you will forever be a figure who only gets nervous glances, whispers that carry your name like that of a timid hand holding a venomous snake, a person forever viewed as a black sheep. It’s simple - just do as Simon says perfectly, and you won’t lose. At least, it should be simple. It should be, yet there is only so much bland, pristine food that people can choke back before it comes bubbling up like boiling oil out of a pipe. There are only so many times someone can check the way they step, how perfect their posture is, before they get sick of it. When you look into the face of a peer, do you see someone as unique and individual as you dream to be, or do you find yourself looking in a mirror - one which reflects the same dulled, silent expression that you find all around you. Is this really the outside world from the safety of your room - your own personal heaven from the Hell that is society - or have you somehow managed to wander into a maze of mirrors where every last face that looks at you is the same aggravatingly bland, perfect, model face? You don’t know, and you don’t want to know, but before you can stop yourself you have already picked up a weapon - a book, perhaps, or maybe it’s your own fist. You start smashing, and smashing, and smashing the mirror until it’s nothing but dust and sand - its most purest form of existence before it was pressed and thrown into the kiln, made to look just like any other mirror. Your parents are called, again, and as you leave, all those blank, uninteresting faces begin to turn and look at you, again.
