A Storming Thought

This is the origin of an original character in the Dungeons & Dragons setting. The character of Cutthroat is a tiefling and transgender woman belonging to the Bard College of Swords. Her magical bardic abilities derive from the mesmerizing performances of her blade. Sword swallowing, knife-juggling, and fencing are her specialty. Cutthroat’s body is a tapestry of markings and scars each telling a different story. She bears golden arcane tattoos on her arms from a failed career in wizardry. The right socket of her eye sits empty from an ill-fated bargain with a devil. In a moment of absolute despair, a knife slashed across her throat leaving both her neck and voice permanently scarred. Cutthroat is a bold character who wears the scars of her past boldly and with a devilish smile.

I can’t remember exactly when I lost it. The feeling is similar to losing your keys or your phone. You think that you have it with you but when you go to grab it you find nothing. There is a sense of panic at first. You could have sworn that you just had it. It feels like someone played a trick on you. Like you’ve been cheated out of something that was yours by right. It's unfair and frustrating. You feel like a fool because you know that the memory you need is in your head somewhere but you just can’t recall it. I do know that I forgot how to be human sometime between the end of elementary and the start of high school. Maybe I had forgotten it all at once or maybe it just gradually slipped away. I’m not entirely sure. I don’t even remember what caused me to forget. Was it disuse or something else?  I do remember being painfully aware of the absence of that knowledge. It’s a strange feeling when you’re not human anymore. It’s a numb feeling edged with spikes of anxiety and uncertai...

It is 10:34 a.m. on a Tuesday. I am now 18 minutes late for work and counting. There is a small but noticeable coffee stain on my favorite blue shirt. A nasty purple bruise has formed on my left hand from where I slammed it in the car door earlier. I have been conscious for exactly four hours and forty-eight minutes. I look up and see a twelve floating in sickly yellow light half a foot above my head. Already the mistakes are piling up. I am dying.  As I walk into the building the elevator is shutting. Trills of anxiety run up my spine at the sight so I make a mad dash for it. I have been plagued, among other things, with an absence of coordination since birth so I wasn’t surprised when maybe five inches from the doors I stumbled. The first thing I notice is the hollow bang as I  ram my face into the sliding door. Shame dulls the burning pain in my jaw only slightly. I refuse to look up. I know what it says. Internally I feel screams rattle inside me. Eleven . My impact wit...