It had been an entire year since the life I so carelessly tossed aside was inexplicably gifted back to me.

The first few weeks were the most difficult. The couple...they never spoke, not to me, not to each other. No television, no music, no radio. They would wake me at dawn every morning with a forceful nudge, a bowl of oats and a glass of water. And then they left, locking the door from the outside. The room was uninviting and cold, a prison cell would have been a vacation. The bed was bare and uncomfortable--springs covered in dried blood protruded from the mattress--every morning I awoke with exhausted and covered in new scrapes and punctures. Dull white paint flaked away from the walls. The wooden floors were rough and splintered. This room was a very much a void, one that I became intimately familiar with.

The days moved excruciatingly slow. Each day I woke in that room, I sat there for hours. Doing nothing. Seeing nothing. The days when I grew increasingly desperate I would claw at that door for hours on end, begging and pleading for my freedom. I would scratch until blood ran down the steel door and pooled at my feet. I cried out until my voice was hoarse and it felt like my throat was going to explode. And never once did they answer. Dejected, I would often collapse in the fresh puddle of blood, sobbing like a child.

This continued for weeks. The emptiness, the tears, the pain, the blood...Every day. Day after day. Nothing changed.

Until the day that I began to see the beauty of that crimson pool against the back drop of the dilapidated walls. The red was so vibrant in contrast to the drab walls. I needed to see more of it. I still scratched and clawed, but I no longer wanted out. The exposed bed springs now served as a catalyst to quickly spill my paint when inspiration struck. This canvas was given to me and I needed to paint it. Some days the blood flowed easier than others. Too often I would wake up face down on the floor, unsure of how I got there.

I was weak and my psyche was frail, the reality of what I believed to be art was nothing but gibberish scrawled onto the wall in blood. But as the color of the room slowly transformed into the dried crimson, I finally felt some semblance of purpose. Something that drove me. The couple didn't seem to mind, I was even convinced that the old lady admire my progress from day-to-day before locking me in the room. But I didn't care, I wasn't hiding anything. As soon as the door locked I was back to work. The drawings and gibberish all blended in together, they even began overlapping. But in my mind I could keep each bloodied stroke of my finger from the previous.

It took months, but one day I ran out of canvas. That night I lay in bed, dreading what the next day would bring. The canvas was gone and so was my purpose. Would I go back to sobbing at the door for hours on end? I looked around the now completely red room. I didn't want to sleep but somehow my eyes grew heavy and my body gave in.

The next day the door opened as usual. I sat at the edge of the bed, terrified at what Hell my mind would craft once the lock on the door clicked. But it didn't. The couple stood in the doorway and motioned for me to come to them. My heart raced so fast that I thought it would catch fire. So many thoughts rushed through my brain that it felt like it was going to explode out of my skull. I launched myself across the room, sobbing as I clung to their legs. I'll never forget how difficult it was for me to get the words out. It was as if I had forgotten how to speak altogether.

"You left me in here...to die."

"No." The woman responded with an innocent smile while looking at the red room. "We left you in here to live."

"Out there. Drugs, violence, gambling..." The old man chimed in. "That's death out there."

"You were in here with nothing, and yet you created something. Something beautiful."

I knew what I had done. There was no beauty in it. I wanted to call her a liar, I wanted to tell him that his world view was wrong. But then she grabbed my hand. I stood as she wiped tears from my cheek and led me back into the room. She raised a finger and pointed out one of my pieces. It had to look like just red on a wall to her, how could she know what my intent was?

"You took something from yourself," [/color ]she said looking down at my carved and still bloody forearms [color=#9370DB]"at a great cost to yourself, and yet you began to create. That's very special, and -you- are very special. More special than I could put into words."

I didn't feel special.

"And I know you don't feel like you are. But it's time for you to come with us. We're going to show you a whole new world, a new world to replace this vile and dying one. We need you to create again."

I never saw the inside of that room again. The moment I stepped out of it the old man boarded it up and we never so much as acknowledged its presence. The scars are there to this very day, constant reminders of the dark days where I was a willing, self destructive pawn belonging to this cruel world. But that day, became a creator. I became hope.

"Ezra Blackwater. Let it be known here and now that I don't care in the least about facing you at Savage. I didn't call you out expecting a worthwhile challenge, nor did I have some personal vendetta--your continued existence inspires nothing more than total apathy. We face each other Saturday simply to show the remainder of your ilk exactly what is in store if they have the misfortune of meeting team Deacon at War Games. I've seen your brother Donovan's not-so-subtle attempts at convincing the XWF management that his team should be placed against the weakest links.

The weakest links. Something I'm sure you can relate to, Ezra. How does it feel to be the least remarkable member of your misfit family? Truth be told I had to look at the match card to remember what your name even is. Wouldn't be the first time you've been overlooked, I'd assume. Given your imbecilic and childish nature, I'd say the Blackwater chromosomal distribution didn't work out in your favor. Unfortunately it seems that father Blackwater didn't pull his penis from the family gene pool before it started to prune. And out came malformed little Ezra, adding the 'L' to backwater. It's too perfect. The only thing 'shocking' about you, Ezra, is that you weren't forcefully removed as a fetus by a crudely inserted Hoover hose and discarded alongside soiled kitty litter and 4-day old lasagna. Had your poor father known what kind of monstrosity would escape from his loins I have no doubt that he would have given himself a rusty hand saw castration.

Tell me, Ezra. What purpose do you serve in this life? Are you here to do anything more than bully societal miscarriages like Rain and Snow? Are you even capable of more? Or are you content to sit back and ride the nonexistent coattails of your equally inept brothers? Strike out for yourself Ezra. Distance yourself from them. Become your own man. Fail at it miserably. Fall into a crippling depression. Swallow a handful of Ambien. Take a bubble bath with your favorite electric appliance. It will all work out for you, Ezra. Turning into a charred pool noodle floating in your bathtub like dog shit in a kiddie pool is a legacy that is far more noble than the one you're currently in the process of leaving.

I want you to remember that this is not personal, Ezra. You're just a pawn. A tiny piece to move as I see fit. This Saturday I guarantee I will spill your blood. If luck is on your side, I won't stop with the first drop. I will bleed you until you have absolutely none left to give. And when they rush your shriveled husk to the nearest garbage bin, I want you to know that I have extended to you a great act of mercy. I'll make sure your brother personally thanks me for thinning his herd when I see him at War Games. Please, invite him to the match. I would love to see his face when he realizes just how much blood the human body can spill."