The Comings of Garilax

Garilax was formed from blood, pain, and death. The screaming cries of the woman giving birth before her life was snuffed out was his entrance into the world. Without the woman to care for him, he was left to the devices of his drunken father. He was a man of cruelty, of anger at Garilax for taking his wife from him. He did not see Garilax as his own, but as something to be used and then cast away. Garilax's early years were that of a slave. His father abused him and forced him to work odd jobs, most of which were demeaning. Over time, Garilax's heart hardened towards others, especially that of his father. He endured the abuse, keeping it within and letting it fuel him as the drink had fueled his father. Years would pass, many years in fact. Abuse after abuse, beating after beating. Garilax did not care, he was accustomed to such a life. He had never loved, never knew love, and never thought of love. It was as foreign to him as anything could be. One dark night, his father was in a horrible drunken state. Beating him senseless, burning him, and defiling him physically. It was enough. Garilax would no longer take the beatings, he would no longer be a punching bag for anyone. Grabbing the butcher knife, he walked calmly to his father as he lay sleeping in his stupor after tiring himself out beating Garilax. With no emotion in his heart or mind, Garilax raised the cleaver and hacked once, twice, thrice. Then he continued hacking, and did not stop until there was almost nothing left. Satisfied and covered in blood, Garilax left to wander Serin.