Every kid has a favourite bedtime story. The story they want to hear over and over. My bedtime story was the best and my mother was the best at telling it. It started with a man, a man full of faith. This man was so full of faith that he believed it was his destiny, no, his purpose to rid the world of all evil. He had been ordained by his god to do this. And he believed he would be victorious.
Every night he would set out to rid the world of the evils that festered in the dark corners and seeped into forgotten thoughts. He would go forth with his cross, his holy water, his book and his utter conviction that he was right – his true belief. The story went on to tell of the horror that he came across, the fallen and the unmentionable.
My brothers and I would sit, begging for more as the sun started to rise. Once more before we go to bed, oh, please. Once more so our day dreams were filled with our heroics – we would vanquish this man, his faith would fall before us and our might. We were children in shadows but in our dreams, we were heroes. Hail the victorious Undead.