Stranger at the Door

The capital was always full of a bouquet of aromas, from the gentle waft of delicious street food that wafted from the vendors placed by the handful every couple of city blocks. Between that and the occasional flower stalls scattered about, there were plenty of reasons to enjoy the walk down the main street. Sadly, I couldn't smell any of it, all that lingered on my senses was charred flesh, burnt hair, and iron even clung to my taste buds no matter what I ate or drank, it all tasted of blood. I still remember watching my classmates fall one after the other, and even that paled in comparison to when I had to stand by helplessly and watch my parents–Mom and Dad, who traveled so far to see me graduate–be torn to pieces by berserking cults.