Ever since my parents had died – I say ‘died’ because it’s easier than saying ‘my father killed my mother and then himself’ – I found myself with the unusual ability to speak with the dead. Imagine coming home one evening and finding your father sobbing over the body of your mother, a bloody knife in his hand. Before you can process the scene, he takes the knife and thrusts it into his own neck, falling to the ground to join her.
Bad enough, right?
Now imagine that you can see their spirits floating above their bodies, misty, hazy representations of the most important people in your life. Within moments, the mist dissipates, leaving you wondering whether you were hallucinating.
It gets worse.
After the law enforcement has gone, after the bodies have been cleared away, after the shock has worn off, and you’ve convinced yourself that you were seeing things, after you’ve passed through all the stages of grief, you decide to do some research. And you discover you’re a Necromancer.
You flip through the pages of the book, and the words hit you like a brick. It says: “Necromancers can bring the dead back to life.” You could have saved them, if only you had known.
No wonder I’m so screwed up.