Whiskey.
Eighteen months ago.
I stepped over the bodies littering the ground and made my way to the large wooden door. I planted my feet, took a deep breath and held out my hands. Summoning the power, and letting it roll through me, it made me lightheaded. But the feeling of absolute power was addictive and thrilling. I loved using it. The door flew open, and half fell off its hinges. It hung on by one screw at the top of the heavy door and swung back and forth from the force of the blow.
I pulled my blades from their holders and walked through the door, with very little care as to what could be on the other side. The courtyard was filled with smoke and rubble. Small fires were still burning around the space in among the debris and dead bodies. The homemade bombs we made fulfilled their
