by Tony C. Skye
Mother of Darkwaters – Book one of the Vessel Series.
Tony C. Skye
Copyright ©2015. Tony C. Skye. All rights reserved. Amazon Edition. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission in writing from Tony C. Skye, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Warning of Content: Sexual content and suggestive themes, violence, alcohol and drug usage, language, content may not be suited for younger children. Other content may be offensive to some readers.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Lost Within
Chapter 2: The Library
Chapter 3: Connections
Chapter 4: Dear Diary
Chapter 5: The Black Stormy Sea
Chapter 6: Union
Chapter 7: When Tomorrow Comes
Chapter 8: The Red Key
Chapter 9: Veeeek-tor-riahhhh
Chapter 10: Blasphemy
Chapter 11: Lesson for Today
Chapter 12: Assuming
Chapter 13: Friends
Chapter 14: Chemistry
Chapter 15: Interlude
Chapter 16: Stones
Chapter 17: Revelations
Chapter 18: Boundaries
Chapter 19: Confessions
Chapter 20: Date Night
Chapter 21: Cold Realities
Chapter 22: When it Snows
Chapter 23: Welcome Home
Chapter 24: Family Bonds
Dictionary: Language of Lilith
Prologue
My name is unknown to me. I am not even sure if I've ever been given one to begin with. I cannot tell anyone how old I am strictly from a birthday perspective. I have seen many of them, but none of which I could call my own.
I am completely unsure of whether or not I have ever been born; at least, within the sense of the term involving a biological existence. It is quite obvious to me that my existence had to have started somewhere - in some place - within a specific frame of time. Especially, as I contemplate the concepts of eternity. Because I know I cannot be eternal. I would know that much about myself...surely.
How long is someone of my particular structuring supposed to live? How do we die? I have never met anyone else like myself. Nor, have I even heard of such a predicament in which I currently find myself.
Does someone like me just cease to exist as if a switch has been flipped? Is there some unseen clock counting down my right to be? Is there any warning when this date with my permanent departure approaches? Or will I just not wake up anymore? So many questions…too many.
I suppose for today, I will choose to live as I always do. I will try to help this person I have awoken inside of. Or at the very least, I will try to figure out why I am here. You might think after so many times I would have all of this figured out by now. And after so many different lives I could somehow become tired and bored of everything. Frustrated sometimes - never bored.
I am this person I am inside of today. I could be here for one sleep-cycle or a thousand of them. There's no rhyme or reason to the madness. I have tried to find mathematical, lunar, seasonal, and yearly patterns. In the end it seems, overwhelmingly, that there is no pattern to be had.
And while I do become frustrated within this regard; I could not, however, ever become bored. For every new body brings on new experiences. Yes, they are somewhat similar. But never identical. Every life is unique in its own way. And in this respect, I am both cursed and blessed. I am able to experience so much of this extraordinary existence within these people's lives. But it is definitely not all grandeur either.
These experiences can be frightful - downright horrifying at times. And some experiences are extremely sorrowful. So much so, I have been forced to grieve more times than I really care to tally. Then there's always those really interesting moments. The ones in which I have awoken inside of a person experiencing some kind of extreme physical trauma. There's really no way to describe what it's like to fall asleep with a smile on your face, only to wake up screaming in agony as you’re being carted away by strangers into some random hospital. These experiences, most definitely, I would be inclined to categorize into the realm of the cursed.
But there is another side to this crazy coin of my existence. Imagine for a moment, you go to bed and fall asleep. The next time you open your eyes, you are laughing so hysterically that you must hold your belly and ribs from the pain of it all. Your jawline and cheeks are sore. And then it all begins to sink in. You have no idea why you are laughing. You don't know where you are, what you look like, how old your body is, or even if you are male or female. You know absolutely nothing about these first five to ten seconds.
To top things off, you are sitting inside of a strange room full of people in whom you have never met in your life. Every single one of them is looking at you with expectant eyes. You have no idea what they are waiting for you to say or do. And your mind is a complete blank. A big fat goose-egg of a zero. Yes, that's me right now.
On the bright side, I didn't wake up screaming in grueling agony this time. That's always a plus. It's quite a moment to have someone yell, 'Clear!', and then have your whole being flooded with electricity because of some brief malfunction of a heart monitor. It's just too many goodies for one bag.
And as crazy as all of this may sound, there is an even greater downside than all of the previous. I wake up inside of a body, but do not get the benefit of their memories. Not completed ones anyway. The memories are always fragmented. I may have a memory of this person's day yesterday, but not today. Or today, but not the last five years. Or even five years ago, but nothing prior to or afterwards. This is always a puzzle I am faced with.
I do not understand why this happens. I only know that it does. It may be due to my intrusion into this person's life. I am just not sure. And this particular peculiarity brings up another puzzle altogether. Where does the person go in whom I have awakened inside of?
If they are still here I do not feel them. I can't hear any thoughts which are not my own. I do not feel any odd or strange internal tugging, per se. Are they still here, but asleep? Or are they helplessly locked away while I live out their lives – doomed to only watch from behind the glass which silences their screams?
I really hope the latter is not the case. It would do more than freak me out a little. This is why I tell myself that they have just fallen asleep. Fallen asleep inside of the mind in which they no longer seem to be able to cope. And this is how I choose to believe. It's my own macabre way of coping about my own twisted and confusing existence.
* * *
Chapter 1
Lost Within
“Jules?”
An older man's voice speaks out into this room of confusion in which I now sit. His hair is black with sporadic silver
streaking. Wrinkles of wisdom highlights underneath his dark brown rounded eyes; or at least, this is my take on wrinkles. It beats saying, wrinkles which are proudly announcing your impending death old man.
The older gentleman of around sixty years has darkened skin. It is obvious he must spend a lot of time outside. And his tall masculine frame suggests that he may indeed be in decent shape for his age. His mouth moves subtly as though he is going to speak again, but has decided against it. He is staring at me. Come to think of it, the entire room's patrons are following his lead.
A strange hand finds my left shoulder. My body twitches in response. A woman who seems to be in her mid to late fifties kneels before me. Deep blue eyes accent her full lips. She has long red hair. It drapes around her sporty athletic frame like a beautifully adorned weeping willow tree. Her skin has such a soft white glow about it, almost angelic.
This red-haired angel slightly nods towards a doorway to my left. Her lips move.
“Frank, get her some water,” her words quietly come forth. I notice the older gentleman heading to the area in which the woman has directed. I attempt to look, but cannot move my head.
What's going on? Am I paralyzed? No, I can't be. I was just holding my belly in a fit of laughter.
The woman speaks tenderly, ”I know it’s all confusing, baby. Laughing is good.” Her hand leaves my shoulder to wipe the water coming from my eyes. Such a gentle touch she has - so much comfort to fill my emptiness.
Oh no. I recognize this feeling…Grief.
That's just great. And for a brief misguided moment I thought my biggest problem at hand was going to be figuring out why I was laughing. Well, I suppose I did.
I absolutely loathe grieving. It is so chaotic and painful. One minute your emotions are flooding over like the gate of a dam has been breached. And in the next, your mind is completely blank with utter exhaustion. Your will for being is gone. There's no desire to eat, shower, or even to take a breath. The simplest objectives now seem to be too difficult to manage. Or more times than not, remedial everyday tasks have lost their importance altogether.
I do know that grieving properly is a must. No matter how much I don't like it. I've attempted to short-cut my way through it before. Let's just say the results were a tiny bit more than destructive. It's not a scene in which I care to revisit anytime soon.
“Here you go sweetie,” the woman takes the water-filled glass from the man she addressed earlier as Frank. She places it into my unsure hands and helps to mold them around its curvature before standing up. She takes a small step back while watching me with concerning eyes.
I feel the gigantic thirst inside of my throat. My tongue is thick and dry. I just don't feel like lifting the heavy burden. I'm so tired. But I must. I know better than to neglect this body I have awoken inside of.
I force trembling hands to lift the relentless weight of water to my crackly lips. I gag down as much of the clear fluid as I can stomach. Dehydration is one less thing to think about. And you can take my word for it, less is better in this situation.
With her hands folded into a position of reverence, the beautiful woman addresses the mysterious faces within this enormous gathering room. Her voice soothes, “Okay everyone. We all thank you for being here today. We appreciate your kind words in this terrible time. You all mean so much to us.”
Those lovely blue angelic-eyes look at me before scanning the room of faces once more. She continues, “I believe Julia needs some rest. She's had a long day. In fact, I think we all could use some much needed rest.”
Like he had been waiting for his cue, Frank walks over and opens two large wooden doors. He stands to one side to bid the guests farewell. One by one these strange faces appear in my view. Some people touch me. Some kiss my forehead or cheek. And others nod as a sign of their respect for me.
The assembly line is almost comical as each one says something or another to me, moves to the red-haired woman and hugs her, and then shakes Frank's hand on their way out of the large Victorian-style entryway. I, also, took this opportunity to mentally note one of the guests calling the red-hair woman by the name of Martha.
Frank and Martha. What a cliché. I wouldn't be surprised to find a field of corn, wheat, or cotton in the backyard. And it's probably connected to a fence surrounding a cattle grazing arena.
Yee-Haw!
Okay, maybe that isn't fair. I'll reserve judgments until I look for myself. Odds are on the high side, however, that there is an apple begging to be shoved into a pig’s mouth for dinner. After all, that's just good 'ole fashioned down home cookin'.
Disgusting. Just pass me the cornbread and hold on the pig snout please.
As of now, I am not the slightest bit hungry. It could be my oh so stabilized emotional state of grief. Or it could be as simple as being linked to a possible eating of about thirty minutes ago. I have no way knowing for sure. Fragmented memories. Gotta love those.
* * *
By the night's end, Martha coaches me into eating some potato soup. I guess pig snout will be served tomorrow evening. After the soup, she gives me some clean clothes to wear after my shower. I recall at one point wanting to slap her and yell, 'Enough! How much Mary Poppins can anyone possibly be?!' But I didn't.
I did, however, linger in the bathroom's full-length mirror for a bit. I have to admit this body will grow into a very beautiful woman soon. I was actually quite impressed with the visual delights within my eye's view.
Long, wavy, black raven-like hair. Natural red streaks on the port and starboard sides – just outside of her bang-line directly hanging in front of these small elfish ears. Really cute. And there are lips which are to die for. They are even fuller than Martha's own.
The nose is somewhat to be desired. But noses are overrated anyway. And the curves on this body are delicious. They definitely are hard to ignore. But curves are below the face; therefore, curves do nothing to counter this nose.
These dark emerald-looking eyes, on the other hand, most definitely counter this slight nose issue. And whenever the light is dimmed just right, there is an illusion this girl is some kind of mystical supernatural creature. Kind of spooky, yet mesmerizing at the same time. The swelling underneath these gorgeous eyes I have chalked off as the results of seemingly endless tears before my arrival.
I, also, noticed something odd last night while in the bathroom. It was right after Martha explained how horrible this must be for a sixteen-year-old. Something which is going on internally and I am unsure of its nature. I have never experienced such a thing as this before.
To begin with, as I stood examining myself in the mirror, I had a subtle urge to play with the merchandise, so to speak. Not that there's anything wrong with this, but rather it is wrong for me to do this. It's not my body. I have no right to travel such roads. Sex is off limits as far as I am concerned. It always has been.
Not only do I never consider such things, but I could never imagine such a moment within a sixteen-year-old body. This takes disgusting to a whole new level from my perspective. After all, this body is much younger than my existence suggests that I am.
Nevertheless, the more I tried to examine myself in a doctor-like fashion, the more intense this desire became. It was deeply disturbing. Let's just say that my shower leaned heavily on the colder side of things. If this was the only oddity, it would still be more than I have experienced before. Unfortunately, it was only the precursor to the confusing state in which I have found myself. And for me, that's saying a lot.
This body grieves, but I have been completely blocked out in the area of her grief. I am one-hundred percent clueless. Usually, within one sleep-cycle I have gathered enough information from the brain's memory association to defragment most of the shattered memories. But not this time. So far, I have only been able to catch something of a childhood with a woman who I have perceived as Julia's mother. These childhood memories are cherished by Julia, but they have an undertone of pain and regret associated to them as well. I have co
me to suspect she must have died when Julia was around seven or eight years old. But I cannot be certain about this either.
I did gather that Julia's father raised her until just recently. He is an alcoholic. I have found no memories where Julia ever felt threatened or abused by him. But this holds no meaning or value as far as I am concerned - for I cannot trust even these memories to be complete within their linkage to one another.
With the previous noted, I have the sense that her father is still alive. It seems Julia just became sick of it all. Whatever 'it' truly is. And between her choice to leave then, and her current state of now, there is a big blank of time. There is nothing, but grief and blackness where memories should be.
Although I am always faced with this sort of puzzle, this is different. Julia is different. Her memories are there. I sense them. But she prevents me from seeing them. Yet, I do not feel her consciousness.
I am at a loss for explaining the oddities of both the mirror situation and the memory blockages akin to being placed on a no-fly list. They make no real sense to me. And while I do not believe Julia consciously did these things, I cannot rule out the possibility.
But these events do not concern me as greatly as this next one. In this, I am extremely concerned. It is in the area of my own memory. That is, there is a period last night in which I know Julia was physically awake. But I, myself, have no memory for a brief period – a period in which I should have a memory. I never left this body.
I have in times past left one body for another and come back again. But I'm very aware of this and lose no sense of time within my own memories. Never, in all of my existence, have I been pushed into a memory blackout while present in a body which is not sleeping. This above all else has me a little more than nervous.
