Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Poisoned Memories

by kubasik

  I walked around outside the tower today. I fell many times. The air is very hot, and I believe I am in a dangerous place. The tower is my only place of safety. I will stay here.

  I do not know how long I have been here. No sight. No sound. No touch. The world is beyond my comprehension.

  Much time has passed. I wish I could die.

  I do not want to die. If I die, my mother is forgotten. She must be remembered. What my father did must be remembered. What my father did must someday be seen, spoken of, felt.

  I did not know what loneliness could do to a person. I cannot find the words. Pain, true pain, does not come from the flesh. There is a thing in my soul. It grows larger. Has claws. Eats my life from the inside out.

  I had to re-read this to remember. It is good that I wrote it down.

  I had forgotten I had written this. The events came to my mind as I read, but I had forgotten.

  I cannot believe this is my story. Yet I know it is.

  How long have I been here?

  When did I write that question?

  How much longer till I die?

  My name is Kyrethe?

  Are there other people in the world? Does anyone yet live? Are they lonely like I am, cut off from life like I am? I lose faith that I am really a human. I remember other people.

  They are happy, smile, hold hands. I am not like that. I am outside of people. I am not a person. I am a thing. Disconnected. A collection of thoughts floating through life, without flesh, without passion.

  Should I kill myself?

  I was twenty when I came here. How old am I now?

  Why do I still live?

  How many years?

  8

  The words stopped. I stood on the third floor, in the storage room. Through a window I saw Death's Sea roll on and on, endlessly, drifting off into hazy scarlet and black. The sun had just topped the horizon, and the sea's molten lava seemed to float into the red tinged morning air. Despite the warmth, a chill crawled along my flesh.

  As I walked down the stairs I kept my hand on the rail that floated alongside the inner edge of the stairs. I moved slowly, and I needed the rail to keep my sense of place.

  Without the touch of the cool metal, I thought I might wander into thoughts of pain and terror and never return.

  The things parents can do to their children.

  The things I have done.

  Thoughts and memories tumbled through my head. I stopped on the stairs occasionally, frozen in place, transfixed by some horror from my past. I forgot I had a body. Forgot I was in a place. Forgot that around me life moved on. As if my senses had become connected to the past, the immediate world blocked by distant experiences. When I reached Kyrethe's bedroom I stood for a long time and watched her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest under her gown. The occasional turning from one side to the other. A bit of breath moving some strands of gray hair. In sleep, so much like a child. In sleep, we are all children. The masks we wear to prove ourselves safe, successful, and strong are unsustainable. Helpless and unaware in sleep, we are just children, needing a place to rest, shelter from a world with so much pain. We depend on the people around us not to harm us. A tacit, unspoken agreement between parent and child. Between siblings.

  Between lovers. All sleeping near each other, all needing to know that at least here, next to these people, I am safe.

  For a moment she became so many people to me. My sons. My wife. My father. Each had trusted me, and I had betrayed them one by one.

  I wanted to give her something. Not because she was she, but because by giving her something—easing her wounds somehow—I wanted to redeem myself from previous, horrible deeds.

  When I approached her bed, I approached silently, craftily. The old habits. This should have been my warning. As I had done hours earlier, I extended my hand. Touched her cheek. Brushed away her hair. She felt none of it.

  The bed shifted slightly as I sat on its edge. She did respond to this, for her weight shifted. She turned toward me. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment, then closed and she fell deeply asleep once more.

  With all the grace my thief magic allowed me, I slipped up onto the bed with her, propping my back against the headboard. Not once did I consider my behavior ghastly. I had cloaked it under the guise of a gift of comfort I was giving her. Trust, you see, was something I did not understand. Neither was it something I could expect, or know as something another might need before becoming intimate. The concept was outside my skull, outside my understanding of the universe. A child might think that the sun revolves around the Earth. Until someone explains the true nature of things to him, he cannot truly know the relationship between sun and Earth. So it was with me and trust. No one had ever explained its nature to me, and so I did not understand the relationship between fathers and children. Husbands and wives. Between lovers.

  I took her hand in mine. Raised it carefully, as if wary of setting off any traps or alarms set around a beautiful jewel in a king's palace. Did I know I was trying to steal something from her? I would like to think not. But could I really have been that unaware? What we do without knowing, we really do without listening to our souls. But the truth was around me. The shadow was in the room. It hid behind me, near the wall, not daring to come too close lest it force me to acknowledge its presence. But it was there. And I knew it.

  I took her arm, draped it over my lap. Remember, gentleness and comfort were still my intended goals. Affection, it seemed, would be a good thing for both of us. I told myself I did not want to wake her. I did not want to startle her. Disturb her.

  Interestingly, though she could not feel the warmth of my body nor the texture of my clothes, she wrapped her arm around my waist, pulling herself closer, tightening her grip on me. A deep instinct must have taken over, the memories of hugs and mothers. She nestled her head first against the side of my abdomen, then let it come to rest on my thigh.

  Now, still staying true to my intent, I brushed her hair. She was so much like a child; helpless. I was so much someone in power. I had not thought that sexual desire was any part of why I had approached her. But now with her so close ...

  And, indeed, now I can say, sexual desire had so little to do with it. Once, my father nearly dragged me down into a sinking ship, and I killed him. I would not let him destroy me; I destroyed him first. Once, my wife did not know what to make of my pain and darkness. I led her down my path, making her do things to my flesh she never would have conceived of without my insistence. I forced my perversions on her. Once, my boys did not know what to make of me, and turned always to their mother for guidance and love. I ruined them, justifying it at the time, but all the while seeking power. And now, a woman, asleep, lay beside me. I wanted power once more. I could do things to her, and she would not even know what was happening. What was more, her father had already beaten her down. I felt so, so safe in what I was doing.

  I slid my hand along her neck. The skin, worn and warm. She was so beautiful. Peaceful.

  She began to tremble. Aware of motion. Of something happening. I leaned down, kissed her on the neck. Picked up her hand. Her nails were long. Slid them lightly along my face.

  Did it again, pushed them harder into my skin. Nails into the flesh now, leaving white lines. She moaned.

  I leaned over her, running my hand along her side.

  She woke. Eyes wide. Terror on her face as she frantically tried to comprehend a situation she could not see or hear. Straddling her, I pushed her back. But I did not pin her arms down. Left them free. Her arms raised, slapping at me. Clawing. She scratched me, and the sharp pain of it pleased me. She gasped, gulping in air, drowning in fear.

  Around my pleasure, in the darkness of the room, I felt the strange presence. It encouraged me. Her struggle against me grew fiercer. For hers it was a matter of survival; terror forcing her to uninformed desperation. For me, an act of pleasure.

  The shadow, as wide as the room now, moved closer, creeping up behind me. Part of me was t
orn, for I wanted to turn and see. Never had it been so close. And never so obvious.

  I knew now that if I did turn, if I did look, I would finally see it. Curiosity, like an itch, demanded attention.

  Yet, part of me did not want to know. I suspected just enough of the truth. Ignorance has its virtues when such ugliness is involved. I was afraid that if I looked I would see something so terrible that I would stop what I was doing. And that I did not want to do.

  I shoved my forearm into her mouth. In quick reaction she clamped down Her teeth squeezed blood from my flesh. She considered it a victory. Wrong, wrong, wrong. She served my purposes. She, to me, was a tool of muscle, blood, and flesh. Not a person, but something that existed only in response to my desires. No. Not desires. Anger. Rage.

  Revenge.

  I cried out in pain and pleasure. Thoughts of the Elf Queen rushed through my blackening vision. Confirmation that pleasure in life could only come from pain. The darkness closed around the edge of my vision. Lurked. I longed to see. What had haunted me all these years? Not the Horror in my head, but the terror it left behind. No. Not the Horror.

  Everything. Life. I confused life sometimes with the Horror. But how many horrors had there been? Each piling up upon each other, influencing each other, until there was no separating what I had wanted with what was. Dreams no longer mattered. I lived in a void of shattered expectations. l shattered them now, unable to distinguish what I did from what others had done to me.

  She was tight lipped now, my blood on her lips. Down her throat. No emotion from her.

  Just closed eyes—closed from pain. How much of what I was feeling wracked her with agony I cannot say. But I suggest that what the Horror did to me in my youth was no worse.

  The thing at the edge of my vision breathed on my neck now. It cloaked me. Offered protection. From what? From any decency I had left. From the shame or remorse that might rise up in response to what I was about to do. I wanted to look now. Knew I could.

  Could stare into its face and would see myself and I would accept that. The final release.

  The culmination of pain and the acceptance of pain. Pain as life.

  I grabbed the collar of her gown. The cloth tore evenly down the center. The sound of a jagged torrent of raindrops against jungle leaves. I closed my eyes. Turned my head.

  Prepared myself to see my shadow. To embrace it with this horrific offering to brutality.

  Control. Power.

  My hands plunged toward her body, grabbed her abdomen.

  And before I could enjoy either her scream, or the sight of the shadow, my fingertips encountered something most strange.

  9

  I jerked my head around. For Kyrethe, time had frozen. Her face remained grimaced in terror and pain. But the flesh of her face did not waver. Not a sound escaped from her mouth.

  The skin of her abdomen was now translucent. There, rising from her flesh, was a child, glowing with golden light.

  The infant from the airship, different somehow.

  The child pushed up through her flesh, passing through her skin. My fingers rested on the child's chest. Confusion rushed through me. For a moment I was my mother, years earlier, her fingers on my chest. Thoughts tumbled quickly and I forgot all about the thing at my back. I could not move, though I wanted to turn and run from the room.

  I had always thought my mother had acted from fear. Fear of the Horror. I had thought she wanted to protect herself. That consumed by her own fear, she had betrayed me. But now, lost to my identity, feeling the emotions she felt—possible emotions she felt—I thought differently. What if she enjoyed it? What if she saw herself as deserving to do to me what she wished?

  The baby rose up from Kyrethe's stomach, free of her flesh now. I saw in its face my own features, young and innocent. Uncorrupted. My thoughts reeled at the passage of time since my youth. Sixty years old! And in that time, how many horrors had I perpetuated on the world? When I was a baby, had I considered such actions? Would I have wanted to do them if I could even have imagined them? No. No. No. How, then, had I come to commit these acts of terror?

  Kyrethe's immobilized form should have provided me some comfort. At least my actions were now safe from her awareness. No glare of her blind eyes to accuse me. But it only increased my terror toward myself. How helpless she was—devoid of all senses! Yet what I would do to her! Her torn gown hung uselessly on either side of her. Her body, thin and bare, was exposed before me. The baby's presence forced me to be aware of the relationship between us. That is, of two people. Not manipulator and manipulated.

  The baby floated off her belly. Up into the air. Up through the ceiling. Gone.

  Time began.

  Kyrethe screamed, tried to cover her breasts with her thin arms.

  I rolled off her, falling backward onto the bed. I continued away from her, trying to escape the space I had inhabited. My retreat carried me off the bed and I tumbled onto the floor. I realized I was crying. I stood, and as if I had woken up in strange surroundings, had no idea where I was.

  Kyrethe cried, her sobs wracking through my head; memories of my own tears. I had felt remorse after my most horrible crimes—the murder of my father, the mutilation of the two of you—but this damaged me in new ways. Pain ripped at my throat from my crying.

  I curled my fists, beat myself in the face. The center gave loose, the rationalizations all gone. What I did I did. If I had expected more from my mother, then I could not simply slough off my dangerous behavior on her. I must expect more from myself, as well.

  But these notions came only as strange buzzing sounds in my mind. Only one true thought came to me: Flee.

  And that I did, rushing from the room, tripping twice on my way to the door. Down the stairs. Morning sunlight poured in through the windows. The wash of blood everywhere!

  Everywhere! When I reached the entrance hall I rushed out of the tower, desperate for the relief of the morning air.

  The glare of the sea's molten rock reflected into the clouds, as did the low light of the morning sun. The clouds churned, and as they bled across the sky, it seemed my head had somehow split open, my emotional innards spilling out into the universe. Within and without my thoughts, desolation.

  Kyrethe's sobs clawed their way out of her throat. Floated out of the windows. "NO! NO!

  NO!" she screamed. In her tone, the confusion of the betrayed. She could not understand what had happened. Had she not taken care of me? How could I have done such a thing?

  She did not know, and neither did I.

  I ran on, desperate to leave her agony behind. Over coarse stones. Up small hills and across tiny, dry rivulets. What had taken me days to travel, I now raced across in minutes.

  Soon I was at the island's edge. Thick and slow, the sea's molten lava rose and fell against the black rock. Kyrethe's tears of betrayal hacked their way into my ears.

  I huddled down, kneeling on the rocks. Covered my ears with my arms. Now what was I to do? In similar circumstances in the past I ran away. Carved out a new life for myself.

  Assured myself that an aberration had taken place. That it was the interaction of that person and myself that had caused the problem.

  But now a sea of lava cut me off from the rest of the world. I could not run. If I had thought of that before I touched Kyrethe I never would have done what I did. As I stared out at the sea, out at the sun, now bloated and bright red over the horizon, I began to laugh. No humor, but a laugh. I could not believe the situation I was in. Trapped on an island, the only other person the victim of my attempt at rape. Had not that damned baby promised my freedom?

  I stood, screamed for the child to present himself. I looked around wildly. He did not appear. My tirade continued, and as I shouted I stomped around the rocks. I demanded to know why he had imprisoned me on the island. I had assumed him to be Lochost, the Passion of change. Freedom. But now I demanded to know if he was Vestrial, the Passion of enslavement, in disguise. Still no answer.

  Like
a child embittered at learning how difficult life can sometimes be, I stomped and stormed endlessly. My shrill words managed to drown out Kyrethe's cries, which might have been the entire purpose of my tirade. At some point, when I could shout no more, I settled on the rocks. Sat glumly. Kyrethe's cries had stopped, and a sweet silence unfurled over my small, desperate corner of the world.

  Somewhere, a boy was in pieces. Here, a woman was whole, but imprisoned by her father's curse. And I—I was no more than a monster. There had been a creature in my head once, and I thought I had killed it. But it had left something terrible in my life. A lesson on how to live. I was a better pupil than I would have liked.

  10

  I woke without remembering I'd fallen asleep. I felt drained and worn. My age had finally caught up with me. Trapped on the island everything could catch up with me. I'd spent my sleep arguing with my family, getting you and Torran to understand that pain is the defining point of life. Trying to get Releana to understand she could try to hide the two of you from pain, but it would find you nonetheless.