by kubasik
"Stop it!" I screamed.
He did not look at me. "Go away." He began running his tongue along her wrist.
I grabbed him, dragged him off the bed. We tumbled to the floor, the red-lit stone a blur of sharp pain against my right elbow, my back. He ended up on top, whirled around, slammed his right fist, backhanded, across my chin. My lip slammed up into my teeth and blood curled out over my flesh, slipped into my mouth.
The shadow swirled around my other self, coming to rest behind him. Took form. A tall man with a ram's head. Bloody sores covered the Passion's flesh. Raggok. The Passion placed his hands on my other self. Instantly, in my eyes, I saw the madness. I'd never seen it before, only experienced it. But I knew it immediately. The same madness that had let me kill my father. Let me mutilate my sons. Let me run from Releana's soft touch.
"Don't ..." I began, but I—he—was possessed by the Passion of bitterness. I saw so clearly how he hated me. He raised his fists high, brought them down toward my chest.
I tried to roll out of the way, but Raggok waved his hand. Suddenly, memories of my mother's touch, her fingertips on my chest as she placed the Horror in my heads came back to me. I froze. Unable to move. The fists slammed down. A sharp crack across my ribs. Pain like a razor's edge sliced through me. I exhaled, a sound like wind through trees, and found I could not breathe.
My other self raised his fists again. Between the painful memories of my mother's betrayal and my cracked ribs, I found I could hardly move. But how I wanted to. For the first time in my life I faced death and did not see it as simply part of the day. Death, I realized, had been waiting for me all along, because I had been waiting for her to take me all along. I risked death in the hope I would lose the risk, and finally be freed of life without being viewed as a coward. But now, now I wanted to live. I had something I'd never thought I could have again—hope. And losing it so quickly drove me on to struggle.
The child appeared above my head, facing me upside down, smiling. He leaned down, kissed my forehead. His touch freed me of the crippling memories. A breeze coursed through my damaged chest, and I found that I had enough energy to roll out of the way.
My other self slammed his fists down into my right shoulder. Painful, but not lethal.
I swung my hand up, blocking another blow. We were both old men, somewhat weary with life, but driven, as always, by fresh violence. I slipped away from him, scrambled up. Turned. "We don't have to do this," I said. The thought of attacking myself was much like looking over the side of an airship when the ground is far, far below.
But my other self did not need to believe me, probably could not. He did not know what I knew. On his face, that rage. He carried his hatred in his flesh, and let his flesh bring his hatred to the world. He ran at me.
The blows went back and forth. I swung, he ducked. He swung, I parried. We staggered.
We sprawled.
It is strange to fight yourself. I knew all my own tricks. I ran the same game endlessly against myself, thought all the while I was making progress. But all the while, the habits in my head were known—if you will—by my head. Just when I thought I'd outsmarted myself, had finally found a new plan of attack to get me out of the rut, I'd—that is, he—
would counter and bring me back into the old habits.
The two Passions hovered at the edge of the conflict. Painful memories lanced my thoughts, and Lochost freed me each time. The longer the struggle continued, the less the thoughts interfered. There was little to do against the damage I could inflict on myself.
It was clear after a while, however, that I—he— meant to kill me if he got the chance.
And why wouldn't he? Wouldn't he soon be committing suicide?
After he gave me a terrible swift kick, sending me reeling toward the bed, I glanced at Kyrethe. My impact on the bed startled her, but she only shifted, rolling back to sleep.
Looking at her, I remembered the happy dwarf's words about how he saw his wife's body.
She was no longer an object of lust, a thing to be done to. Her flesh embodied her story.
When he touched her, he did so because he knew her story, because he loved her story, wanted to read her story. Add to her Story. I knew Kyrethe's terrible story. I could see her now not as something to conquer, but as a person to communicate with—perhaps through the flesh, but in somany other ways as well.
But if I did not survive the fight, she would be at the mercy of my other self. He approached, carefully, and I got off the bed, leading him away from her.
Blood poured down from my split lip. I could feel where my skin had turned sharp red along my face and chest from his blows. Thinking had become difficult, and I moved with cautious steps. So did he. We were two battered old men.
He lunged toward me, sending his fist up toward my chest. I suspected as much, ducked out of the way. Grabbed his arm. Twisted it sharply, turning it around his back. He screamed out in terrible pain. But I did not know how else to end the struggle. It seemed I had little choice but to kill myself once more.
He collapsed to his knees. Tried to turn around. I brought my knee up into his face. He sprawled backward, a smear of blood dripping from his broken nose. Knowing I needed only a moment to collect myself with a tricky strategy to escape, I dropped down on him, driving my knee into his stomach. He gasped. I grabbed his head, slammed it down. A sharp crack of skull against stone. His hands fumbled for my neck, found it. The grip, strangely strong. I slammed his head again, and he continued to strangle me.
As my efforts continued, his grip weakened. But I was already beginning to black out. I wondered briefly if this was my end, to commit suicide all over again, finally removing myself and all possibilities of my life forever.
Then, out the corner of my eye, I noticed that Raggok and Lochost had become completely still. It was as if they were frozen in time and space, the same way other mortals are frozen when Passions appear as a specific individual. But this time, the Passions had frozen. My encounter with myself had transcended the Passions. Whatever was to occur as we reached the moments of our respective deaths was ours to discover, and ours alone.
I no longer had the strength to slam his head against the floor, so I turned my attention to his throat. Because I was on top of him, I had the advantage. I only needed to lean down on him, force the constriction of his throat. A gurgling noise came from his throat.
He looked terrified. The madness was gone, and I saw a lonely old man, the flesh wrinkled, the life going from him. He knew he was about to die, and realized what that meant. The hope and opportunities gone. Everything I had confronted in the realm of the dead he was becoming aware of now.
A joy took possession of me. I pressed my hands tighter on his throat. I wanted him to DIE! Suddenly I knew what a terrible monster he was, this thing that had been my life before the new me. A strange confidence slid into my thinking, a peculiar knowledge of what was right and what was wrong. Unshakable. I was right, he was wrong. His hands slipped from my throat. His eyelids fluttered. The new certainty thrilled me. I had lost all doubts about killing him.
A darkness seeped into the edges of my vision. I ignored it.
As he died, my new, doubt-free self became stronger. Nothing could ever make me waver. Nothing could ever make me think about another person. Years had been spent worrying about the pain I'd caused others. What about my own pain?
The darkness wrapped all the way around me. Tightened.
The face beneath me turned slightly blue. I laughed. A terrible laugh that raked the last shred of compassion in my ears. But I did hear it. I looked down at the old man. The lines in the face, their clarity, startled me.
Killing myself again.
I released my grip. His mouth open, the tongue visible. Just a shallow breath. Touching his skin, my worn, wrinkled fingers touched his worn, wrinkled flesh I did not want to kill myself anymore. I remembered Death's last look.
Worth.
If I was worth something, was not my old self w
orth something? Hadn't he tried for sixty years to attain something more? He failed, but kept trying. Hurt people, but kept trying.
Others, I knew, would judge him harshly. Wanted him dead. But he was me. If I couldn't draw him close, who would I ultimately be?
I leaned down. Touched my cheek against his. His pain became mine. Our flesh flowed together. Finally letting all the hatred out of my body, I lay down beside him, put my arms around him. Held him close. I held a story in my flesh as well, and embraced it. Past and present became one, ready to risk the future. The pain of my life mixed with hopes of happiness, producing the possibility of compassion. The evil of my past joined with my desire to make amends, allowing me to become—me.
9
I opened my eyes. My other self was gone. I was just me. The shadow was gone. The child was gone. Or rather, not visible. Both bitterness and hope resided comfortably in me now. The fight had exhausted me, and I could not get up. The floor was cold, but horizontal, and that was enough. Closing my eyes, I slept.
Kyrethe woke me up when she tripped over me.
She called out in surprise, falling forward. Kyrethe called out again, asking if I was the man from downstairs. Instinctive discomfort seized my emotions, for I felt terrible and shamed by what I had done to her. How could I possibly explain myself?
Then I remembered I hadn't done it. Or at least, she did not know I had done it. To her, it had not happened. I smiled, my face, I'm sure, cracking under the strain of smiling so broadly for the first time in so many years. Suddenly the Universe wasn't turned against me, nor I against the Universe. I stood, moved quickly to where she sat crouched, waiting for a possible attack. I let my fingers touch hers, pushing hard enough for her to notice me despite her lack of touch. She pulled away quickly then tentatively extended her hand again. She took my hand in hers and squeezed it tight. Then I took her other hand and placed it on my face so she could be certain it was me.
With the same awkwardness as the day before (years might have passed in the realm of the dead, for all I knew, but for Kyrethe only a night had gone by), she pressed her fingertips against me. Her need to search out every curve and line of my flesh tickled and amused me, and I laughed. When her fingertips found my smile and traced the shape, she smiled too.
Behind her, light from a clear blue sky rushed in through the windows, illuminating the sheets with pure clarity. The sky itself fascinated me, the little bit I could see through the rectangular window. I did not think I'd seen the sky so blue before. Then I realized I'd never really noticed it. A strange airiness entered my chest, and I felt grateful to the Universe for taking the time to construct colors for us to enjoy.
Kyrethe and I stood. Hand in hand. Her grip on me so tight it hurt. I let her hold on tightly, because it was the only way she could keep track of me.
The sky caught my attention again. I thought back to the day when I created the city. I thought, "What am I going to build today?"
When I looked at the beautiful woman whose hands I held in mine, I knew that today I wanted to build a friendship. I led her to the bed, sat her down on the edge. "I need my water," she said with her strained and awkward voice. In response I took her finger and jabbed it firmly into my chest. Then I placed her hand in mine, as if I were giving her the cup, and raised her hand to her lips. Then once more I pointed her hand to me.
She smiled. "Thank you."
I went downstairs to get the water.
There, at the fountain, I saw the statue of her father. Standing imperious, the source of the precious substance that sustained his daughter's life. Arrogantly, I hated him. Then I remembered my own crimes, and silenced myself.
When I returned with the cup, I saw that Kyrethe's face wore an expression of fear mixed with impatience. She could not allow herself to truly believe I would come back, perhaps.
Or waited for the attack that she knew, properly, was possible. Picking up her hand to place the cup in it once again startled her, making her tremble. But again, after a moment, she relaxed. She took a long sip, and then said, "You're feeling better now?"
Her words, strained and awkward, did not make me embarrassed, as they had the day before. Now I heard in them hope and strength. Perseverance. I raised her hand to my head, nodded. She laughed.
"Have you had any?" she asked, extending the cup to me. I took it, drank. The lovely liquid tasted more brilliant against my tongue than it had the day before.
Wonderful things were possible in life, despite everything to prove the contrary.
I smiled. I raised her hand to my smile, and she smiled again.
What was I going to build? A friendship.
Days passed. I wanted to go after Neden, but there was no way off the island. I called for Lochost to help me, but the Passions do not arrive upon request. They are present simply when their Passion is present. Instead of fretting over what I could not do, I did what I could. I treated Kyrethe well.
Each morning and night I brought her water. For days she jumped whenever I touched her. After a week, she took my arrival with stoic stillness. But another week passed before my touch was something she could take in stride. That she could enjoy.
When it finally happened, I decided to give her a gift. The only thing I could think of—
and I had waited many days before I thought it would be appropriate to give it to her—
was to massage her hands. At midday I took her fingers in mine and rubbed them between my own fingers. She was startled, wary, at first. Pulled away.
I was disappointed. Angry even. But I thought it through, reminded myself that she had her own very good reasons for distrusting a stranger who wanted intimacy with her. She held the hand I had tried to massage in her other hand, cradled it. Then she looked up, a little bit toward me, concerned. I raised her hand to my face. Smiled. She sighed, smiled.
Days later, unexpectedly, she extended her hands toward me after drinking from the morning cup. I took them, and she waited. Coyly, she smiled. I understood. I massaged her fingers. Though the feeling in her flesh was gone, the muscles still knew the truth of motion. It was a simple action. I tended to each finger separately, then moved on to the back of the hand. The heel. Then placed the whole hand within my hands. Then I did the same for the other hand and the other fingers. Halfway through she was sighing. Her happiness took her out of herself, out of her awareness of me.
This went on for another week, until she offered, after I had massaged her hand, to massage mine. Her touch was rough, for she could not feel me except by pressing hard.
But she did it with generosity. And I, as you know, have always had a penchant for rougher affection. Her massage did not lead me down the bleaker elements of this, though. No thoughts of blood came to mind. It simply felt good.
After another week we added arms to our mutual exchange, and sometime after that we would take turns lying on the bed, rubbing and soothing our old muscles. That after so many years of life and solitude, for both of us, that we should have this opportunity simply to relax in each other's company—
I'd been on the run for so long. Stealing. Pursued by the agents of angry merchants. The soldiers of King Varulus after me for my crimes against my sons. To lie on that bed, face down, Kyrethe straddling me with her thin body, her hands pushing down on my shoulders, with nowhere to go and nothing to run from. I was trapped with patience, and patience became my friend.
How long had gone by, I do not know. The days had blurred into casual pleasure. Clouds floating leisurely through a perfect blue sky. One day I straddled her hips, massaging her shoulders. The most extraordinary thing happened. I wanted to touch her. Not to hurt her, or draw blood, or have her tear my flesh. But simply to share. Her story, the narrative bound up in her flesh. To read the tale with my fingers.
I touched my fingers to her face lightly, forgetting, for just a moment, her condition.
There was no response. No smile in turn. No sigh. Not even a shock of surprise. She could not feel. And with that lack of
response, the impulse died in me. If she could not feel my touch, it felt tainted. Touching was not something one person could do. Both people touched. Without the sharing of the touch, one person was master over the other. I had lived my share of enslavement, as well as dominating those who had no power.
I did not know what to do, whether to go on massaging her. I wanted more. Wanted to give myself. Finally I remembered her words in the story, those telling how her mother used to hold her. If I could not touch her with love gently I would hold her with love firmly. I got off her, slid next to her. She got up, alert, ready for trouble. Not from me.
She reached her hand out for mine. But she did not know why I had stopped the massage.
