You are nothing. You'll never be anything. I'm so disappointed.
"Don't we need...something?" she asked. "Props? A sign explaining what we're doing?"
"No."
Sometimes the mushrooms made the little world inside their abandoned house beautiful. They softened edges, made colours more vibrant, turned the ruined home into a fairyland dream. This wasn't like that. The market was garish and ugly. Too many bright colours and cloying scents. The world hardened like clay left in the sun. It's going to crack. The sky grew heavy, pressed on her shoulders, raged its disgust down upon her.
The full effect of the mushrooms had yet to land but Anomie knew this feeling. It was coming. The world would fray apart and she'd lose herself to madness. Her heart stuttered erratically. She breathed in shallow sips, unable to draw air.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered, but Matthäus wasn't listening.
Eyes closed, face to the sky, he lifted a rauch to his lips and inhaled smoke into his soul. Anomie caught flickering hints of hallucinations that weren't hers. A scene played out in the shadows. Young lovers bound together in need. Doomed. The young man was clearly Matthäus, strong and perfect, but the woman was too beautiful to be Anomie. A stab of hurt pricked at her heart at this small betrayal. Shoppers were beginning to notice the hallucinations, jumping at shadows and trying to catch things seen in the corners of their eyes.
Every time a clump of shoppers passed close to Anomie and Matthäus, the hallucinations stuttered and disappeared, and they were just a dirty young couple blocking the thoroughfare. But when the crowd gave them space the hallucinations manifested, stained reality.
"Rutting gods," swore Matthäus, facing her. Exhaustion emptied his eyes. "Too many rutting sane. Their influence is stifling me." Hollow eyes lit with blue fire. He drew another fistful of auslösekugeln, tearing it in half and stuffing his share into his mouth. The rest he held out to her. "Eat."
"No. I'm scared. Let's do this later."
Blue eyes held her. "Scared? Later? This is it. This is the poem that will make me famous. I'll be remembered for all time for this one day." He lifted the dried rat turd nugget of mushrooms, held it under her nose.
She wanted to explain that the last mushrooms she'd eaten had yet to land, but then he'd want to stay here and wait. She needed to get away, flee the devouring eyes. She needed the dark solitude of their home, even if it stank of stale rauch smoke and sour sweat. "It'll be half an hour before these take effect," she said instead. "We'll come back then."
"I need you."
"I can't do this. I'm going to puke. I want to go home. Please." If you love me—
"Eat."
She ate the auslösekugeln, forcing the mushrooms into her mouth and swallowing the dry nuggets whole.
Matthäus smiled and touched her hair. There was no softness in his eyes. No gratitude. He showed teeth in a grin and for the first time she noticed how stained they were from the wine and smoke. He took her hand in his, squeezed it hard. His eyes closed and the hallucinations haunting the shadows coalesced.
The market stopped. Everyone saw Matthäus' hallucinated poem.
He hallucinated the story of their love for all to see. He showed them how he found this pathetic girl in the entrance to his home. He showed them how he took her in, how he shared his life with her.
The audience saw and they believed.
Anomie watched herself wither as Matthäus grew. She was caught in his shadow. As he shone brighter and brighter she withered and died. He would rise up to take his place among the greats of the world, remembered and worshipped by everyone. She would die, no one and nothing. Her death, however, wasn't without meaning. The loss of her would forever change him. His sadness, the absolute misery at losing her and the loneliness he'd suffer, brought tears to the eyes of all gathered to witness his poem. Somehow he'd have to go on. Somehow he'd find the strength to survive the loss of his love.
But it wasn't real. Just a dream. She saw through the lie. For all the heart-rending emotion on display, she knew he felt none of it. Not really.
She hated herself. You're being cruel, unkind to the man who gave you so much. Without him—You're nothing. You'll never be anything. I'm so disappointed—she'd never be anything. She owed him so much.
The auslösekugeln coursing through her blood twisted her perceptions and her hallucinations, fed by Matthäus', entwined with his, feeding them and feeding off them. Together they twisted the world to match his vision, to make his poem real.
She saw then the truth: For his poem to truly work, for it to be real, she would have to die. He needed her death.
Anomie glanced at her hands, saw the rot staining her fingertips.
The full force of all the auslösekugeln Anomie had eaten since waking shredded the world like a tornado. She stood at its centre, lost to the madness. Matthäus' shallow imaginings became her reality and her own hallucinations made them real.
He needs me to die.
Decay spread up her arms, peeling flesh from bone.
He needs me.
Turning, she saw Matthäus. Blue eyes wide with fear, he retreated from her. She knew that look, had seen it in her father's eyes so many times: Disgust.
"Please," she begged. "Don't—"
Matthäus' need was gone, stolen. She needed it. Without him she was nothing, would never be anything.
The market, harsh with colour and the sweet stench of sun-warmed fruit, faded to grey. All life and colour bled away. One by one her senses died, distancing her from life.
This isn't real. I'm hallucinating. Her internal organs shuddered and stilled. Terror washed away all but one thought: I don't want to die.
Someone screamed and the sounds of the market changed, became tinged with panic and fear. Matthäus' disgust was replaced with growing satisfaction. But he no longer looked at her, didn’t seem to see her at all. He had eyes only for the crowd. Grinning in triumph Matthäus bowed with a flourish and a smattering of uncertain applause rippled through the audience. The accolades spread as more folks understood this was theatre.
The rot spread faster, fed by the belief of the scores of shoppers. They applauded the show, but looked upon Anomie with sadness and disgust.
Turning his back to Anomie, Matthäus basked in the crowd’s appreciation.
To finish his poem, I must die. He must be left alone to mourn me.
Matthäus did this to her. His poem was killing her.
She took his long knife with the death's head pommel and stabbed him. She stabbed him over and over as the market emptied of people, their screams distant and unimportant. Matthäus fell and she pounced on him, slashing and stabbing and screaming.
Quiet, the pattering drip of blood on cobbled stone.
Anomie knelt over her lover, her shirt and skirt soaked through. Knife clenched in a numb and shaking fist, she gazed upon what she had done. Matthäus lay open before her, sundered and torn. He loved me and I...
A life-time of self-hatred shaped her thoughts and a massive auslösekugeln overdose made them real.
She killed her reason to live. She betrayed him at the moment when he needed her most.
You are nothing. You'll never be anything. I'm so disappointed.
***
Anomie rushed Gehirn, intent on killing the Hassebrand. The big bitch had fallen under the sway of a Gefahrgeist, betrayed Konig's trust. Anomie would be the Theocrat's vengeance, his avenging fist.
The fat Slaver screamed something at Gehirn and a maelstrom of fire blinded Anomie.
When she could once again see she stood alone in a field of clover, lavender and green.
Colour.
She inhaled the sweet scents, felt the warm breeze on her skin.
Warmth. Skin.
She was whole.
Her skin was flawless, perfect. Her hair hung long, thick and healthy. She breathed deep, felt the steady beat of her heart. She was as she remembered, as she had been
on the day of her death.
Anomie laughed, feeling her body shake with the pleasure of being.
Gehirn killed me. She knew it to be true.
This was not the Afterdeath she had expected. She'd killed so many in service of the Theocrat. Shouldn't they be here awaiting her?
"Where are my dead?"
"I'm here."
Even after all these years she knew that voice.
Anomie turned to face Matthäus and stared at him in shocked confusion. He's just a boy. He couldn't have been more than eighteen. Now that long knife hanging at his hip looked silly, the affectation of a young man trying to look dangerous.
"I... I've killed hundreds. Where are the rest?"
Dull blue eyes locked on her. "I'm the only one that matters," he said. "And I've been waiting."
She knew that look. Though grey, Konig's eyes shared that flat death.
"You killed me before I completed my poem," said Matthäus. "You and I, we're not finished."
You are nothing. You'll never be anything. I'm so disappointed.
"No," she said. "Leave me alone. Let me—"
"I need you," he said, taking her hand in his and driving his will against her.
"Let me go," she whispered.
"You're here because of me," said Matthäus, kissing her fingers. "You owe me. We're going to finish the poem, you and I. I'll be the greatest poet in the Afterdeath." Blue eyes, cold and dead, never left her. "I can't do this without you. I need you."
She'd been on the receiving end of such manipulation all her life. From her father. From Matthäus. From Konig. The needs of others defined her. Every man who'd ever touched her life had used her, bent her to their desires.
You are nothing. You'll never be anything. I'm so disappointed.
With her free hand Anomie took Matthäus' knife.
For Konig she had killed hundreds; she'd lost count years ago. It had long become easy. Death was nothing. Meaningless.
This one however would be different.
This one would mean something.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Cotardist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cotard_delusion): Believe they are dead. Often combined with the belief they are rotting or missing internal organs.
Doppelgangist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syndrome_of_subjective_doubles): Believe a double (called a Doppel) of themselves is carrying out independent actions
Gefahrgeist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychopathy#Sociopathy): Have limited ability to feel for the pain and suffering of others. Sociopaths are driven by their need to achieve and rule in social circles.
Geisteskranken (Delusionist): In a reality that is responsive to the beliefs of humanity, Geisteskranken are capable of believing something so utterly and completely to affect noticeable changes. Under normal circumstances it requires large numbers of people—all believing the same thing—to affect change. The more people who believe something, the more real their belief becomes. Most Geisteskranken are only mildly neurotic and can cause minor or subtle changes. The truly powerful are also that much more deranged.
Hassebrand (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyromania): Set fires as an outlet for their repressed rage and loneliness.
Every Hair Casts a Shadow
- Los Nefilim -
Teresa Frohock
Barcelona
May 3, 1937
Dressed in a song of scorpions, Alvaro stood at the mouth of an alley and watched Les Rambles, Barcelona’s main boulevard. The normally congested area was empty of mortals. Highly unusual given the time of day. Something had happened.
With a flick of his forked tongue, Alvaro tasted blood on the air. He inhaled deeply and smelled the mortals’ rage and fear. The street might be deserted, but it did not go unobserved. Eyes watched from every window. The afternoon stillness possessed an ethereal quality, much like the tension just before a brawl.
The scorpions, made restless by the citizens’ anxiety, glistened in shades of blue and black as they formed a coat around Alvaro. They clung to his skin and crawled into his hair.
Alvaro soothed them with a whisper and thumbed the heavy signet ring he wore. The wide band sported a black stone shot through with streaks of puce and gray, like an onyx cat’s eye. Any Nefilim, whether they were the sons and daughters of angels or daimons, would know Alvaro was the daimon Moloch incarnate. Their souls had merged, forming a new body, uniting the old with the new, and creating a god like the mortal realm had never known.
From another part of the city, the sound of gunshots peppered the stillness. Alvaro glanced to his right and noticed several mortals about two blocks away, busily erecting a barricade of cobblestones.
He contemplated the situation. The Nationalists were still too far south to be a threat to Barcelona, so whatever aggressions the mortals were currently engaged in had nothing to do with them. Judging from the attire of the men down the street, Alvaro assumed the hostilities between the Anarchists and the Communists had finally exploded into open skirmishes. Like the angels and the daimons, the mortals never seemed to tire of war. Of course there was possibly an underlying cause to the mortals’ hostilities: the angels’ civil war had escalated.
“As above, so below,” he muttered. The mortal situation in Barcelona mirrored the angelic conflict in the numinous realms. Alvaro guessed that Los Nefilim, the angels’ ground troops, had also been dragged into the conflict.
While he deliberated, a girl and boy ran up Les Rambles, skirting a firefight in the side streets. Now this is interesting. Alvaro focused on the youths and adjusted his dark glasses. The mirrored lenses shielded daimonic eyes the color of smoke and nickel from the mortals and the sun.
And that bright, bright angel-girl, he mused. He recognized her. Ysabel Ramírez. Thirteen years old and already she had the body of a young woman. Auburn curls flew around her face and threw streaks of gold at the afternoon sun as she darted along the sidewalk, trying first one door and then another, obviously looking for a place to hide.
Don Guillermo must be proud to have begotten such a beauty. Alvaro’s rare encounters with the girl had proven that her intelligence matched her charisma. Her allure had certainly brought Alvaro’s grandson Rafael under her spell, because the boy followed her, pausing to look back the way they had come.
Merely a year younger than the girl, he was already taller. As dark as Ysabel was light, he was the spitting image of his father Diago at that age.
And look at him move! he thought. Lithe as a dancer, a thief, an assassin. Alvaro drank the image of his grandson but also scanned the street for any sign of his son. Wherever Rafael was, Diago couldn’t be far behind. He usually kept the boy very close to Los Nefilim’s stronghold at Santuari. It was rare to see Rafael in the city.
Diago was absent. Alvaro frowned. This wasn’t the time to let two youngsters run loose in the city. At any moment, they could be taken down by a sniper’s bullet, or assaulted by angels, or...accosted by daimons.
A smile twisted Alvaro’s mouth as he caressed his scorpion coat. Hadn’t he once advised a certain Italian by the name of Machiavelli to never waste an opportunity offered by a crisis? And was this not a calamity—two children running through a city at war? What better way to ensure his grandson’s allegiance than by saving the boy and his precious angel-girl from certain disaster?
Alvaro’s greedy stare slithered back to Rafael and Ysabel.
Deep within the body he shared with Moloch, Alvaro felt the ancient daimon stir. Like a broken conscience, Moloch whispered, We tried to break Diago’s spirit, and we drove him into the enemy’s arms. We cannot afford the same mistake with Rafael.
Moloch was right. Rather than bend Diago to their will, they had merely made him more rebellious. He had wrested Rafael from the daimons and raised him among the angel-born Nefilim to spite Alvaro. Diago had always been defiant. In all probability, Rafael was as recalcitrant as his father. The forceful measures that had failed on Diago wou
ld not achieve any greater success on Rafael.
Moloch’s voice hissed in staccato beats along the backs of the scorpions, Diago says his incarnations have changed him.
“He is not the only one who learns from the past,” said Alvaro.
Ysabel paused to speak to Rafael.
Moloch watched her through Alvaro’s eyes. Dangerous little thing. We should kill it.
Alvaro made no answer and stroked his ring. Almost immediately, he discarded the idea of murdering Ysabel.
“No,” he replied. “Rafael grew up with the girl, and they live in one another’s shadows. Killing her will turn him against us. We must find a way into his heart that will make him loyal to us.”
Moloch fell silent as Ysabel finished her hurried conversation with Rafael. She resumed her search and tried the next door.
That was odd. She had her father’s talent for blacksmithing. “Why doesn’t she sing her way past the lock?” he muttered. And on the heels of that question came his answer: because she is hiding her magic from other Nefilim.
Just as the thought cleared his mind, three Nefilim rounded a corner fifteen metres away. All of them were bright with angel song. The one in the center carried a Spanish Mauser. He was lanky and sandy-haired with a craggy face jagged as a rock. On his left was a skinny boy with an overbite made more severe by his razor-thin lips. The Nefil on the right was heavier and wore the red handkerchief of the Communists.
Alvaro’s initial suspicions were correct: a group of angels and their Nefilim were behind the disturbance. Apparently they were hunting members of Los Nefilim. Any other day and Alvaro would watch the proceedings with mild interest—Moloch would get his wish, and Guillermo’s brat would be taken out of the way. Today was not that day. Not with Rafael beside her.
Rafael had noted the trio. He crouched and aimed a Luger at the other Nefilim. “Stand down! Or I’ll shoot!”
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 4
