Devil to the Damned (Prequel #2 )

1|9 - String-puppet

I envy introspection for I no longer have a mirror to gaze. A drowsy blink does not relieve the itch, and rest does not grant energy or comfort. Ceaseless manic aggression swells and slums like a tsunami in a glass dome. The me that I am, reconciles with the temporary perception of the me before this. If I am even to believe there was a before.

A rigid portrayal of a faceless nobody carrying out actions forgotten the moment they are completed. Fictitious and intangible, I scream but nothing comes out. I beg without a lexicon to inspire. I crawl from the back of my mind only to tumble over a cliff and wake in another day same as before.

Face to face, propping myself upright by a loose grip around jagged bars, my clasp tightened as I sway in place. Head lowered and breaths slipping like whispers in a traitorous night. A cold transference raised my eyes up to meet his, and there we shared a pang of tremendous guilt. Muted omissions improperly conveyed by hollow eyes; an eternity to stare and absorb.

The history I am oblivious to is sapped directly from the center of my shriveled brain; unfiltered and chaotic. His influence was strong; I couldn't resist, not even a little, his silent demands. There was something behind his glowing yellow irises, something dark; clouded, and vicious. Plotting.

Equally, there was a tender light, pure and radiating with rotted divots, like breathing holes for an imprisoned insect. I could sense the core of myself, separate from me, reaching for his light. Desperate with frayed ends and begging to be forgiven and reclaimed.

His wrinkled, elderly face displayed profound worry, and an intense care the color of burdened responsibility. Not love, nor sympathy; cynical. Lost in his petulant gaze, it took me too long to realize he had been talking. Trading his own story for mine. His distant past, family, regret; everything admitted in confidence while his clammy hand rested over my clenched knuckles.

He spoke of a bright place, clean and organized, teeming with knowledge and cooperation. Exiled without a word; he made a choice that would bring about unrivaled chaos, and birth many monsters. Monsters like me.

That tale brought forth a question within.

Am I simply an offspring of energy, cursed as a bastardized being? Imperfect and festering; a mistake? Are all of my dreams just hallucinations? That woman's face and the frightened shadow, what relevance do they hold beyond a blurry image of torture and guilt? Have I conjured them for some twisted comfort?

I did not consciously dictate the action, but to both our surprise, my right hand released the prison bars and began a shivering reach. Palm flat against the left side of his chest, I relished the touch of soft fabric. Innumerable woven strings flexed and knotted to create something unique. This sensation of touch sparked some new keen understanding.

All I can rely on, are senses that no longer fully reside in me. Inverted signals sent by imaginative motion; progress halted by the cold reality that I am this. Every tiny electric jolt of magnificently terrifying three-dimensionality unraveled the truth of death. This current crisis of brief perception birthed my existence all over again. I am, in this eternity of a second, a nameless star in an ocean of secrets.

A chill ran across my wrist and my eyes fell to his torso. Cold, a tunnel of ingesting wind tugged at my open palm and projected a visual of some shape. A box entrapping a vortex painted my brain and forced my hand away. With that rejection, I found this moment had changed.

Strange. My back was sore, my skull was burdened, and my thoughts were softened in a dense haze. Dulcet chiming relaxed my taught muscles and ushered me forward.

The next thing I knew, I tasted blood.

The pop of what I could only assume was an eyeball lurched my consciousness from the depths. Like a dial cranked to maximum output, then reduced to half. Gnawing, hot liquid drooled down my chin. I heard him speak again and pat the back of my head. He seemed to front pride, but the disappointment was a cadence he could not hide from me.