Devil to the Damned (Prequel #2 )

2|9 - State of Mind

The worn yellow pages before me had long since dejected my vision. An ache in my lower back and stiffness in my elbow reminded me of long-since-passed hours of brittle humanity; more specifically, those tiresome after-school hours. This study felt similar to that, but with far more drastic implications. Each page turn mirrored that of old, all the anxious tapping and jittering of my lenses sent me back in time; surreal.

In the pocket of abandoned seconds, I saw the faces of all who may have wondered what happened that night. People whose names I've forgotten but chose to fondly hold onto. Some were teachers, few were simple grocery baggers or trash collectors. Even Sean found his way into my thoughts at the most random times, and with him, came a curious jagged tickle.

I was losing focus.

A heavy sigh and a long blink reset my posture. The papers before me were carefully and diligently reorganized. There had to be a pattern or related formula. Something related to The Ditch, related doors, or Teufel inspiration. Honestly, I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, just, anything new, and that alone defined tedium.

The nothingness of this liminal space blanketed me like a dreary imagining. This candlelight provided little warmth, and even less company. The whirring life of a burning wick steadied my roaming mind enough to submerge myself in his work; my current task, simple research. My loyalty, it would seem, has granted my opinion power.

One journal I set aside time and time again recalled my attention; I've read it four times already. This specific fleshy softcover was a tale of an unnamed philosopher whose soul was partly bound to Earth, and at the same time, overlapped with The Forgotten. When asleep, he would wake as his soul in this separate place. Trapped and unable to move or scream as he watched static move through a plain of existence that conflicted with expectation and reasonable understanding. The static he saw projected information; bits and pieces of many abandoned worlds, and what clues of their origin remained. He was the first to notate this place and observe its properties.

A name; The One, would always come through clearly; or so he claimed. Whispered in awe from source-less voids. When the philosopher woke, he would transcribe all he could from the static in three-hundred and thirty-two coded pages. Each was torn from the spine and scattered. Legend says, he was driven mad and used blood magic to split his mind into objects. Tokens of knowledge, that, once collected, would bestow a severed piece of himself unto the collector.

I had hoped to find some mention of any current scrutiny, but have once again come up short.

The ominous silence of Sin's chamber wormed as it always did. I leaned back in the rickety chair and peered through the open door to my left, down a deep hallway. Impenetrable blackness stared back and a vacant breath beckoned me to enter.

Sin is in there now, in a room of blinding white and faded memories. I've been there before and never left without a pain in my blood that lasted for days. It's a personal place; a place he likes to mourn alone. He has shared many secrets about his family in thet room. Their names, who he rivaled, and who he felt closest to. In a way, I almost pity the conflict of his mind; that twisted rot tantalizing the shriveled spirit of Ahkrum.

Shifting in the dark recalled my branching mind as Sin came rushing down the hall. He fast-walked past me as I tilted forward out of his way. I stood, tracking his movements towards the wall of clocks.

"Is something the matter?" I asked, stepping away from the desk and positioning myself in the middle of the room.

A desperate sweat beaded the back of his neck, though his face and body were stoic. He looked at me, deep consideration behind his flat expression.