The Shattered Self

The End of Stagnation

Entry A

It's been so long since I've written I barely recall doing so, and yet words flow to me like a silver-tongued devil has taken up permanent residence in the back of my head, feeding me line after line with each reeking embellishment worse than the last. And yet, already do I feel my sanity weighing back in on me like a forgotten chore amidst the sty in which I now live. It's cozier than it could be. The roof rarely leaks, maggots are as rare as they are fat (and one could bite your hand off if you lie too still, by my estimation), the bed is of a smoother stone than everything else. And the window. Oh the precious window, carrying that taste of freshness the rest of this place lacks. Even the other people seem stale and bland, as if the mere existence of this place is too great a burden for them to have any color or humor to themselves. But, fool that I am, I believe in that damned window and all its promises of freshness and color and like-minded idiots who stare at it and wonder away.

The gent who brought my new treasures, this very paper and pen, seemed of typical stock (big and beefy and angry with Life itself), though his face is new to me. He told me in a mumbly-grumbly way that his "seeyo" ordered them brought for me and kept in prime condition. It didn't occur to me till half of the previous was already down that they'd bring a table. I'd have thought it sooner, but apparently it takes quite a while to find someone willing to part with so fine a table. It doesn't even have splinters! Oh, what a day...

Entry B

It's been a few days (three or four by my count) since parchment and table day. I figure to waste my resources sparingly. My birthday is coming up, or so they tell me, and my scars sting with the anticipation of it. They celebrated a lot more at first, but apparently it can get as old for them as it has for me, to the point where it's more out of habit than real purpose. As before, the guards start bringing me double portions of food, as if I'm a pig being fattened for the slaughter. Though in this case it's to keep me from slaughter. How lucky of me, to be of such importance they refuse to risk my death. I'll admit, though only to you silent pages, that there was a time amidst my stay here I gave them quite a challenge keeping me alive. But that was before I fully understood the window in all its potent predisposition.

Ah, there's that damned tingling again. That feeling as if something very small is slithering beneath the skin from scar to scar to scar, leaving an itching sting along its path. Happens every time my birthday approaches, as if a little demon waits for my back to break so that it can escape through the torn skin. I've decided that this will be my last entry before my birthday, and I'll leave you pages with a gift: the reason I'm here. Murder by means of torture. I suppose it makes sense then, the whole eye for an eye deal. I just don't get why they stop at the means and won't get to the meat of the crime. None the matter, I'm sure that gleeful child who comes every year will remind me in time.

Entry C

Looks like I lied to myself again. Fourth day from now is my birthday, and the stinging in my back grows slowly. I'm convinced I probably have some sort of bug crawling in my back looking for an exit. Maybe I'll mention it, ask them to go after the little devil.

Three days now. No doubt anymore, there's something inside me. It hurts everywhere it goes. Need it to stop.

Two days. Can't take it. Everything is on fire, sometimes I even see flames. Make it stop. Birthday come please.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. Come bring your gifts...

Entry D

Well that was a novel experience. I've never found relief on my birthday. Whatever was crawling beneath my skin seems to have been extracted, killed, or thoroughly chastised. Regardless, I'm glad to be done with the little fucker. As I look back I feel shame for myself, wasting so much space rambling about wanting my birthday to come. I sound like an old man, whining about my back as I did. Halfway through that last entry they had to start force-feeding me. Apparently I refused to eat, or stop moving long enough to properly get that oily slop in me that is the staple down in these dank parts.

None the matter, I must move to the true item of note for today. As of yesterday I've survived another year of this world (though no matter how hard I try the bastards won't tell me how many years that is), and to celebrate the gent who brought me my table has brought me a true meal. Rabbit and mushrooms and berries, the meat glazed in some fabulous succulence that makes one swell with the hubris of a king enjoying some imported fancy. I must look quite comical to the guard watching me this very moment, writing with one hand and eating with the other as I am. Especially since I'm warring with myself over sating my hunger as quickly as possible or enjoying every bite to the fullest. Thankfully the latter wins out most bites, and finds victory easier each time.

My rabbit is mostly gone as I notice The Gent (decided to make it official) tenses up, standing a bit straighter and latching his eyes to Geoff, one of the looser bricks making up my westward, window-blessed wall, if my memory of solar behavior is to be trusted. Moments later the door flies open and is filled with a woman with a stature emanating double the business of Gent's never-ending seriousness, save the bemused smirk as she watches me write her out before her very eyes.

Well she was nice...ish. Knows me but won't say who I am, to her or myself. Lot to think on, but I won't trouble you silent friends with it just yet. Got to figure it myself first anyways, now haven't I? Nice to know my friends are the ones keeping me though. There truly is something comforting in knowing that I'm not just some random criminal to my captors, that there is some sort of personal connection between us, for better or worse. I suppose if anything it's the knowledge that even if all others forget they will remember me. And you of course. You eyeless watchers, earless listeners, silent guardians and memoirs of whatever remains of my sanity and self. Stay close, for I'll certainly need you on the morrow.