The Shattered Self

A Trip Down the Twisted Path

Entry E

I must apologize for my neglecting you these past few days. That Woman (she's the only of the fairer sex I've seen since being put in here, and so deserving of the title) brought with her more questions than answers, and I found myself quite put out by it. But I assure you my melancholic whim has passed, and I feel my old self again. Or I suppose as old a self as one in my position can possess. Woman knows a great deal about me, or so she says, but refuses to share until I've made "real progress" on that road of self-discovery and remembrance I've been so desperately trying to drag myself down. Supposedly this little thing will help.

It's a stone of some sort, milky white and smooth as polished steel, a three-faced spike that smooths out on the other end into a perfect hemisphere, the whole thing no longer than the distance from the tip to the first joint of my index finger. I would discredit Woman's claim of it being helpful if not for her knowledge of its existence before it appeared imbedded in my back, right at the base of my spine, for me to dig it out. Despite having apparently grown from my flesh, pulling it free was less painful and more odd a sensation than any I recall feeling (not that that speaks volumes, but it's worth noting nonetheless). Though it's now been staring at me silently from its given place on the table for hours it remains as warm as my own flesh when touched. A curious thing indeed.

I remain doubtful, but Woman claims letting it rest in my mouth while I lie down will grant me glimpses into my past and help to remind me of who I am and what I've done. How sucking on a small stone can return to me my identity I know not, but even if it is no more than a fool's hope it's worth a try. After all, if a window can crack my practiced cynicism why not her and this stone? I'll stop scribbling for now though, for if even half her words are true I'll not be able to scribe should the stone take effect, and I would deface you no more than my whimsical thought stream permits.

Entry F

I'm striding quickly down a rather dark path lined by well-kept grass and the occasional tree, as well as the occasional lamp, though none flicker as a fire should, and I find no care enough to remark the oddity at present. I'm too far away now to see them without turning around, but the weight of the flashing lights behind me continues to press on my shoulders. Stark blues and whites and reds battling at different tempos for the same attention. I quicken my pace as if a brief touch of their brightness would portend doom. I notice out of the corner of my eye a shadow flitting from one tree to the next, moving in blinks so quick they're barely perceptible, hugging close to the trunks so as to be inconspicuous. I reach into my coat and open my mouth to announce my...

The world turns upside down and spins into blurry nothingness, resetting itself a moment later in a room. Before me is an occupied bed, the top half inclined slightly, with everything surrounding in a purely, starkly, disgusting white. A dozen different numbers and moving lines in as many colors, all adjusting slowly as the figure in the bed rouses from unconsciousness. An eerily familiar pair of eyes settle on my own, and sag with sadness and a hint of pity. My anger rises at the condescending smirk on that bastards face and I draw a weapon on him, the thing small and sleek and made for quiet and discreet murder. He speaks slowly, every word infuriatingly accurate, but their sound and meaning leave as quickly as they come...

Another shift and I'm standing over a cowering figure, every pore in me oozing displeasure with the runt on the ground at my feet. He shakily murmurs a few lines of what must be assurances of his obedience and loyalty, but I care for none of it. I place a booted foot on one of his quaking hands and kneel slowly, keeping my weight on that foot even as the bones beneath crack and the cowering man stuffs his mouth with his shirt to keep from screaming. He knows the consequences of rising more ire from me, and I'll be damned if it doesn't feel marvelous. Barely a whisper and he's crying for more tasks to prove himself to me, showering me in promises as empty as his head's about to be. Truly marvelous, this world...

Entry G

Gent tells me he came barging in when he heard me screaming, but was ordered to do nothing past restrain me, so that when I woke it would be with as few bruises as possible. Though judging from the numerous splotches he either took his precious time or the difference in our strength is not so great as I presume. No matter, I ache everywhere, particularly from the neck up. My brain feels thick as if with alcohol, and all of my limbs are heavy, making me sluggish and clumsy, though thankfully it takes little enough effort to write.

The stone is nowhere to be found, and the place in my back where it originally appeared has healed as if never having been there in the first place, which gives credence to the devil in my head telling me that I'm losing it. Yet I remember the visions so vividly (or did so for a brief moment), and they truly do feel like memories drudged from the recesses of my mind. Though even as I reread them again and again while I fill these next pages more and more details are slipping away from me. I could swear I knew the name for everything I saw while I was in the vision, but now not a one comes to me.

Other details seem distorted or lost to me as well, as if I remembered incorrectly on purpose. I certainly hope so anyways, particularly with that last bit. Do I deserve every punishment I've been given so far and more? It's such a funny thing that I never truly realized till it was questioned, but I've been playing the innocent in my time here. Having no memory has given my conscience a clean slate, and it has told my mind the rest of me deserves the same. Perhaps that is my greatest trial. My new self-proclaimed image and this one supposedly of me from before do not match, and my mind is at war over which should take precedence. I suppose time will tell, and if these stones and visions become a recurring presence.

Don't tell Woman, but I think I even heard my name, though any clue of what it might be is beyond me now. Oh, well it appears you speak of the devil and she shall appear. Gent is again performing his disciplined-beyond-infallibility act, and I hear those telltale footsteps approaching. And sure enough, here she stands before me once more, though now her visage is too serious and anxious to allow for any bemused smirk. It does cause one to wonder though, how, when she is obviously in a position of great power and I am but a prisoner, she brings herself to wait at my whim, letting me doodle away with words that mean nothing more than what one cares for them to mean. And she's yet to ask to see what I've written, only for me to tell her as I will, though I suspect she has them perused carefully while I sleep as there is now a guard in my cell with me at every moment of the day and night, primarily Gent. I suppose I should stop stalling and let Woman interrogate me. We'll see what she has to say once she hears me. As always, stay close and confident with me, my dearest of silent friends. Lately you have proven more insightful even than the window, and he is a dear old friend.