Tainted Soul

Tainted Soul-Chapter 1

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I stared at the burn mass before me with a mix of triumph and glory, though I didn’t know why. I felt myself covered in heavy garments that were probably the same as the people around me dressed like Halloween ghosts—simple sheets with eyeholes cut into them. The air felt thick and humid, my mouth parched, and I wanted to get some water, but couldn’t move my planted feet. I felt as if I were a part of the mass surrounding the flames, unable to leave or move. Only moan an unintelligible chant in the chorus as I slowly swayed my lit torch.

I woke up, sweating and wide eyed.

          I lied their panting for a long while, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. Once I was sure I was relaxed and calm, I slipped off my mattress and untangled myself from my sheets all at once without opening my eyes, slipping on a shirt over my ripped tank top as I lumbered shakily into the kitchen.

“Morning Ben.” I was greeted as I came to the cupboard. I raised a hand blindly toward the voice. 

“Yo, Kazuma.” I responded as I drew the first bottle of whiskey I touched and turned to lean against the counter as I tipped up the bottle and chugged the whiskey down my throat with a familiar, welcoming burning sensation. My morning custom always managed to knock off the bitter sleep and keep me in a good mood. Because I was always in a dangerous zone after sleeping—practically sober. Of course, Kazuma would argue that I never wake up in the morning, and I admit, it was about two in the afternoon. But my body was equipped to handle extremes in my sleeping pattern, so he didn’t express much concern for it. In fact, Kazuma was pretty cool about most everything, tolerant of my reckless nature and didn’t get strung up over my jokes. It was why he was my best friend.

But, being Japanese, his eye was a bit too attuned to the smallest of changes in my attitude and personality.

“You have another bad dream?”

I continued to binge in order to hide my momentary lurch in my chest from his casual means to bring it up. The tactful bastard.

“Been watching me while I sleep again?” I asked, looking toward him for the first time since I woke up. He was sitting at the breakfast counter, watching me with sharp eyes, as if scrutinizing me. I’d been fooled by his easygoing voice—he was wide awake today.

“No, it’s just that you don’t normally drink entire bottles of cider unless you’re concerned with something.”

I stared at him in shock before glanced at the tag on the bottle in my hand. Indeed, stamped on it was sparkling cider. Immediately at the revelation, a large burp bubbled to my chest and I released it at once shamelessly.

“Alright,” I put my hands up after putting down the cider. “You got me. I dreamed about the boogeyman and wet the bed again.”

“Ben, I mean it.” He frowned darkly at me. “This is the seventh time this month you’ve been disturbed like this, and I don’t think it’s a psychological problem, knowing you.”

“I drink, sleep all day, and go through nightly combat sessions with monsters. It must be my brain warning me that I’m crazy.”

“You don’t need to be warned, Ben. We both know that.” He stood up and sighed. “Selene might be able to help you.”

I glared at him. “The wee lassy ain’t going to help anyone!” I chastised him in the thickest accent I could muster. Even though I could speak perfectly fine without it, I never wanted to lose one of my two marks as an Irishman. “She isn’t going to know what I’ve been dreamin’!”