My Soul, Bashemath

Prologue

A shockingly frosty lightning flashed down Emerald's spine. There was a remarkable herculean force that commanded her to begin a perpetual sprint to nowhere, no place at all, just race away from every emotion she had had ever pondered- and not pondered. Emerald was the kind who saw her emotions as a nuisance to others, something that people would heave into their thought process and analyze in an invisibly swindling manner simply to be non-offensively polite at the moment, but would practice ill banter of her to any close relative companion after she had clarified from the space with a newly attained uncertain security. She had noticed it far prior to that occurrence, and it had been an emotionally degrading habit, a demon of melancholy constantly tearing away at her soul that was continuously jailing every horridly painful thought inside, all of them infecting and causing the atrocious decay of the insurmountably precious inflation of enlightening contemplations.

Except at the identical time and place, the exact force had also enslaved her, locking unsensible, but heartbreaking chains around every bone, paralyzing her and forcing her to keep on looking at the abhorrent occurrence in front of her.

"What did he do?" Emerald inquired to her soul in an inner voice that sounded about as strong as moisture-weakened tea leaves. Her soul made a desperate attempt to send some sort of sobering message to her inner mind, to let her know to get as far away as possible, then cower in the familiar comfort of her ochre-hued bedroom, hiding from her emotionally negligent parents and ignoring the grossly potential greetings of arrogance from her naively blith partner, Soren. It wanted to direct her to whimper at her criss-crossed calves on her ironically bright orchid-shaded bedding, routinely forcing herself to fall into the viciously impatient choke hold of blindingly commanding life; repeating the irrationally, but achingly inevitable cycle until the lanyard eroded into her seldom observed subconscious with excruciating timidness to do so.

But the Melancholy Demon was sadistically loitering in the path of the soul's blazes to Emerald's tender mindset, tugging with exceeding ruthlessness on the chains that rested inanimately around her every single muscle, restricting even the most minor movement, the smallest expression of psychological pain being redundantly numbed by the impertinent acts of the ghastly demon. The demon's worst aspect was that it was practically unseeable to the victimized Emerald, as it had despicably intruded Emerald's inner self in early adolescence, maybe at the age of twelve or so, sent by people as unexpected as her parents laughing facetiously at pleads for aid with mental bruising.

"What the Hell did he do wrong?!" Emerald again begged to her soul, this time with a noticeably scarring urgency accompanying her mental voice. Her eyes become wide with terror and blurry with tears of absolute anxiety and wish for avoidance. She was looking at a middle-aged Native man in a sepia coat and seemingly freshly shined black shoes being lifted off the ground against his will by his bony neck by a millennial caucasian man, enrobed in black jeans, running sneakers, and leather jacket, topped off appropriately by an obnoxiously well-groomed onyx beard and matching hair, which was slightly spiked at his hairline. The Native man's face was filled with terrifyingly substantial dread as he contemplated the young man's threatening grimace. Emerald could easily detect through the flight of the planes of spontaneous immediate mental response in his seaweed-tinted eyes that he was mentally peeking into his inner vault of memories with a chimeric partner whom he had adored and caressed with the utmost passion and arousal, or perhaps unthinkably opulent children that he had vowed to work and pray on the unhesitant behalf of, entirely to the sensation of his absolute final deliberation.

Emerald was the only one who would be standing there to truly observe that final deliberation.

Almost as a flash from filmed video to static on a television screen, the younger harasser became an assaulter. He yanked a kukri out of the right pocket of his leather jacket with undeniable instantaneousness, the metal blade quickly flashing a lambency originating from an overhead streetlamp as the man swung it through the air by its wooden carob pigmented handle. The flash flew to Emerald's hopeless being, the iridescent force giving her a dreaded sense of illumination, almost like being unclothed in front of a herd of potential onlookers. The tenseness in her muscles loosened slightly at her shadow that lay on the pavement in front of her, stretching just a foot or two more towards the alleyway between two small brick buildings, the alleyway which had now earned the consternating title of a crime scene, probably becoming the prestigious weekly topic of discussion at pancake-topped breakfast tables and post-church recognitions around the area the next assumably halcyon morning.