The House On Anchorburry

Parchment Well Past Worn

While Jaimee sat both confused and heartbroken, another parent found a scene no one ever wishes to see. Her child, age 16, lay in the bathtub dead, his wrist cut and mangled as if he was hurrying to get it over. Almost as if he was unsatisfied with a slow and draining death. By his side, a piece of paper, old as Egypt, sat stained with his blood and words written in nearly illegible handwriting. Tears rolled down the solemn mother's face as she caressed her dead son's pale cheek with one hand and retrieved the parchment with the other. She dared not read aloud, afraid hearing the words would bring more pain.

To Mother, a nod to the past,

In days old and new, in boily heat and blistering cold, a story unfolds ever slowly in the worn pages of time. A book of memories none can recall, pen of mysterious yet uncovered, and inkwell filled with the liquid of life. They stay in their monotonous pattern, never deviating. A soul in each item, each a piece of a much greater puzzle. Each an irreplaceable memory of its own.

I was the pen, sent by none to rewrite the pages of wayward souls and give them new purpose. My mission failed, leaving only a deep darkness and hatred for the Book and it's Companions. With the world wronged and fragile, I retreat. More damage can only come from my efforts; so much it might destroy the realm of conceivable knowledge which we, the putrid spawn of the Earth, have gradually built around ourselves. As a reminder to She, who has grown me from a seed of love into a flower of poison, fear not the pretty bloom. It is but only a weed soon to be trampled by common belief and rubbed into the dirt of neglect.

No poison can last forever. Not even within the markings on parchment well past worn...

The mother felt distanced by the note, placing it down on the blood stained floor. She hissed in pain, bringing the source to her attention. The old paper had cut her finger, a drop of blood beginning to make its way to the surface. Ursa, mother to the dead boy, could only stair as the drop flowed from her finger to the palm of her hand. Her tears had long dried and her eyes were gradually growing heavier and heavier until finally, she collapsed into a deep sleep.