In a castle in the sky, memories unravel the truth.
There lies Yan, a woman who delves into her ghost-infested past, knowing it will give her the answers she seeks. What she doesn't know: if she stays in her past for too long, she may never wake up...
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The duality of death greets me.
One gazes at me, a menacing skull; the other just smiles and reaches zir hand out. A sexy skeleton and a Dusknoir.
This must be why I acted in such an outlandish way just now, or rather, after this event to come. It's a distraction, a façade of pure innocence and extreme simplicity to throw off any suspicions.
I watch as they harvest the souls of dead men in a cave full of mossy rocks and frozen vines, where the occasional water drips from stalactites that repel each other greatly. Sendoff Spring. It's been quite a journey from Sandgem to here, a passing blur, a video on fast-forward. The few freeze-frames I get are when my eyes swipe involuntarily at the gradually frigid air as if someone or something is there.
The journey has been cacophonous at best, and ghost-quiet at worst. Now, I am not sure how I should think.
How should I react, when a cold steel flies up from the soaked earth into my hand, the blade glittering and reflecting my involuntarily warped grin in its newfound crimson cloak whose drips and drops rise to coat ashen grey?
I killed them, didn't I? Was that my sin? Why I ended up in that freaky place? Yet, I have no knowledge of who they are, no sense of familiarity.
Heads roll back to their necks and wider eyes learn to narrow their vision of the world just as I zigzag across them in a reverse fashion. The bodies rise like undead creatures ready for the kill just as the duality of death leaves me alone with them. I grip the hilt of the knife and frown just as they laugh, a hideous noise polluting the holiness of Sendoff Spring.
Just as. Everything happens simultaneously like that. How irksome.
They are a pack of Mimikyu, each having the flop of that clothed body, as much as the disguise of seeming gentlemen. Gentlemen with cold, dispirited eyes, calculating, surveying, waiting.
Then, the leader, perhaps so because he stands at the front of their V-shaped formation in their delusion of victory, speaks like an Ekans (or Arbok? Both names are wayward inversions, akin to their toxic personality, just like these men.) slithering about the Appletun grove, seeking some Apple Acid of wisdom to tempt a female scapegoat (that's one version of the Arcist Tome).
"Goodbye," he says.
"Sayonara," he says, dragging out each syllable like string cheese.
Ironically, here we are, meeting eye to eye, talking amicably with each other with our clenched fists and weapons.
"You're mistaken," I am compelled to say. They targeted the wrong person. I must have killed out of self-defence. My words... I can trust myself, at least.
