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 face of chaos glares at me. That's right. Gengar is the worst, a havoc-level Ghost-type. Just being in the same room with one is enough to make my anxiety explode.
But it all makes sense now, that sudden defensiveness. It's all because of that Gengar.
A tingling sensation erupts in my head. Then a sweet voice slithers in, "Thank you."
My neck jerks. "I promise."
The Gengar's lopsided grin shrinks as he raises a brow. His stubby arms now rest on my shoulders.
"D-Don't you dare break our vow, Yan."
I blink. I couldn't have broken that promise, could I? And what was it anyway?
Dust pricks my eyes. That agonising moment lasts for quite a while before it dawns on me that these are tears. I must be so afraid back then, yet now I am calmer, I have control.
My lips quiver like roaring tides and frost wraps my throat. My pupils must be dilating or my vision wouldn't be blurry, all over the place, without something to focus on.
"You don't deserve this fate."
I was... moved to tears? How unlike myself. Now I must bring this secret to my grave before the tabloids get hold of it. Not that I'm anyone famous, I'm sure, but don't we all strive to perfect our image? We are, after all, who we project ourselves to be, and that's why we will never truly know or accept others' opinions of us, even when they stab us with their words and lace us with their tone. We just enjoy searching the wrong places and thinking we have the right answers. Later we are contradicted and we grow sheepish, claim that our answers are decidedly false, that it was all a setup for others to gain confidence and validation. Just like that: image, image, image.
So why did I crumble into an insignificant heap because of a Gengar?
Fear is unnecessary.
So I admit that, and proceed to be afraid in the Lost Tower? I guess I always have that stroke of denial within me.
"We are the same, you and I."
How similar can a Pokémon and a human be? We are two wholly different species! Was I delusional? Or am I just out to criticise who I was, again and again and again?
These questions swarm my head, an Attack Order by the Vespiquen in my mind's hive. They dissipate when I am thrust into a world of fiction. Or at least, a reality I don't know of; else, it is one I refuse to accept, when I once did.
•
The autumn breeze simmers down as it runs in circles, chasing the yellowing leaves that slip down the inky cloak of a man with a moustache and monocle who stands at the cold threshold of Old Chateau. Tipping his crumpled hat, he straightens his arched body as he speaks of a farewell that stinks of foolish fuckery. He stuns his audience with his gilded words and gestures that have long lost their meaning: a wave of lacklustre grace and youth, a nod that precedes the crackle of bones, a blink slower than a Shuckle's pace. Of course, he must scan his delicate eyes across the ones that withhold pain.
