Sahlo Folina

018 08MOON 04

The words flood my mind as I am lying in bed, trying to ignore the neon white light plugged into my soul that makes it impossible to sleep. I figured that if I tried to write them down, they would let me go.

I feel strange, since the last couple of weeks. It feels like putting on some old familiar clothes that became too tight. Something seems wrong, itchy.

I read the last pages of my diary over and over again, but they felt just like a vivid dream. I remember beauty, but slowly the feelings begin to fade, impossible to catch. They come from too far away.

Nevertheless, something has changed.

As I wandered about in Keons' department, I stopped in front of an ajar door and couldn't help looking in. A man sat, there, resting on the floor with his straight back glued against the bare wall, his face looking up at the ceiling. There was something in him, some kind of magnetism that petrified me. A distressed feeling crumbled in my chest. His bare throat was ensnared in black skin and I felt claws capture my breath.

Then, it struck me. He was the man. The one from out there. I was appalled. This man certainly was different than the vague remembrance that lingered on. All kind of joy or determination that inhabited his childlike face had been metamorphosed in some kind of sickness resting under his eyes.

"You gonna stand there looking all day, kiddo?"

His voice rasped like a torn paper.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I just wanted..." I stopped, it was useless to give an excuse.

His face didn't mean any harm or aggressivity, just a profound tiredness. I couldn't walk away now, not without knowing who he was. I slowly entered the blank room and sat there in front of him. The floor around him was crowded with balls of crumpled paper. His hands, needlessly laying on his lap, were gloved in the same black smoke.

"You write ?" he asked, pointing the diary I was holding.

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, occasionally. But nothing interesting. Do you?"

"I can't seem to write anything good these days," he said, closing his eyes. I could feel his hands trembling. "Nothing good enough..."

I tried to change the subject, more out of a selfish need to find answers than empathy.

"Are you from here? I mean, Keons' department? I haven't seen you anywhere before."

He grinned.

"Oh, I'm fairly local. But no, Keons is not my Bishop if that's what you mean. Not anymore, at least. I'm with Nico now."

Nico ? Like Nicolas Bourbaki ? He was said the cruelest and the toughest of the Nine. I had never heard him being called Nico. Was he the robed figure?

"What do you mean by "not anymore"? You can't change Bishops, can you?"

"Have you ever tried to get out of here, kid?" he eluded.

My words sunk in.

"Yes. Twice. The first one kinda didn't go right. I couldn't make it out. But I tried again some weeks ago."

Needless to say that I hadn't gone far either.

He nodded.

"How was it? Out there ?"

"Unknown."

It was the only thing I could really invoke. The outside of Dema, Trench, was beautiful and terrifying. There, I was all alone, I didn't know what to do, or where to go. I had never felt more powerful and vulnerable.

Like a chain getting slowly dragged out of a well, link by link, the memories emerged from my flooded mind.

Trench felt dangerous and distressed, not like the safe tranquility of Dema. But the valleys, the flowers, the sky... The feelings were falling away. I didn't want for them to fall away anymore. It felt like I was falling away myself by loosing them.

"You should write about it. So you don't forget," he said, like he could read my thoughts. Perhaps he had the same ones.

"Maybe. But it's maybe too late."

"You got out for a reason, right? Dema. It's wrong. You get it."

"It's not that bad most of the time."

"People don't always see it, you know? How messed up it is. You should write about how it is in here. And what it is out there. So you don't forget."

"I don't know," I shrugged. The guy seemed a little crazy. Obsessional. "Maybe. What about you?"

"Me? Oh, it's different," he said, like it made perfect sense. "If I get it wrong, if people don't understand I..." he shook his head. He shook his hands.

"It's okay, I'll try, maybe someday. It's not like my life depended on it anyway."

That's when he gave me that look, like I had said something really funny.

Then a mask covered his traits again and his eyes sunk in agitation. He started to insist.

"Don't forget about me, okay? Don't forget about Trench. Whatever it takes. Please, can you promise you won't forget about me?"

"Yes. Yes I promise," I answered just to calm him down. It seemed to work.

"I'm Tyler, by the way. But my name is lame."

"Well, what would you want it to be?"

"I don't know, something cool like "red warrior"."

He smiled. And I smiled too. It sounded like a goodbye.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but he really didn't seem fit to answer them. Empathy covered my selfish curiosity. I was surely bothering him. It made me inconfortable. So I got up, and said, completing the excuse for my intrusion:

"I just... I just wanted to say hello."

I never saw him again.