Volume V: The Tragic End of Treason

Chapter 26. Despair-Induced Epitaph

            I stood in the apartment for a short while, checking around. What caught my attention were a few bottles that lay forgotten on a table next to the painting. A painting that covered most of the wall, taller than twice myself. I fell to my knees and looked at the tools that lay before me. Tools that a junkie would possess. A drug abuser. She might have been using after all. But upon closer inspection, I found that the substances weren’t being used for the most conventional purposes. There was something else going on here.

            For those of us playing the home game - the substances I’m referring to are heroin and alcohol. For the occasional user and abuser, right? Except that Toryn’s too smart to be a junkie. Or so I thought. Shuffling through papers scattered nearby, I found what I meant to learn. Why would Toryn Ransom have such things so close, on demand? She’s not a user.

            Because she was making something. A creation long since dead.      

            A toxin remembered by drunk artists as part of the bohemian revolution in Europe. A poison that once paired with certain liquors was a sure ticket to Utopia. A substance that killed many of its’ users in the end. After all, poison is poison, despite the name.

            And the name of this one rolls off your tongue like a song.

            And you could sell your soul for a song these days.

            Laudanum.

            For the non-drug users in the house - laudanum is notorious for its’ pairing with absinthe when artists were so dependent that they could only paint while stoned. Absinthe, which is still made, which is the equivalent of liquid marijuana. The drink of the writers, painters, sculptors, and of course, the poets. Infamous for its’ green color and intoxicating effects. Laudanum merely amplified the result. But like I said, laudanum is poison, no matter how you slice it.

            Anything made from a mixture of alcohol and heroin can’t be all that great for you. Then again, I wouldn’t know for sure. The bottles were arranged neatly, written underneath them in sprawling letters across sheets of notes were a few simple words.

            “Darling, I’m already gone. Cry, Havok. Cry.”

            And nothing more. No signature, nothing to note when it was written, or in what. I lost myself in my thoughts for a moment, running my mind through times and places, trying desperately to remember. I couldn’t even pretend to try. I got to my feet, looked at the portrait one last time, and resolutely left. I walked out, clicking the door shut quietly behind me. I stood there for a short while, holding onto the doorknob, as if for balance. I could feel my mind reeling, I could feel my entire stance wobbling. And yet, I was still standing.

            At least in my mind, I was on two feet. Then again, it might’ve been my knees.

            I walked down and out, which was how I felt. I walked to the tattoo parlor, the bar, everywhere that might have been significant. I had about given up hope when a tall guy caught my attention, leaning against a wall, smoking casually. Dark features, he looked clever and scheming. He had the same qualities I remembered in Vincent. He grabbed out at me as I moved to go past.

            “Hey, you’re Dean, right?”

            “Maybe, what’s it to you?”

            “She wants to see you. Before she goes.”

            “And I should follow you? What the hell would you know about any of this, right junior? Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”