This has to be one of the hardest parts I have had to write. Just don't know if it works,
given the fact that I had to do a bit of research, and kinda mashed together a few elements
to create the entire portrayal.
1421 words that hopefully make sense.
Huddling in the corner in the pitch blackness, sore and weeping. Unable to muster the energy to raise my head, as the dull ache in my skull resonates with each little sob in the gaping hole where my left eye no longer is. Still I do not know how long I have been here. Even more frightening still, I am unsure of who I even am. Which is worse? The bright lights, restraint, and never ceasing Inquisition that has ravaged my body, along with never ending questions. Questions I refuse to answer. Or the darkness and deafening silence, and my imagination running wild of nightmares. Shivering soaking in sweat, straining my mind in the vain hope of remembering anything. At points something taunts me, but always remains just outside my focus. Mostly they are mere glimpses of the dead and dying. Reaching, begging, pleading through a haze. Towards me in a dense fog, to help them. To save them.
Every so often I can feel my hand try and reach out to pull a fuzzy image of a suffering form, and they pass through my gnarled and mutilated fingers. Each failure to reach out and touch these apparitions grates on my mind, like that of a rasp on a bone. Contorting my face into a horrid snarl of frustration and torrential agony. Causing each new failure to emblazon me with a sorrow and regret, that crashes upon me in waves. With each new wave only allows me to guess as to who I use to be, what I was meant to be. All of it ultimately weighing on me in an ever increasing vice, slowly crushing my weakening body. Squeezing the life from me, as well as what little remains of my spirit.
“Look at you,” a voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, as if there is someone standing near me and yet far off in the distance.
With the little will I have left, forcing my eye to scan the darkness around me. I do not change my posture, noting from somewhere deep down that I am still alone. There was not an instance that I could ever recall of there every being a time when there has been a way to be spoken to from inside the cell itself. I am sure of this having explored the confining metal box down to the last millimeter. As far as I understand walls do not have the ability to speak.
“You’re pathetic,” the voice chimes in a scolding manner,” To think what started as a man, reduced to nothing but a quivering husk of fear and disappointment.”
Retreating a bit further into the recess of the wall, scraping my shoulder against the rough metal bunk just to my left.
“Go away,” I feebly murmur trying to banish the offending voice. It let out a sickly sinister laugh, sending a chill through the marrow of my bones. Echoing off the metal walls of the cell for far longer than could ever be possible in the metal box. Taking a long inhalation, emitting a hum of amusement and defiance.
“No! I can’t leave,” it began again, starting to take shape, becoming sharper, clearer, and gaining a definition,” Not until you remember. Become what you are. Only then can I go.”
I consider what it speaks, wondering how this voice can possibly know, that which I cannot seem to recall. Admittedly even as it ridicules me, there is something in the way it speaks that may bring some form of relief. In a way the hope in me is not much more than the dying glow of a spent match. Smoking, as it fades from my will to live. Knowing in my growing lament for death, denied by those who have done this to me.
“This is not what imprisons you. You have done that all by yourself,” the voice continues,” Not in what those who ream and molest your flesh. Not even in these walls of metal. The only thing holding you captive is you.”
Propping my chin up on my weary hand, searching the darkness with a little more vivacity with my burning dry eye. Almost creaking against the bone, as there is no more tears to lubricate it as it strains to see anything in the blackness shrouding everything about me.
“Stop looking for answers with your eyes,” It barks and I involuntarily jump at its tone,” There are no answers in this box. You are as stupid as you are spineless.”
“You have some nerve,” I hiss through my teeth, and exposed bone of my fingertips bites into my palm. The sweat burns into the freshly split flesh, only feeding the disdain for the contemptuous voice mocking my pain.
“Correction I did, but not anymore,” the voice grows more even, almost forlorn in a way,” But you of all should know that,”
“Quit dancing about,” a little more inflection and life in my throat,” You’re really starting to piss me off more than the fuckers who won’t stop trying to force me to tell them about those I don’t even know.”
“That is the spirit,” half mocking, half encouraging,” Now we’re getting some where. So get pissed off at me, I could care less. Though it is useless. Now shut the fuck up, and listen to me! Time and my patience are not something you can simply piss away, not now.”
“Fine,” I bitterly concede to it,” How can I remember, and be what you think I am?”
“Here is your key to freedom,” the tone growing soft, mournful,” Beja nis...Revein nisola gworn illumai.”
The words echoed in the hollowness, and silence ruling the sweltering confines in the emptiness of the cell. A few moments pass, before I realize I am standing. Something buried so far down, transcending a lifetime long since passed. No sooner on my feet, gravity brings me to my knees. For a second I am filled with confusion, and immediately stricken with a mass of emotions.
New pain more excruciating than I have ever felt before, making the fresh wounds nothing but a pinprick. Every bullet, slice, hit, and fragment of shrapnel from hundreds of battles, become one with the heat of a flame. Every centimeter of my skin shrieking, as all the old wounds come to life again in my flesh.
Every single face that had once been locked in a haze, now flashing before me in complete clarity. Each look of desperation, each hand reaching toward me. From the most recent injured, mutilated forms bleeding from all wounds a war can inflict. Thousands upon thousands of these horrific images only compound the pain in my flesh. Soldiers. Civilians. Humans. Aliens. Every last one I fought to keep alive. Dragging or carrying them to safety. Some survived, and others died.
The final nightmarish image lingers in front of me. Her small body laying on the gurney in the medic tent. Lower jaw exposed except for a bit of flesh on her right cheek. Large deep walnut eye, a gelatinous soup pouring from its socket. Limbs and torso torn up from razor wire, and a light artillery round. Upper pelvis and organs pulsing in the open air, as her purple blood flowed freely from every part of her.
I remember carrying her small body wrapped in my fatigue blouse, she weighed nothing in my arms as I fought to get her from the front line. Two frantic and mortifying kilometers, half a dozen rounds in me, and a terrifying several minutes tangled in a razor wire line.
Reliving every moment, as if it were only yesterday. The raw nerve reaction and ferocity re-awoke in me. The immense resentment I had when the medics could not save her, and her pale gray skin went white. I broke the senior medics jaw with all my force behind my fist. Nearly died from cross contamination of her silicon blood in my wounds.
My arms up in the air supporting an invisible mass, turning my face up into the void. Passion, desire, hatred, all begin to rekindle my fading light. In the rage, one word roaring from my swollen raw vocal chords.
I have noticed along my journey into book two (and no there is no book three to follow),
I find that there are times I simply can't find the will to write. Most of the time it is due
to being lonely, and deeply depressed.
More recently, it has been due to worry. My old man decided to go MIA, and we can't seem
to find him. And it is hard to want or to will anything out of me to write. It sucks.
But as life is, it is rarely fair nor does it make a lick of sense.
Though tonight I have managed to progress a bit on my story despite all the chaos going
on at the present, with my old man up and running about the boonies not wanting to be
found. But it is hard to make the headway that I have. Even missed this weeks meeting
with the local group, mainly due to car issues (stupid car).
That sums things up.
Since I do enjoy the Halloween spirit, and kinda want to enjoy what little I can of it. As well as give back a smidgen (sorry I don't has candy, and I can't send it via fiber optics if I did).
So instead I would like to share more of anti-fan-fiction story I wrote, after reading a particularly disturbing BDSM Erotica that really bothered me. And to make it more fun, I made it a kinda crossover with only Corlixia as the main point of view. So while it does share some things with my Duology, it has nothing to do with it overall. Also it kinda takes a similar (if not a more violent, and thematic) tone to the original story that it is crossed with. I started with the beginning of the original, but using Cor's perspective. And don't take the way she is portrayed to be as serious as she is in her parts she portrays in her original story line. To add just a bit more there is some 'time travel' to it, as Cor and crew end up in 2016 (and later back to 2716). It seemed the only way to make the whole thing work out. (It is unfinished, but I don't think I need to match the originals 11k, as it is just under 7k)
So if you are bothered by creepiness, gore, violence, language, and torture. Feel free to skip this one. If you are still here the text file will be down below.
So Enjoy and Happy Halloween.
Tis true. I have been neglecting my WIP.
But I have been writing anyway.
As most know, I like to write shorts (and at times
micro shorts in a random thread)
But when you are trying to get the wind back to
continue on lager projects it can be difficult, if you
are not sure how to progress the story.
So for the past few days I have been working on
a short that I was inspired to write from a rather,
how do you say unorthodox place.
So I just kinda started writing. And its been kinda fun.
Also I started rewriting an older short that was a
bit to sledge hammery to me. So I decided to fix it,
and change a few details while still keeping the original
cast of characters.
I think this time around it is building more around it,
and not just jumping to the point direct.
I hope it gives the revenge part of the plot more oomph,
that just spouting it all out 5 seconds before it takes place.
Tension is a good thing.
Ok, that is all.
Posted a bit about Marckus from my sequel, and it is a double feature of featuring him in his capture. On my blog in my sig, if you like Grim Content.
Separate names with a comma.