Sequence III: Perdition - Thus Came Death Unto Myrken (Part III)
Posted: Mon Apr 03, 2006 6:47 pm
WARNING! This is a Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.
DAY TWENTY-THREE
Today I saw the first of the ghosts.
It was a little girl, no older than my host, and her form shimmered as if the wind I could hear keening beyond the walls and boarded windows of my prison had followed her through the single door leading into it, the door that she phased past without hesitation or difficulty. Her arms were a mass of scarring, her clothes little more than scraps that covered her yet-developed feminine parts; her hair was long, and I knew that no scissors had ever touched it while she lived. The air grew still and cold; it seemed as though time itself had frozen, all the world plunged into a colorless alternate actuality. This I knew to be normal, for it had occurred before, more than once -- the first contact was always thus, and with it came a bond to the realm of the dead, an understanding of the lines drawn between them and the living.
No sound passed her small lips, yet words I heard clearly: "Why?
"Why am I dead?
"Why was I killed?
"Father? Mother?
"Who is there?
"Stop, it hurts.
"Stop..."
On and on, her silent speech filling and swirling within me, her unseeing dead and black eyes searching -- but for what? I could do aught but listen, so I did.
"Why do you kill?
"Why do you die?
"Why?
"Why were you born?
"Dead, then alive.
"You are the one.
"You will free us.
"Free me..."
Not yet, I longed to say, but my host's throat and tongue were dry with fear and awe, feelings I was aware of but did not experience for myself. The one and only thing that kept her from clawing the walls, from leaving bloody trails all over the walls and floor from where her fingernails had ripped off, from screaming her throat raw, was the force of my will. Even now my host suffered from the physical changes I was imposing upon her body, but those, while accelerated, often brought little more than hot tears and quiet sobs, groans and moans of discomfort, and sometimes a gasp of surprise as she herself witnessed the alterations to her anatomy.
My host's body now resembled that of a ten-year-old girl.
Meanwhile, I continued to inundate my host with a veritable legion of information: about the world, its peoples, its lands; comprehension of morality and ethics; a thorough indoctrination of what would be expected of her by the Master-Creator and her associated duties, most of which would be supervised, if not simply conducted by myself through her; what it is to be a woman, and her expected, if unwanted role in the grand scheme of a man's world; and much, much more. I was pleased to discover that my host was quick-witted and clever despite her precipitated youth, and able to retain various types of knowledge, learning and lore without complication nor hindrance.
I am the one the ghosts in this land seek, but this girl, my current host, may be the one I have sought for so long.
The ghost, with a look of wistful sadness, turned and departed the way she had came, and with her went the silence and stillness of death.
I willed my host to crawl to her straw bed, and we slept. Her night terrors, consisting mainly of the ghost and drawing upon every macabre outcome she could imagine, brought whimpers and soft cries to her lips, but I did nothing to comfort her. I had not been summoned here to ease anyone's pain; it was something my host would have to come to terms with on her own.
I, too, dreamed.
I dreamed of His touch, His mind.
I dreamed of what I would do to this world once I revealed myself.
I dreamed, and soon my host also dreamed, though no more pleasantly: she dreamt of the parents whose faces were but blurred memories; of boys she would never hug, kiss, cuddle or fuck; of her forever-lost childhood.
Welcome to the world, my dear.
Welcome.
* * * * *
DAY TWENTY-THREE
Today I saw the first of the ghosts.
It was a little girl, no older than my host, and her form shimmered as if the wind I could hear keening beyond the walls and boarded windows of my prison had followed her through the single door leading into it, the door that she phased past without hesitation or difficulty. Her arms were a mass of scarring, her clothes little more than scraps that covered her yet-developed feminine parts; her hair was long, and I knew that no scissors had ever touched it while she lived. The air grew still and cold; it seemed as though time itself had frozen, all the world plunged into a colorless alternate actuality. This I knew to be normal, for it had occurred before, more than once -- the first contact was always thus, and with it came a bond to the realm of the dead, an understanding of the lines drawn between them and the living.
No sound passed her small lips, yet words I heard clearly: "Why?
"Why am I dead?
"Why was I killed?
"Father? Mother?
"Who is there?
"Stop, it hurts.
"Stop..."
On and on, her silent speech filling and swirling within me, her unseeing dead and black eyes searching -- but for what? I could do aught but listen, so I did.
"Why do you kill?
"Why do you die?
"Why?
"Why were you born?
"Dead, then alive.
"You are the one.
"You will free us.
"Free me..."
Not yet, I longed to say, but my host's throat and tongue were dry with fear and awe, feelings I was aware of but did not experience for myself. The one and only thing that kept her from clawing the walls, from leaving bloody trails all over the walls and floor from where her fingernails had ripped off, from screaming her throat raw, was the force of my will. Even now my host suffered from the physical changes I was imposing upon her body, but those, while accelerated, often brought little more than hot tears and quiet sobs, groans and moans of discomfort, and sometimes a gasp of surprise as she herself witnessed the alterations to her anatomy.
My host's body now resembled that of a ten-year-old girl.
Meanwhile, I continued to inundate my host with a veritable legion of information: about the world, its peoples, its lands; comprehension of morality and ethics; a thorough indoctrination of what would be expected of her by the Master-Creator and her associated duties, most of which would be supervised, if not simply conducted by myself through her; what it is to be a woman, and her expected, if unwanted role in the grand scheme of a man's world; and much, much more. I was pleased to discover that my host was quick-witted and clever despite her precipitated youth, and able to retain various types of knowledge, learning and lore without complication nor hindrance.
I am the one the ghosts in this land seek, but this girl, my current host, may be the one I have sought for so long.
The ghost, with a look of wistful sadness, turned and departed the way she had came, and with her went the silence and stillness of death.
I willed my host to crawl to her straw bed, and we slept. Her night terrors, consisting mainly of the ghost and drawing upon every macabre outcome she could imagine, brought whimpers and soft cries to her lips, but I did nothing to comfort her. I had not been summoned here to ease anyone's pain; it was something my host would have to come to terms with on her own.
I, too, dreamed.
I dreamed of His touch, His mind.
I dreamed of what I would do to this world once I revealed myself.
I dreamed, and soon my host also dreamed, though no more pleasantly: she dreamt of the parents whose faces were but blurred memories; of boys she would never hug, kiss, cuddle or fuck; of her forever-lost childhood.
Welcome to the world, my dear.
Welcome.