It was just a simple book, with it's boring leather cover devoid of distinguishing marks and a thick ream of appropriately sized paper housed carefully within. It was like it's owner, who was oft seen scribbling fresh mysteries on it's pages, when not using them for random origami creations: Unimpressive on the surface but full of many secrets. A testament to something and of questionable value. Whatever lay inside was important to Charlie Nine. Worth hurting for, certainly.

Maybe worth killing for.



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It has been hours since my unstable behavior at the Arena; since recent events were allowed to creep beneath the armor of benign quirkiness I show the others, part of the game, and push me outside the boundaries of rational behavior. Even now, what I did and what I said it still hazy to me, the substance of which I can only partially recall like the way a great many people describe their dreams. A fleeting montage of aggressive behavior. Of blood. Of pain. The little static glimpses of who I am beneath it all. Up until now I would argue that I had been doing a very good job of maintaining my purpose against the onslaught of repeated external emotional stimuli so common to the mainstream Rhy?din masses. But now I?



Clarice is dead? Melanie looked at me like I no longer exist, perhaps blaming as much as I blame myself..

I shouldn?t care. I should analyze and disseminate what I can take from this and report to E and turn my efforts to a great many of the things I?ve been ignoring these last few months. She grows impatient with me and what were once dismissible threats have taken on a new tone, which even now get shuffled to the back of my mind in favor of this uncomfortable knot that?s formed in my stomach. Is this guilt? No, I?m not supposed to feel guilt over the suffering of others. But I find myself more and more drifting back to the notion of the purpose Melanie had given me within her life with the others; with Clarice. I was supposed to be the balance. The poor, pretty blonde w?






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If I get to take anything with me into the void, I think I want to take this. This image. This memory. One of a few, but this one of Jin Chae could be my favorite. Against what should be here better judgement she brought me into her home tonight, bloodied and terrible and too dangerous by far. She wouldn?t take no for an answer and refused to so much as crack a single pretty smile until I?d cleaned myself up and changed into some of fresh clothing (KC?s? but men?s clothes? and no thong underwear). She ordered sushi on her mobile phone and sat be down on one of the couches, chatting away at me about innocuous things as if I couldn?t have wrung the life out of her just a short time ago.

I think she likes that her profession doesn?t bother me. That she can talk about it in humorous (and sometimes serious) detail and that it doesn?t make me uncomfortable. That I don?t judge her.

It was like that for half the night or more, the eating and the casual conversation (she carried most of it and in my chagrin, I admit now that I was terribly monosyllabic), until she made good on her desire to introduce me to her favorite Disney movie: Mulan. I don?t think she noticed that I stared, intent on the casual child-like sprawl of her across the floor, chin to cheek and thorough lost in the events unfolding on the screen with all of the interest of someone who hadn?t seen it dozens of times already. There was a vulnerability to it that I, strangely, didn?t want to exploit and that I found pleasing to watch. Whatever face she presents to the world, as overtly sexual and outlandish as she makes it, she has seen fit to invite me behind the proverbial scenes too peer at something more raw. The more time that passes, I find that she has become just as significant to me as Melanie has?

It?s disconcerting. I want to understand it. I?m not supposed to feel. The inhibitors?

I know that look I saw on her face tonight in the alley. She has an inkling of what I am or might be. Her origins begin in Rhy?din, she knowns a monster when she sees one, even if she only had to look a little harder? She?s as afraid of me as she is interested in having me keep her company.

It bothers me, but why?







Jin told me I should stay the night. She told me I could sleep on the couch. Instead of turning it into a point of contention I shrugged and smiled and pretended to watch the next movie until she finally fell asleep there on the floor. I made to leave but found that I didn?t approve of the idea of leaving her where she lay, so against my better judgement I picked her up in my arms and took her to her bed. Worse still, I couldn?t resist the urge to brush her hair from her face? Then I left.

I don?t want to hurt her?

But I might.

I don?t want her to become another blurred face.

Her or Melanie. Or Clarice. Or some of the others.

It?s why I hide this book.

Failure.

I?m well aware of what that word means. And I suppose I should apply it to my inability to best Gren in the challenge for MoonBeryl, but while I am disappointed that I wasn?t successful, tonight has given the word a deeper, yet less definitive meaning. Instead of puzzling out the mechanics and mistakes that prevented me from gaining access to one of the Outback mysterious ?magic? rocks, I am left to depart from logic and tread into unknown territory.

Failure.

It?s my skewed priorities in choosing between my Purpose and the social ?life? I?ve found.

Failure.

It?s the conflicted thoughts I have over that which has been previously mentioned. I am forced to ponder on the idea of emotions that I am not supposed to possess and the impact they could have (or are having on my existence). I?m a monster. That isn?t speculation. It?s fact. I am and will continued to be a living nightmare, a horror applied to purpose, until the Void takes me completely or someone ends me. Before recently, the safety of others, of anyone, was about as significant to me as the idea of flicking a bug from my sleeve. Emotions are for manipulating, not pondering. And certainly not indulging. I?m not supposed to care what the rest of the world, of humanity, thinks of me.

Failure.

Here I am. An intruder in the home of the oddest girl who?s shown me not only kindness, but has extended the proverbial hand of friendship. Someone who has perplexed me in such an incalculable manner with gifts. A whore who sells the pleasure of her body for money, who is supposed to be among the lowest of civilized social casts and beneath consideration. Someone who shouldn?t be the barest flash on my radar. Someone who, like me, is expendable. An acceptable loss. There was a time that I could hamstring her and throw her to the dogs, to make a point or to slow someone else down.

Failure.

Now I?m sitting in her bedroom. Just another shadow. A ghost, watching her sleep and visibly wrestle with whatever psycological ?demons? haunt her. Here I stand some vigil, more horror than human, and do her no harm. Instead, I decorate her room with pretty things and tuck her back in. And I sit. And I wonder. I wonder if there was a time when I could have been saved. I wonder why I still keep so much time with her when I know how this ends.

I don?t want to hurt Jen Chae.

I don?t want to forget Jen Chae. Or Melanie. Or Apple. Or Terry and Peaches. Grace. Or? Gren. Any of it.

What I am is all I know. I don?t understand what I?m supposed to do when they want to know ?who? I am and I can?t? or won?t, give an answer that will satisfy.

I tucked her back in. She looks a little more peaceful now.

Failure. This is failure. Knowing what will come of this and still not leaving well enough alone.


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At this height, the sunrise is a just a hint of orange and red teasing around the edges of the curtains. It?s not much light but enough to render my night vision nearly useless and to reveal the most minute details about my prison.

It?s a puzzling mix of the austere and girly, neatly stacked folders and old texts mixed amongst a few pictures and an ever growing origami menagerie. The books are no business of mine, though I?ve been curious, and the pictures are a small trove of special memories. Wide smiling faces, full of white teeth and joy against the temporary backdrop of happier places. They all look alike. I?m not in any of them but the little paper treasures are from me.

Little pieces of myself I gave to her, before I even knew what that meant.

We had greasy steak fries and root beer floats last night, the latter taken straight out of the cheap paper bag holding them as we made the long walk back to the apartment building. She didn?t want to expedite the trip by hailing a cab nor did she want to take the less trod short cuts what would have made it shorter. We walked where there was lots of light and more people. After what passed between us in the Arena, the conversation had become more innocuous when we talked at all. KC wasn?t there when we arrived but Jin trying to hide a yawn made me reconsider sticking around. I was exhausted. She looked tired.

I had just made the decision to say good night when she asked me to stay.

It would have been prudent to say no, but I didn?t.

I can?t say if it was for her benefit or mine and she didn?t elaborate when she led me down the hall. She didn?t look at me, didn?t smile, as she led me down the hall and when I managed to stop imagining the walls on fire, I saw more. She lacked the certainty of a professional prostitute. She wasn?t sure of her decision. Even now?

...I can still smell her fear.

That?s the first thing they taught us. Not to kill.

To sense the fear. Smell it, identify it, exploit it.

Revel in it.

With her, I?ve done all but the last, and I tell myself that it?s only a matter of time. That I?ll do it eventually, because it?s what I am. What I was made to be. Like the night I fled this very place, out of disorientation, and maybe? just maybe, out of fear. For what happened inside my head. For what I might have done for her. Everything is so jumbled these days. I?m losing my purpose and I know where that leads?

She?s still sleeping.

It didn?t come to her right away and we spent maybe an hour talking between her sleepy yawns, the tension draining away. She was as hesitant to say anything as I was in the Arena, but each little glance seemed like an indication that she hoped I?d elaborate more. I couldn?t. But I wanted to give her something of myself. I felt I owed it to her, a glimpse deeper into the darkness so that maybe she could find a light that I couldn?t. She?d offered me something recently, free and without strings, but even as he continued to lay in her bed, we were both still fully clothed.

So I showed her something. It wasn?t anything overtly special, but it was part of me.

She asked questions and I answered in ways that would keep her safe. Eventually she drifted off.

She didn?t stir when I finally moved to sit up, her chest rising and falling evenly. She did stir eventually, a restless stretch and shift of limbs that even now still leaves an arm draped across my legs. Her cheek still pressed awkwardly into my side. I can?t help but think she?d be more comfortable holding her pillow and yet I?ve made no move to deter her. Instead I reached down to brush errant dyed blonde strand aware from her eyes like I expect her to look up at me any moment.

She?s unsophisticated. Uneducated. She likely comes from terrible genes and represents a minimal contribution to the future. The idea is supported by the fact that she has sexual relations with virtually anyone with the coin to pay for her time and affection. And I?m a monster. A creature reinvented again and again to hunt the shadows, capitalize on fear, and create horror for a purpose. I?m a spreading crack in a glass castle. I?m slowly coming apart at the seams, with control fading away and soon I?ll become worse. Some have figured that out. She has.

But here we are.

No judgement between us.

She promise she wouldn?t let me forget her. Or the others.

I promised her I?d never hurt her.

And I wonder which of us will break the promise first.

I don?t know how I know it, but I know that I?ll be able to sleep. Here and now. That for a few hours I?ll find a measure of peace here and that when she wakes up finally, she won?t have to be upset because I?ll still be here. Maybe she?ll smile and be glad.

Maybe this isn?t a prison. Maybe it?s a refuge.

That?s a lot of maybes.


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(Originally posted on RoH on 10/22/2014)


I've never liked the works of Robert Heinlein. Works of fiction shouldn't... make that much sense. Yet I've read all of them. A lot. I think that if I were to ever have my own personal library, large or small, I would have his works.

One man's 'magic' is another man's engineering. 'Supernatural' is a null word. -Robert A. Heinlein


I have always been under the impression that I was hardwired against the concept of faith and things mythical. There is no magic. Yet here we are.

I was warned against this. If E finds out, I think I know what will follow.

But then I look at her. The way she smiles up at me, especially they way she did after the party. I want more of that.

I want to believe.

Maybe even in magic.