Too long it has been since I've felt the sunlight graze upon my abrasive skin.
Too long it has been since I've basked within the moonlight of a soundless night.
I can't recall the last time I ventured forth beyond these walls. Frankly, I can't even remember my prior life beyond these walls. Perchance I was born within these walls and adorned with such a tedious life that I involuntarily chose to relinquish myself of its existence. Heedless to say, the screeches of agony that brood within these chambers are an affirmation that my past is not without impurity.
Did my mortal soul commit an act of treachery?
Did I bask in the shrieks of my victims as I immersed my blade deep within their bosoms?
Improbable at best.
My hands do not reek of blemishes. My hands are that of an artist; silk-like and unscathed. Such a dishonorable savage is out of the question, especially in a reality where swindlers and traitors are met with demise. I can't possibly speculate any other reason to why I dwell behind these bars. I likewise suspect that I'm neither an aristocrat, or anyone significant of that regard as the possibility of fever within these chambers appears to be too eminent for someone of importance to dwell. The croaking throats of my guilty neighbors are an affirmation that any form of sanitary measure is unheeded beyond the edge of my cell.
I specifically assert, "my cell", because from what I can perceive through the petite gaps in my door are an array of decaying and horrid cells. But mine is rather modern; an architectural design that seems to be gratifying, if I must say. Either that, or perhaps beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
Actually, scrap the latter. This cell is an appropriate display of talent, fit for a blue blood, and one would be delirious to think otherwise.
But I must ask, "why me?".
Occasionally I marvel over this enigma. I mean, I garnish my mouth with the sugary tasting water that trickles from the seedy stone ceiling of my cell, I befriend rodents that inhabit my cell and bestow upon them artful names, and I gaze for hours at the undying lit torch which lingers nigh to my chamber door. Am I not a half-wit? Has my mind finally surrendered to this loathsome place? Highly a dubious scenario. My dreams are too full of inventiveness for my psyche to be considered dense. One could say they are rather 'eloquent' in nature. Many dreams I struggle to recall, but one in particular remains vivid.
If I may, I wish to take advantage of this inauguration and exhibit an elegant portrayal of myself. I apologize in advance if this is rather abrupt, deviating from a heroic scene of my lost past and bewildered present, suddenly to a recount of my dreams. But I cannot merely state that my dreams are full of inventiveness without demonstration. Liberating myself of these chambers any time shortly seems grim, thus I shall demonstrate this flamboyant mind of mine with great detail. I shall be as descriptive as possible.
-As it always begins, I'm hurled into a room lavished with a gratifying aroma, endearing mantles, beautifully crafted sandstone walls, and sculptures of what I can only describe as 'erotic'.
Musing within my surroundings I carefully pace on towards the gorgeous blue lit door at the distant end of the room. Its beautifully fashioned architectural design is not simply that for I to gaze upon, but the door beckons; rather it bellows to be unsealed. Splendid and mystifying such a scene, yet this is where it becomes quite peculiar. With every breath I consume my body becomes tender, making each proceeding step more challenging.
Mellow footsteps gradually become sprawling thumps as the vigor within my legs diminish, and steady breathing becomes difficult.
The room, once endowed with light, now beckons to be swallowed in darkness. The abrasive heat from the ever so luminous light that once lingered within my presence no longer caresses my skin, and my accompanying shadow resigns from my side. Cold stale winds that bask only in the presence of death now serve to besiege my stance.
I begin to feel squandered and it frightens me.
These walls and these halls seem too familiar, but where there should be light there is darkness.
Complete silence ensues...
Utterly nothing...
The benevolent nature that lingered not too long ago now regresses beyond the borders of this malevolent illusion. The gorgeous blue lit door at the distant end of the room now seems farther. Clenching my fists, my knees suddenly kiss the ice-cold surface. Deprived of my masculinity, I lay alone in silence as the world I once knew succumbs to fear and turns its back on me.
I ought to call out for someone at this point, but I hesitate.
It is not the darkness which preserves my silence—It is what lingers within the darkness. Grave or not, I seek not to imagine what it is that lurks around me. Rather I evaluate the situation as being life-threatening as to ensure I take appropriate caution in avoiding any possible death. As the minutes pass I slowly wither from my dream, and once again reality engulfs me. -
A beautiful demonstration of my mind's flaming aptitude is it not?
Too bad its worth to you is petite. But I can assure you that the significance of such a dream will be bestowed upon you shortly enough.
Drowning myself in these colorful dreams is how I endure these walls between myself and the ever so strange adjacent offender. Rarely do I engage in conversation with the fellow, but his stories are inscrutable nonetheless. For years I've basked across from his chambers, and yet his eyes are all that I've captured through the small hole of his chamber doors.
Allow me to go off topic for a moment, for his narrative is quite riveting.
Harp-Harp was a former blue blood who one day, after a life of virtue and fidelity, indiscriminately immersed his blade so deep within the throat of his late wife, that removing it was near to hopeless. Oddly enough, she had not ceased breathing. Rather than end her excruciating pain, he sat her up and groomed her hair quietly as blood trickled down her neck. His daughter was an unfortunate spectator of his horrid act, and fearful that she may utter, he killed her; but not without anguish.
Actually, this has always by far been Harp-Harp's favorite part of the tale as I've been able to tell from his constant reciting. Murdering his daughter was in a sense 'comedic' to the fellow.
I still recall the grin that settled upon his face as he recited his daughter's death to me.
Firstly he clutched her neck and forced her upon the wall. Hovering his blade nigh to her face he slowly began to caress her velvet cheeks with its tip. Innocent blood ran down her cheeks and coated his tongue as he licked her wounds dry. She did not weep. She did not resist. Dazed by the abrupt and grim murder of her mother right before her eyes, one could only assume that she was rendered static.
Tightening his grip around her neck he whispered "Gagging my blade down your mother's throat was thrilling."
Harp-Harp took an immense sniff of her bosom as he rolled his eyes back. Slowly her eyes embarked to his and she calmly pleaded. Silence ensued as they gazed at each others eyes. Suddenly he hurled her back onto her feet, viciously seizing her by the hair, and scuffing her across the floor as she yelled in distress.
"You unpleasant grim bitch! You dare to plead with me!? I fucked your own mothers throat with my blade! What chance do you have!?".
Quivering in fear she endeavored to break free of her father's clench, but it was futile. After much anguish and bickering, he cut off her tongue, drove a blade through both her lips, bound her arms and legs, and buried her alive.
A barbaric fellow indeed. He asserts that it was all in good vain and that his wife had longed regarded her life a despicable one.
"An act of benevolence imparted from myself to her" he occasionally proclaims.
I suppose any unhinged psychotic would think so.
Strangely enough however his subjugation to these chambers is for an entirely different affair; an affair that has an age-long history filled with tales of high-born paladins who sought to bury the art of war. I never appreciated the magnitude of meaning within such tales. War is the fruit of all progression, the drive that propels man to endeavor beyond the horizon and build an empire for what he believes will bring prosperity. In these lands war renders forth purpose for every lion-hearted man. War separates the strong from the weak; the fervent from the sterile. Such a crusade to entomb the might of man is peculiar. Harp-Harp Jarl thought otherwise.
Intriguing as his story may seem, or not, it is an entirely different tale which I desire for another time.
It's rather riveting isn't it? Delving deep within the human psyche, allowing you to analyze my deepest thoughts and visions. We've only just met and I've created quite an innocent notion of myself. Besides, courtesy dictates that now is better a time than ever to confer upon you my name.
But the inquisitive mind of man beckons to know more than just a name. I could confer upon you my name right now even. Simply if I abruptly decide to tell you that I indiscriminately immersed my blade so deep within the throat of my very own son, that removing it was near to hopeless, then things change don't they?
Ah-Uh! Now your inquisitive mind seeks to know more.
Surely knowing my name would be fascinating—But now, me a criminal!? What travesties do I suddenly beseech!? I've presented myself to you as a man of purity; a man of righteousness! And what of these chambers that have secluded me from the world in which I can no longer recall?...Perhaps part of my tale was briefly untrue, but let's keep that between you and I shall we? I dare not to announce your presence if you vow not to announce my deepest secret. After all, we are now all but unfamiliar with each other now. Actually you know so very little of me. Perhaps it's best I start. Let me take you on a journey into a world occupied with fear, and how my situation and my cryptic world came to be.