Krissy: Horror junkie, and Freak-fiction writer for the TrippleThreatTrio, at your service.
I beg you, stay your swords and pitchforks until after I explain. Freak-fiction is at its source a story, a compilation, or a report of things that we do not entirely understand. Paranormal activity, impossible to explain events, and even the breakdown of a human's innermost psyche are all prime examples. Under these terms, there are a myriad of other ways to write and understand freak-fiction.
Understand however, that to truly be considered a freak-fiction, the story must leave you unsettled - or at the very least - pondering the nature of it. It must, as the name suggests, freak you out in some way, shape, or form.
I shall offer you a few example to roll around in your mind at your leisure. If you happen to belong to the SCP fandom, then congratulations. You've witnessed what some would claim to be freak-fiction written in a clinical fashion. If you are a fan of X-Files, or something akin to it, then you would be a fan of story driven freak-fiction. If you've ever watched a movie about serial murderers, or read stories of mental asylums gone wrong, then you have indeed witnessed what some in the occult world would call freak-fiction.
A few games that use freak-fiction would be the following: Silent Hill games, SCP-087 the Stairwell, Outlast, and even The Binding of Isaac.
As a consumer of freak-fiction, the possibilities are endless. I hope that you enjoy my interpretation of freak-fiction, as I bring it into this universe.
In case you have skipped the above, know this: the story below is made to unsettle readers, you have been warned. There is gore, and there will be more gore, and more horror in later chapters.
This is merely a small sample of my work, as I have never once exposed myself to posting stories on the inter-webs.
I'd like to ascertain the level of interest this story may bring, but I need you to help me do that. If you found it enjoyable, please follow, favorite, or review.
Next available update: August 2, 2015.
Fratricide
This land is not all that it seems, Shizuru. However it is our land, as it must be.
That was what my father, herbalist by trade, proclaimed all too often. He believed firmly that in order to understand his craft, one had to understand the spirit of mankind. Their nature, the hunger of the flesh, and the desire of all things perfunctory to the senses. Some assumed my father a madman.
Surely of this I know of this. I thought so too, given his interests. However, he did know what roots to use, and how to treat the strangest of ailments. People feared him, but, they also respected him. A sort of grudging admiration, if I had to gift their utterances a description. I don't blame them, in fact, I'm in awe of the common folk.
Medicine is a powerful tool, able to subjugate even the healthiest of men if used properly. My father made no deception of that.
Although he would turn away no one, he was a connoisseur of human nature. To say he enjoyed working with those particularly unfortunate souls would be an understatement. It would be selfsame to say perhaps, that a rapist only mildly enjoys intercourse. The analogy, while scathing, is still fitting.
After all, that is merely what many assumed my father to be.
A rapist of the mind, a purger of ailments that would otherwise be left uncured. It was a dangerous craft, or so he warned me often. Mutilation was a common sight, self-inflicted horrors were merely the tip of the iceberg. Beneath their twitching eyes, and between their cryptic words rested a wealth of knowledge. It was my father's job to pluck this knowledge from the depths. He would use it to cure the worst form of all illnesses.
The sicknesses of the mind, and ultimately the degradation of good sense.
I also grew to practice herbalism, but one of a different kind. I was more interested in the body. The breakdown of flesh and the seeping of fluids. Ultimately, things I found atrocious by nature. It gave me no little comfort to think that one day I might fall to such ills myself. I was not completely free of my father's tutelage, and as his protégé, I received a great many clients that I ended up turning away.
I treated women, not men.
Especially not men who saw fit to spill his seed anywhere except the womb of a woman. That was exactly the place it was meant to be sown, after all. If they chose to attempt to do so other places, well, that would be a failing endeavor. It was foolish in my mind, and unworthy of merit to even consider. Although, truth be told, I was not particularly interested in men.
My upbringing saw fit to squelch any and all desire I might have of the male species.
It was true though, that I understood the allure of a woman...and as such, why a man might choose to defile one in every manner possible. There were even houses for this, which suggested to me that some women even found pleasure in such activities. It was not an inherently bad thing. To give into vices, was as normal as the sun in the sky. As my father's research proved, giving into vices was sometimes the only protection from insanity.
I too, believed it. I was a student of medicine after all, and I took pride in knowing the truths of humanity.
Bordellos were not, by nature, a place of death. At least, they were not so by way of cruelty. Indeed, debase men would plunder some of the strangest of places, and oddest of women. In doing so, illness would cloak the land, spreading the epidemic of genital diseases frolic after frolic. However, every doctor agreed it was by the acts of foolish men, and the promiscuous endeavors of women that did this. Abstaining from sex was the only way, after all, to be truly free of any such infection.
However, it was also agreed; intercourse only as a necessity for childbirth, would keep the majority of innocent people healthy.
So long as only sinners were to blame, it wasn't of any concern of mine, or my fellows for that matter. Imbeciles succumbed to the wrath of nature in purest form. Survival of the fittest. So long as a man desired greater than his lot in life, he would be paid his due. Wise women murmured it was because the human spirit could be as fickle as it was honorable. The lukewarm sentiment did nothing but perpetuate my desire to send away every ailing man who stood at my door.
Yet, become a concern of mine, it did, much to my greatest dismay.
I remember the sordid evening well, rain sopping everything for as far as the eye could see. I expected the evening to be a quiet one, who would come calling in the rain? No one, I had thought then. I was proven wrong.
A woman came with a drenched parchment. Its contents were abysmal, detailing what could only be the devil's work. The scribe's elegant scripture did nothing to quell my fears. Even as it stated the hells to be distant ones. I read and thought of the implications. I thought the worst, and I feared.
I feared because I knew distance would not be a reasonable solution. As I recall when looking onward at the yellowed page, that I was both in awe of the statement, and curious by it all the same.
It read simply thus; the shadow of scorn grows nigh.
I had heard the statement before. The ramblings of conspiracy were not new to my ears, nor to my eyes. As a child I'd heard them. Men from the north cupping their prick, or what little was left of it. Castration was a tool of war, a punishment for criminals. Lobbed to the bit with a sword was good enough an answer. No greater was the price, than the price of lost virility. Never mind the burn of urine, or the eventual infection that would ultimately result.
No few men died in my sights in my youth.
My father would take even the most degenerate swine, he turned no one away. That was why, in their tortured screams, they would tell him things that would curdle the blood of any who listened. They'd say it was not of punishment, but, of retribution. For what, even they did not know. Who -or what- would do such a thing, they found themselves unable to explain.
I assumed them delusional. As crazed as my father. I pondered little of it.
As this woman sat before me however, I could see that it was not merely men that suffered. She had received such great losses to her person. A rather large wound, poorly stitched, made something yank at my gut. I thought instantly, she had suffered the same fate. This woman had lost something vital, at the hands of something she could not say.
With great haste, I gave her some opium -milk of the poppy- as known by the common folk.
I went to work, re-opening the festering wound. I expected green puss, and stagnating blood. I feared I'd have to pour in leaches to suck away the infected blood, maggots to clear away the rotting flesh, and holy-water so that the gods would be appeased. I found a much worse sight, when I peeled back the incision I carefully made.
There was no womb, no ovaries, not even a cavernous mess of which to clean up. Claiming to see a priestess floating above her, I gazed up, but I saw nothing. My crimson eyes returned to the inspection of her body. I could hardly hold the frightened woman down, let alone see to her rather distressing innards. The lack of them made my belly lurch, my own vomit splashing upon the floor more than once.
It made no sense to me, none. She should be dead, it was by the grace of gods she survived this. I was sure of it. How else could a person still be breathing, a woman no less, without half of her vital organs? Only the gods could have granted her succor. If that was the case, I could do no more then stitch her up, and medicate her pain.
Yet, she would not even allow me to help her that much. She violently flung me to the side at my attempts. Her eyes unseeing of anything, only the image she claimed to be taunting her.
At the mercy of her own hallucination, she died upon my table that night.
I could do nothing to save her. Exhausted, I faded in and out of alertness several times. After I was able to pick myself off of the floor stained with all manner of bodily liquids, I decided I would save her body for further examination. I left the room to prepare supplies, yet upon my return, she was gone.
I found this strange, but I would not speak of it, not to anyone.
I thought myself stressed, and, considered I had perhaps imagined the entire thing. It would not be the first time that my work with plants, poisonous and otherwise, sent my head spinning. It was a common malady actually, and that night I thought little more of the event.
In the months following, others spoke of similar events. A few far reaching letters came to my door. It was then I knew, I was not alone. Something had to be done, and, I decided that I was the spitting image of my father after all.
I set my path due north, but, I did not journey alone.
...
Krissy: This was merely a glimpse of what is to come. Either way, I hope you found it to your liking. This is Krissy, from the TrippleThreatTrio, logging off. I bid you a good night, and nightmarish-yet-pleasant dreams. Don't turn off the lights.
To the guest reviewer: I apologize if it seems unclear, but this is not a romantic fiction, which is why I haven't listed romance as a genera.
I do not intend for this fiction to have couples. Though, I suppose if you wanted to imagine any of these characters doing…acts…with any of the others, you're more than welcome to. They are as strict to their original personalities as can be assured, so if that permits you to couple a character, by all means, do so in your head.
However, romance will not play a central role in the story. In fact, writing anything inherently romantic would be quite inconsequential to my personal goals for this fiction. If you are so inclined to enjoy a romantic pairing, I assure you that the TrippleThreatTrio have several other writers who do couple characters from Mai HiME.
If you are indeed looking for romance though, you won't find it in this particular fiction. I would instead offer for you to please send a PM to the account requesting the pairing of choice. We have 6 main writers who plan to post up fan-fiction on a regular basis, and 5 who plan to sporadically join in as time permits.
To be clear though, the reason I do not write romance pairings; I am Asexual. I do not have the capacity to really enjoy writing them, and so, I don't really try to.