Author's Note: This is the first in a bunch of Achenar-centric pieces that I have planned. They probably won't follow any kind of order, and I'll just write them as I feel inspired to. If there is a certain something featuring the better brother that you'd like to see, drop me a line and I may write it.
I'd say that this particular chapter takes place midway through the time he wrote the second journal you find, (I think 8-ish years into his time in Haven).
Chapter warnings for self-harm and thoughts of suicide, in case that is problematic for anyone.
Achenar sat hunched over on his bed, struggling to concentrate on his journaling, too focused on just drawing in breath. The screams were loud tonight, unbearably loud. Dropping his pen, and spilling the inkwell, he covered his ears and pressed himself tightly into the corner, his back against the wall. It had never been this bad before, never so deafening. And when he closed his eyes, oh the faces, twisted in pain and fear and horror. My god, Sirrus! Did we really kill so many?!
He wished he had some of Sirrus's wine or drugs. He had never understood his little brother's use of such things until the screams had started. Maybe Sirrus had always heard the screams. Maybe that's why he had always used the wine and drugs. To escape. To make the screams stop and make everything go away. What he would give for it to all just go away!
How much longer could he bear this burden?!
More than once he had considered ending it. Taking his fate into his own hands. Sirrus had mentioned it one night, years ago, when he was really, really, drunk. Achenar had thought it was silly then. A stupid idea. But now, alone in the jungle with the screams and the faces and the shadows, it didn't seem silly or stupid at all.
He rested his chin on his knees, hugging his legs to his chest. He felt like a child again. Like when he had thought there were monsters under his bed. But as a child he had had Mother, to light a candle to keep the monsters away, and Father, who of course told him that monsters weren't real. Father had lied to him, though. Monsters were very, very, real. Achenar knew because he was one of them. And no light could hide him from himself.
He was so tired. How long had it been since he slept? He wasn't sure. But even when he did sleep it was fitful. He could see them. He could see them when he was awake too, but it was so much worse every time he closed his eyes, his weary mind picturing the scenes all too clearly. He had thought it was beautiful, before. Thought that the way his victims screamed and writhed and begged was so fascinating. It had made him feel powerful, knowing he could do whatever he wanted and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Maker, it had all felt so good.
Would the screaming never stop?! He let out a frustrated growl and clenched his fists closed, feeling his nails bite into his skin. The pain felt strangely relieving, a distraction from the screaming. He looked down and saw the blood oozing out from between the cracks in his fingers. The familiarity was nice. Blood had always been soothing, and now it was his blood he was soothing himself with. It was okay, then, right? He wasn't going to hurt anyone…
Reaching over to his hunting pack, he pulled out a knife. He had made it himself out here in the jungle out of the femur bone of a camoudile. The natural bone-white had long since been stained a muddy color from its usual usage, and it felt somewhat right to him, that he use the same blade on himself that he used on his prey.
Slowly Achenar drew the blade across his arm, and sighed with relief as the screams faded slightly. Repeating the motion, he leaned back and watched as blood, his blood, dripped and formed small pools on the bed. He smiled, and began humming softly as he cut into himself again. The screams were getting further and further away, and he felt at peace for the first time in months.
He doubted it was a permanent fix, but that didn't bother him too much. As long as he had a way to cope, if only for a few hours, he could survive. Perhaps, someday, he would even be okay. Maybe even happy.