Mnemophobia

An Assassin's Creed Fanfiction
By Fye Kurokawa

Author's Note: So I think I sent the 3,000 word limit to hell and back. I just realised how much more fulfilling it is for the reader to have longer chapters. Though I admit I didn't intend to write 7,300 words in one go, that's sort of how it wound up. I had to split the chapter in two. This is sort of a really long filler, and I really apologise for this boring, slow chapter. At least it's longer?


Chapter Fourth
άνθρωπος
Anthropos. I am only human. Consequently, am prone to emotions; love and hatred. This does not mean I embrace it. In fact, I profoundly resent this humanity of mine.


I know my eyes are open. I can feel the tears pooling. I can feel the stinging winter air on them, almost freezing the tears. I know all this--I can feel it all--but somehow this is not me. I am not here. I am in the crowd, beholding men dear to me being hung. But I do not know why I know them. I am still me, my mind is still my own. But my emotions, my body and my memories… They are not my own. They are someone else's.
I try to pry my eyes away from the men. One screaming, one square-jawed and one boy. The cloaked man gestures for the lever, I dance to the right, throw the knife. The guards are too slow for me. I have practiced this act for as long as I can remember. I am a savior. This is what I do. Of course they cannot stop me in time.

The two men and the boy stumble to their knees. I have allies all around that rush to them, others that fend off and kill the few guards who are aware of what is happening. I quickly rush to their aid, helping the men escape. Someone flicks a stone, bodies are thrown, there is a fire--everything is a blur. This has all been carefully orchestrated but my mind is so overwhelmed..!

Someone slaps me across the face. I can tell that this is not the first time they have done so recently. My face hurts and feels like it is bleeding. I can, in fact, feel the blood running from my lip.
The first thing I notice is that I am warm. A blanket is around me. I am not shivering anymore. The next thing I notice is that there is a cold compress on my eyes. I open them yet see nothing. That is how I know. I carefully remove it. Dim neon lights assault my eyes.
The third thing--which truly should have been the first--is that I am in an all-white room. I am no longer outside.

"Lucy! Lucy, she's awake." someone calls. It is a feminine voice. I reckon I must know that voice, yet it does not seem familiar to me in the slightest. I feel as though I should speak, say something, at least. No words come out. My throat feels sore and my eyes almost hurt. I feel a splitting migraine coming along, but I force myself not to think of it. Usually, problems go away when you ignore them.

It always worked for headaches, if nothing else.

I do not notice when my eyes close again. I hear the clattering around me, the distant sound of voices. I do not recognise anything around me, nor does anything feel familiar. I focus on the sound of my breathing, because my mind dims out everything else. I hear someone begging me not to fall asleep again, but the world does not matter to me anymore. I am tired--emotionally spent, and physically drained. I slip into another light slumber.

I find myself waking up in a dream. I am acutely aware that this is not true. It worries me. I can never tell when I am dreaming, and only ever realise it once I am nearly awake again.
I am standing behind a small counter. I recognise that I am at work at the small family-owned corner store, five minutes from home. It is not night quite yet. I figure my shift started no more than an hour ago. I look at the clock, and it indicates 3:48. I smirk. I was right; my shift started 48 minutes ago. This is a day I have already lived. I recognise everything; this is one elongated déja-vu. My worry is on the back burner. I can somehow only focus on my actions and the world around me. I do not know why, and I find myself unable to think of an answer.

When you enter the store, you are on the stair's platform, on street level. To the right are four small steps, two small candy distributors to the wal on the left. There is a large, high shelf in front of you when you open the door. Past that shelf is the counter. Perpenticular to the shelf is a door that leads to the basement, where the owners live. It is a cosy place. I often thought about how pleasant it would be to live there.
By the shelf is a small freezer. We keep the Mr. Freezes there in the summer, but it remains empty in the winter. I carefully sit on the lid, crossing my legs. My left foot rests on the step. My right leg dangles, bobbing to the song on my mp3 player at the moment. I look outside at the sky. The sun is setting, the entire world is basked in orange. The sky is clear. It snowed recently; the street is covered in white, and the parking spaces in front are only marred with a single set of tire tracks.

In front of the store is a vacant lot. There was once a gas station there. It was brought down eleven years ago. It was one year short of my arriving in that neighborhood. Now, weeds and wildflowers grow there. Concrete block line the perimeter, to avoid cars accumulating there. Past that vacant lot is a small strip-mall, composed of a comic book store, a hair salon, an ice cream parlour and a dojo.
For the first time, I realise that my skin feels as though it on fire. I sigh and feel weary. I stand up and push the door open. The biting winter wind hits my face and body. I feel much better, now, and leave the door open for a moment. I lean against the glass. I pull my hood closer to my neck and cross my arms. I look out on the street, looking down to the boulevard off to the right. I stand like this for a moment. Several minutes pass this way.

Something catching my eye, but it feels like a fluke. I turn my head to the left in time to catch a man in white jumping off the mall's roof on the other side of the street, on the other side of the lot. I sigh in envy. He is most likely another Parkour kid. There are many people in Chateauguay who practice their Parkour skills. There isn't much else to do in this town, if only get high or mar the walls of schools and buildings with grafitti.
The more I watch him, the more perplexed I am. He is alone, and no one else is around. He punches the air, seemingly frustrated. In an act that baffles me, he climbs back up the wall. This time he goes to the front of the mall to jump. I instinctively lunge forward, calling out to him. Can no one else see him? Cars come and go, the drivers not even glancing at the man on the roof. He jumps again. He breaks into a roll. He remains crouching on the ground, repeatedly hitting the ashphalt parking in front of the dojo.

"Oi!" I call out as loud as I can. Before I can speak any other words, I find the man is directly in front of me. The sky has darkened without my noticing it. It seems as though a storm is brewing. The wind ceased blowing. The calm before the tempest.

He surprises me, and somehow I am terrified. I cannot see his eyes. Only his nose and lips can be seen underneath his hood. I try to take a step back. I find the door is closed and I am pressed again it. My heart races dangerously fast in my chest. His breath and mine mingle in the air. Clouds of condensation disappearing somewhere above our head.
There is the familiar sound of metal scraping against metal. Tears stream down my cheeks. I cannot breathe.

"Stay. Away." the man says, gritting his teeth. I only notice his left arm draw back the slightest bit before--

I screw my eyes shut and scream as loudly as I can. I sit up straight and keep screaming. When air lacks, my chest begins throbbing painfully. I cannot inhale enough to fill my lungs. I struggle against a heavy weight on my chest, but nothing is there. I cry and struggle for several seconds. Eventually, I reason with myself. I poise a hand on my chest and force myself to calm down. It's a dream. Only a dream. Always ever just a dream.
There is an odd twitch in my stomach, and I feel pain there. Paranoïa gripping me once again, a hand shoots there. I probe my stomach. I do not feel anything damp, nor do I feel any lacerations. I barely manage to sigh.

I finally notice that I do not know where I am. As I begin to look around me, the door to the room I am in slams open violently. A woman runs in, asking me question after question. The words bleed into each other. Desmond runs in shortly after her, seeming less alarmed. He is, I suppose, used to these fits and odd happenings around me. The woman is still asking questions. I let myself fall back on what I now know to be a bed. I stare at the ceiling. I have the feeling my eyes are glassy.

"It was… just a dream. Just a dream. A really weird dream. Just a dream." I begin repeating the same words over and over again. I roll to my side and curl up on myself. The pain in my chest comes back with a vengeance. My fingers dig into the flesh of my arms. I desperately try to hold myself together. Every breath is shaky and uneven.

The woman in the room is clearly clueless. She does not know what is happening or how to calm me. I notice Desmond's sigh as he tries to explain the situation. The words he speaks are too low for me to hear. The woman exits the room. She does not close the door. Air still rushes through. The ceiling fan is spinning rapidly. My body feels as though it is on fire. I feel feverish. I feel sick. I am sick and tired and I want it all to stop.
I feel Desmond's hand on my shoulder as I mutter to myself. His thumb is rubbing small circles. This is a gesture I recognise as being comforting. I hate myself, now, because I know I seem weak. I look like a poor child struck repeatedly with a bat.

Somehow, that idea disgusts me. I realise that many things have happened recently. Since the night when I was meant to die--the thought makes me cringe though I continue to mutter--I've had many visions. I've had so many crippling visions… But is this normal? Does this not fit into my regular, every day routine?
I wonder if Desmond pities me, if only for a split second. I wonder if that pity would be deserved. Am I really such a sad person?

"How old are you?"

The question is like an ink stain on a blank white canvas. I force myself to regulate my breathing. I striaghten out my thought. I try to formulate a decent answer, but I struggle mostly with grasping the question and its purpose.

"Se-seven-seventeen." I sutter, still lightly hiccoughing from the fit. "Why?"

"How long have you lived in Chateauguay for?" His remembering the name of my town almost makes me smile. No one ever remembers Chateauguay. Only the people who live there.

"All my-my life." I answer. I find that I am calming down. Is this why Desmond is asking me questions? To calm me down?

"What school were you in?"

"Dawson Col-College. I was a lit student." My breathing is slower, steadier. His backdoor method is actually working. I am almost amazed by this.

"Any friends there?" He almost sounds worried. I almost get offended. Almost feelings.

"Lots." I answer shortly. "I'm in a club. Anime club. I know everyone there. We're like a… this huge family. They're always there for me. They're amazing."

I hear Desmond chuckle in front of me. The bed sinks in front of my stomach. He is perched at my side, his hand still on my shoulder. He continues to ask me many questions. He asks me the name of my parents and those of my cat and dog. He asks me what my favorite season is, what bands I like most and what color I love to wear the most.
I am flustered several times. I fail to understand why he is asking all these things. I was calm enough after the first few questions. Why does he keep going? Does he want to show me I cand trust him? Does he feel I need someone to talk to? Though obnoxious, that assumption would have to be correct. I desperately need to talk to someone about everything I am seeing.

My eyes being to droop dangerously low. Desmond sighs quietly and stands. I miss the dip in the bed. Its flat surface feels unnatural now.

"You should probably sleep." Because I obviously have not slept enough. "It's practically three in the morning. Seriously, you need to sleep." I fervently search the room for any clue on the time. The nightstand to my right holds an alarm clock. Bright blue numbers indicated that Desmond is right; it is 2:57AM.

"Do you mind if I walk around a bit?" I ask quietly. My throat feels sore. I wonder how much time I've been sleeping to feel like this. I look up at Desmond, staring at him intently. He seems to be debating something; his brows are pulled together in a frown.

"Yeah. Yeah sure. Just don't go too far." Desmond say before he gets up. He walks to the door in a fashion that reminds me of a spy. It looks as though he is trying his hardest to make as little sound as possible. "My room's two doors down to the right. You'll remember that?" I nod. "See you in the morning."

I scoff to myself once he closes the door. It is already morning, just that the sun is not yet up. I slowly slide my legs over the side of the bed. I notice I am still dressed in my nightwear. This is something of a reassurance. At least I know no one has touched me, and I am already well equipped to sleep.
The floor is made of dark hardwood boards. It feels cold against my bare feet. The sensation is welcomed; I still feel feverish and sickly. I carefully pad to the barely-open door and step out into a long hallway. There are only two doors on the wall opposing me; one door at each end of the hallway. The wall my door is on is filled with others just like mine. There are seven doors. Mine is third from the right. I assume that Desmond's room is the one at the end of the hall to my right.
Carefully, trying not to make a sound, I tiptoe to the right end of the hallway, to the nearest door. The white tile floor is colder than the hardwood, but not uncomfortably so. At the end of the hallway, I face the large metal door. I slowly push on the bar in the center of it, fearing it will creak, but it does not. It opens effortlessly on greased hinges. I take three or four steps forwards and let the door close behind me. I am faced with a spiraling staircase. There are ten steps to go down to reach a small plateau. There is a large window in the wall there, and a large window sill to match. I smile at it lightly and take a seat on the sill.
I bring my knees up to my chest and hold them tightly. I stare out at the still-covered sky and wonder if my family is safe. Are they sleeping well? Is mom warm enough? Is dad snoring too loud for her to sleep again? I wonder…

I lean my head back and let it rest on the sliver of wall there. The dim light from the far-off town is enough for my eyes to see in the dark. The sky is almost orange in the distance. My right hand twitches, and I groan quietly. I know that odd sensation.

I need to draw.

I cannot recall bringing art supplies with me. I vaguely remember the notebook and the pencil. I realise I do not know if my bag is in the room I was in. I know nothing of this place. I shiver, from uncertainty and the cold emmanating from the window. I slide my head to lean it again the cool pane of glass.
My breath fogs up a small portion of the window. My hand twitches again. I close my eyes and sigh. The restless feeling creeps up my arm into my shoulder. The need to run suddenly takes over my body. I frown and try to make the thought seep out of my mind. Now is not the time to explore and run off and get myself lost.

I blink lazily, trying to keep myself awake. Although I have the urge to draw, the need to sleep is overwhelming. eventually my body slumps on the sill, and my eyes droop until closed. I sigh somewhat contently. The cold air near the window chils my scorched skin. My left arm is draped across my middle, but my right hand lays at my side. My feet are pressed against the other side of the sill.
As I begin to drift away, I once again hear the sound of a woman's voice. It is not the same voice I heard on the plane. It feels familiar, thought I know it not to be. She sings a song I know well, the same that Desmond sung me in the hotel room. I sing along with it, slurring my words in fatigue.

At some point, I fall asleep. I had known I would. I do not know how long I sleep before a harm hand takes hold of my shoulder. I am shaken into alertness. I mutter unintelligable words and open my bleary eyes. My entire body aches. It contests being in such an awkward position for so long. A voice speaks. I do not take the time to recognise it. It demands something that goes unregistered. I stay still by the window. There is a sigh and another sentence that I do not catch. Arms slide behind my back and under my knees, and I am lifted away from the window sill. I tiredly reach for it, and, in a second of lucidity, I notice the sun has not risen.
I bounce up and down once or twice. The person carrying me tries to get a better hold. When they reach the top of the stairs, they swear. I wonder how they will open the door. I groan. My right arm reaches out, and it takes a moment to find the door's handle. I tug at it three times. By then, the one carrying me places their foot between the door and the frame and shoves the former open. The pneumatic hinge hisses as the door closes behind us. I am carried to my room. The door is already open, as I have forgotten to close is. I am carefully laid in bed and tucked it. When the person motions to leave, I grab hold of what I can only imagine to be a shirt's sleeve.

"Sing to me." My voice is unusually clear, and I know that I will not remember this in the morning. The room is silent save for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. A sigh. The bed sinks.

"I'm not a babysitter. I don't know any lullabies."

"Anything."

Silence. They are thinking of a song. Within seconds, quiet, low notes fill the air in the room.

"Don't wanna cry for you but there's nothing left to lose. Gotta let the boy have his way cause he can't seem to drink it away…"

I smile. I recognise the artist, but, moreover, I recognise the song. My hand slowly drops, hanging sitffly over the edge of the bed. I fall asleep listening to someone singing one of my favorite Pete Yorn songs. I dream of nothing, for once. I see no men on gallows, no boys being hung, no voices whispering in a foreign language.

I wake up to someone opening my room's curtains. This is the first time I can take in my surroundings. The bed I am it is pressed against the wall to the left and has a nightstand to the right. There is a dresser near the door, a television in front of the bed and a desk pressed to the wall below the large window. The walls are a dark blue, and the floor is, as I'd thought, made of a dark wood.

"Rise and shine, love. We got a lot to do today, so better get a move on it." A woman says, her raspy voice reminding me of several women back home. Her black hair whips around as she rushes from the curtains to the door.

"Uh, what am I…?" I begin to ask, sitting up in my bed. She interrupts me.

"You've got some clothes in the dresser. It's really not much, but it beats walking around naked." She pauses at the door, her hand on the knob. "Oh, and your bag's by the TV right there, and breakfast is ready on the floor right under this one. You'll be able to smell your way there."

And the woman walks out the door. I sit somewhat dumbfounded, but stand nonetheless. I walk to the door to close it. I stand there awkwardly, wondering if I should pull the curtains closed again. Deciding I prefer privacy over peeping toms, I make quick work of closing the curtains and undressing.
Walking to the large cherry wood dresser, I find that, as the woman had said, there isn't much to work with. There are several jackets and hoodies, most of which are either white or some cross between baby blue and teal. I pick out the only black piece of upper body clothing I can find. I am pleased to notice that it is an off the shoulder black shirt. It is too large, but I appreciate the loose fit. Pulling open the drawer at the bottom, I browse through the various pairs of pants there. There are many sizes, though I am hardly surprised. I pick out a pair my size--a darker wash jean, of course, because that really is all I accept to wear.

I do not look for a mirror. I run a hand through my short hair and instinctively head for the nightstand. I grab the glasses I know are there and open the curtains again. The sun is still low on the horizon. I do not look at the alarm clock and walk out the door.



As promised, another chapter is already up. I repeat myself; I'm really sorry if this was really long and boring. Right now i'm really bent on exploring Jordan and everything she is, and this might... take a little more time than strictly necessary. xD; There might be romance along the line. I'm still not sure with who or why or how. (I mean no matter how you look at it it's just plain old pedophelia.) But, eh. Let's see what happens.
Many thanks to Death Wish Girl for dropping a review in the last chapter. It was the extra kick I needed to keep writing. Even if it's just one review, it means the world to me!