Note to the reader, Ryan's great-great-great grandniece is supposed to be based, loosely, on me. (except the skinny part, im 197 and would be that curvy due to my skeletal structure) And yes. I do sing a lot. I can't hear a song I know and not sing to it. Thanks to Disturbed, there is one of their songs on here. Oh, and for the record, I am NOT narcissistic.
Here we go.
The singing girl was starting to intrigue him. He could hear her, day after day, just singing, but she never came into the ruined asylum. Ryan drifted into the unknown and reappeared outside the crumbling walls of his tomb. Dead trees, weeds, forest and filth lay before him. If he were a living man, it would have taken him ages to find her, but Ryan Kuhn was not a living man, so therefore could track her quite easily.
He followed her voice. It was deeper than a typical female's, but not so deep he couldn't tell she was a woman. She was singing a strange, depressing tune he did not recognize.
"…Over one last time…pray don't let the darkness cover me….deny…. everything…slowly walk away….to breath again….on my own…"
He followed her voice like he had followed so many women back in his day. She was walking around a clearing between dead trees with autumn leaves piled all around. But it was her clothes that totally threw Ryan off. She was not dressed like every other whore he had come across (and killed) but like a…well, like a boy. She wore loose fitting trousers, bright green with a metal skull lacquered to one of the pockets, which were set down near the calf. Chained straps hung off the back of them and the pockets near her hips were covered in black netting. She wore a simple white undershirt with a bloodred skull across her not-so-wasted breasts, like some livid tattoo, which he saw she had on one skinny forearm. It was a snake of fire curled around one wasted wrist with five names inscribed there. She had shoulder length copper hair with thick black streaks here and there and she had a bit of metal through one eyebrow.
All in all, she was the most bizarre girl he had ever seen in his life or unlife.
He snuck up behind her, her thin, lovely hourglass figure Oh, how her back must hurt under the weight of her enormous breasts and stood there, not doing anything, just waiting. Suddenly her singing stopped and she bent and picked something up off the ground. It was a key, tarnished and burned in places, but with a very ornate head to it. Ryan recognized it as the key to his basement cell, and his temper flared up at once. He pulled back an arm to throw her to the ground, when she turned around and her eyes traveled up, her eyes met his and he saw that they were the same exact gray-green as his own, very large, the corneas slightly turned down like a cat's. He faltered, and it gave her time to take a step back. Somehow, unbelievably, she was seeing him. She saw him for what he was, and by the look of surprise on her round, pale-skinned, yet beautiful Irish face, she recognized him. This had never happened before, and for a moment he was confused. The girl's eyes were just like his…except the Irish tilt, they were his eyes, the same gray-green, and in the sunlight, they were ringed with a flaming yellow color, giving her the hellish, demonic look he had seen in his own reflection in the water bowl many years ago. She was holding some sort of small, circular electronic and there was a wire connected to it going to her ears. Fear was not in her eyes, but a deep-seated curiosity, and a sense of joy. Joy of all things. She was beautiful. Oh, she was beautiful to him. The only thing was, was that Ryan did not want to kill her. For some reason, something about her…then she spoke to him.
"What is your name?" her accent was odd, not English at all, but the question itself threw him for a loop. He tried to remember this basic bit of information, tried to recall that one piece of his identity, but came up short…he knew it started with an 'R'. Ray? Royce? Rolland? Randall? Ryan. Yes, that had been his name back then. Ryan. Ryan Kuhn. He felt an empty, hollow sort of sadness. That he be dead so long and insane for longer, that he forgot his own name! He formed the words on his lips but then remembered mortals could not hear the voices of the dead.
"My name…my name was Ryan…Ryan Kuhn." He tried to say, but his voice didn't come. He felt his lips forming the words, but he could not hear his own voice come from his throat. The girl nodded with a sad sort of understanding in her eyes.
"I'm Ranekaera. My friends call me Ghost." She replied, but like his own voice, Ryan could not hear her. Instead, he seemed to hear a deep girl's voice, like a thought, or the memory of one, come into his own head, and for a moment, he backed off and began clawing at his own head, beating his broken hands against the rusty bars of his cage in an attempt to get the foreign thoughts out of his head. It was then that the girl touched him.
"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" he screamed hysterically, head raised and mouth open wide. It wasn't that she had touched him, or made as if to. Mortals could not physically touch a soul. For some reason, only a soul could touch a mortal. Her hand had not passed through him but had sunk an inch deep into his form and hit something solid, as if she had touched a living being instead of the violent, crazed soul that was his.
"I want to tell you something." Her thought-spoken voice said. Her face was totally serious, and Ryan flinched and drew back, away from her touch, away from her thoughts. Her eyes were freaking him out, those eyes that were just like his. Suddenly his whole frame froze rigid and memories that were not his really did flood his mind. Sheafs of paper, yellowed with age. Names. Dates. Lines interlinking it all, and the name Dorothy Kuhn., his mother, next to a picture, sepia toned and tattered. His mother, after all this time. (I killed her, I killed the slut!) A line linking her name and picture with two more names and pictures, then two more. Her brothers and sisters. One name and picture, Ryan Kuhn (she named me after my uncle, the filthy whore) was linked with a woman, and from them, more lines and pictures, names and faces that meant nothing to him, and never had, for he had never met his whole family. One woman, Marjorice Kuhn, with a man, Scott Young, then a much newer line, linking this woman Marjorice with four other men, but the line coming from the Scott picture was clearer in Ryan's confused mind: a line and much newer picture labeled Ranekaera Kuhn Young.
The girl let go of Ryan and he staggered backwards, tripped over his straitjacket and fell on his can on the ground, dazed and staring.
He was staring at his Great-Great-Great Grandniece. Four times removed.