Mnemophobia
an Assassin's Creed fanfiction
by Gloria Patri
Author's Note: I legitimately didn't know I hadn't put this up here. I have another chapter or two ready to go. Also what is up with this website's text editor now? I was so lost for like 10 minutes there...
Chapter Thirteenth There are times when, if the mind is clouded, folly can be misconstrued as genius. By the time lucidity returns, it is often far too late; the pain has already settled into the bones.
τρέλα
Christmas morning comes and passes in the blink of an eye. Lucy and Desmond make a show of breakfast. No animus for me. Though Shaun and Rebecca are not so lucky. While Desmond is out doing... whatever it is he does when he is not around, Lucy works them to the bone. Though I cannot completely ignore the pangs of guilt, I decide to make constructive use of my time.
There is a wide space that is mainly used for storage. There are crates and palettes everywhere. It makes for the perfect trial run.
Here and there, Desmond has implied that he has learned many skills from his time in the Animus as Ezio. Maybe, if I am lucky, I may be able to make the best of these unwanted memories and focus them to something more productive.
I do not doubt for a moment that Lucy is keeping an eye on me. But, for now, I busy myself with free running. I remember little of Anneliese's life, but Sofia-Mari's training trickles into my mind like sand in an hourglass. Already when she was twelve she had learned enough to not get herself caught (too often). Maybe, if I am lucky, I can attempt to reproduce her methods.
I do not waste time. I launch myself at the first tower of crates I see. They come up about a foot above me. I give myself a running start and, about two feet in front of the crates and aim to grab the ledge.
This is a terrible idea.
The crates are all wood. And though my grip is originally excellent, the wood splinters under my hand and embeds itself into my skin. I let out a sharp cry and let myself fall to the ground, on my back. I hold my hands close to my chest. They barely bleed, but some of the wooden shards there are much thicker than my fingernails. I do my best to calm and steady my breathing and set to the task of removing the splinters.
It is long and arduous and painful. There are some thirty-odd pieces sticking out of my palms, my fingers. I do not count the minutes it takes until I am done. I hastily remove my sweater when I am done and wrap it around my left hand. At the very least, I can protect one.
Then comes the matter of hunting something down that I can wrap my hands with. At first, I think of the Animus room. There is a small first aid kit there that would help.
The embarrassment and my own pride urge me to find another way. I investigate the other unlocked doors on my way, few as they are. Eventually I loop back to the small storeroom. Surely there must be something here in case one of the crates falls onto someone.
I wander deeper into the towers and columns of boxes and crates. Most are unmarked. Some bear a symbol that feels oddly familiar. And there, at the back, on one of the rare shelves, is a small white box. I take a moment to pray and hope to whatever will listen that it contains at least ointment. Anything will do.
As I flip the front metal latch and open the metal case, it's contents are all I could hope for. And a little more. Maybe a little too much.
There are several bottles of pills, gauze pads and wraps, ace bandages, and least three kinds of ointment, and syringes, full and clearly labeled with names and dates.
They tempt me horribly. I have never been terribly good with anything chemical. I take the gauze, disinfecting wipes and ointment but leave the rest in their case. I close the latches and turn away. For today, the only things I need are disinfected hands.
The task of taking out the remaining, smaller splinters is as long and painful as earlier. I stop several times to recompose myself. I begin to wish I had taken some kind of pain killer. When the thought occurs to me, I stand up and jog around the room a little. It releases enough tension that, when I lower my heart rate again, I can continue working.
The bleeding is worse around my palm. The pain there, however, is still bearable. As I reach further out toward and into my fingers, the pain increases. Exponentially. The disinfectant does not just sting, it burns. I bite my lip and swear under my breath.
The entire process takes an infinite amount of time. By the end, it is clear that I have injured myself, and quite badly. The gauze bandage spins around my hands and around each finger, as best I can manage. I wrap the gauze a little way up my wrist to make a solid wrap.
The burn is intolerable.
I go hunting for Rebecca.
I find her, Shaun and Lucy in the Animus room. They seem to be grossly involved in a discussion I'd rather not hear. I make a show of my presence and they cease talking.
"Rebecca, do you have any gloves? Preferably not fingerless," I ask in her direction. She looks confused but nods regardless.
"Uh, yeah, sure, mine are on the desk over there. Just bring 'em back when you're done," she says, pointing at a desk pushed up against the wall to my right.
They're thick gloves and perfect to protect against shredding wood. I quickly thank her with a nod. I am careful not to wave or show my hands; I keep them concealed in the long sleeves of my sweater.
Back in the storeroom, I clap my hands together. They make a muffled sound, and the pain is atrocious. But the sooner I get used to it, the better. I am determined to see what I can learn from Sofia-Mari.
Desmond finds me several hours later. I am worn and exhausted. My hands throb constantly. The pain, by now, is only an afterthought. The achievement that pain represents is by far more important.
"Fucking Christ Jordan, what the hell've you been doing?"
I lay on the floor looking up at the far ceiling. Desmond's face appears above me, scrutinizing our surroundings. My sweater lay discarded on a crate somewhere, and a syringe or two, empty, are by my side. Eventually, I did return to the small first aid kit. The pain in my hands was hindering my progress. My head feels cloudy but blissfully at peace.
"Learned with Sofia-Mari," I explain shortly. I roll on myself to lay on my stomach. The concrete floor in cool against my face, and a welcome relief.
"Yeah and from Mister Morphine too. Shit," Desmond swears under his breath. I am vaguely aware that he picks up the empty syringes. He probably disposes them somewhere safe. He only returns several minutes later.
A water bottle is out in front of my turned face. "Drink up," Desmond says simply. I've upset him, I feel, but reach for the water regardless. I do not speak. My tongue feels heavy and my mind blurred. I do up slowly before uncapping the bottle, just as slowly. Sluggish, I think. I feel sluggish.
I take several log swigs of the water. The water feels freezing as it glides down my throat. In comparison the rest of me feels burning hot. The bottle is half empty when I finally put it back down. I imagine I feel Desmond's disappointment on me like a thick jacket. Suffocating, awkward. Uncomfortable.
"My hands hurt," I say weakly. It is as much of an explanation as I can manage. For once, my mind is quiet. The shadows they still. "And now they kind of don't."
Desmond crouches in front of me as I sit up. His hand cups my chin; she roughly noves my head this way and that. I am completely uncertain what he is looking for. He lifts one of my hands to inspect it. He frowns and removed the right hand glove. His frowns deepens. He begins unwrapping my hand without asking. He bunches the gauze in his hand as he unravels it.
It is not what I would call pretty. My hand is filled with small puncture wounds, some bleeding, some not, none scabbed over yet. All of them red and puffy and angry looking. Most of my hand is swollen, my fingers tinged purple here and there.
I stare at my own hand incredulously. I had no idea it would look like that. Desmond sighs and, with a hand at my elbow, pulls me to my feet.
"Not Lucy," I whisper, almost pleadingly. "I don't wanna deal with that right now."
Desmond chuckles. The grin does not reach his eyes. "She always knows, Jordan. She's been watching the whole time." Right. I knew that. When did I forget? "I'm not pissed at you," he adds, pulling me close to his side. He lets a hand rest low on my back and slowly guides me out of the storage room. Even through my shirt, despite my flushed skin, his hand feels like hot coals. "It's her I'm fucking pissed at. She could've at least tried to help."
Desmond pointedly looks up at one corner of the room before exiting. There, tucked into the joint of the walls, is a small surveillance camera. I never even saw it. Though I can't say I really ever looked.
He guides me through the hallways, past several closed doors. Most are locked, I know, but some are mysteriously left ajar. We pass them by too quickly for me to see inside them, thought one does seem to emit an odd blue glow.
Eventually we make it to what seems to be a spare room. Desmond closes the door behind him after I enter. It is sparsely furnished and completely devoid of any personal items. There is a bed, unmade, pressed against the wall on my left. It is the only sign of life having been in this room. There is a desk pressed to the wall opposite the door and to my right, a door to a private bathroom.
"Sit," Desmond says shortly, motioning to the chair at the desk. Its lamp is hebonly thing providing any kind of light to the room.
I vaguely recognize that this is probably Desmond's room. It is absolutely pointless now to keep the warmth out of my face; the morphine has made me far too complacent. I sit in the old computer chair. It clicks and squeaks as I drop my weight into it. I spin it round to face Desmond.
"Patch me up, doc," I say quietly, trying at humour. My tone makes it fall short. I feel too dumb and guilty. I hold my hands out toward Desmond. He sighs and grabs my left, beginning to slowly unravel the bandages.
Even he winces at the state of my hand. Some splinters had been been bigger than others. It makes my hand look like it has puncture wounds. By now, most have stopped bleeding. Desmond clicks his tongue and reaches past me to open the only desk drawer. He pulls out a small bottle of what I assume is peroxide. A small container of cotton balls, a roll of gauze bandage. His preparedness for this kind of situation makes me wonder. How many times has he injured himself? How many times has he treated someone else's injuries?
I remain silent as he dabs my wounds with peroxyde saturated cotton balls. I groan, once or twice. I otherwise bear the pain through gritted teeth. Not much else I can do; I've put myself in this situation.
Desmond's hand cups my elbow. His thumb brushes over the small puncture on the inside. He sighed, lets me go. He is done with this hand, mixes onto the next.
My arm feels like it has been lit on fire. It feels odd, pleasant at first. Until it no longer does.
The pain is searing, from my wrist upward. The pain feels like it scorches its way up my arm. Into y should. My neck. Into my eye. The pain makes me double over. I am barely aware of Desmond urgently askin me if I am alright.
I am not myself at the moment.
I remember Anneliese, I remember The Woman. I remember her soft skin beneath my hands, her heaving breast beneath my own—
I remember the punishment for being with another woman. I remember the pain of being punished for "stealing". I remember paying for crimes I never committed. Just because they hated. Because they knew why I wore white. They knew what I did at night.
I lost a hand. My hand! My sword hand. My loving hand. And my eye. For seeing what I ought not have. My eye! The pain, the blood, the noose and the—
Sharp pain in my cheek. My neck twinges from the sudden shift. Desmond grabbing my shoulders. Whose? Whose shoulders? Which me is he talking to?
There are just so many of me.
Something stings my upper arm. It reminds me of those vaccines in elementary school. I remember the sting and the soreness of it. Remember the feel of my heart pounding in my chest. I screw my (our) eyes shut. I (we) take a deep breath, and open them again.