H...h...h-how did I...? When did I...?
He was here. He was definitely here. This wasn't a dream.
You don't remember? Hesitant whisper in the back of his mind, just loud enough to hear.
I... Edgar looked around himself, looked to see if something else had happened that would explain his lapse, explain where he was and how he got here. The route to his mind blocked, information flow slowed in defense, an effort to more easily assimilate what had happened. It didn't hit him all at once. It couldn't. Trickles of information, the gradual logical realization with no emotion attached just yet.
Minor details rather than the entire scene. Forest for the trees. The enormity lost as he licked his lips.
Vague mint taste in his mouth...
Shaking, a kind of tremble that started low and worked its way through his chest and up to his hands. His body showed the signs long before he could name the emotion. Fear.
Oh my God, oh my God, how did I, how how, how did I get here, I didn't- I don't remember-
You don't remember anything?
No! Edgar buried his hands in his hair, rested his head on the steering wheel. The leather felt warm. The engine was still on. The radio was silent. Oh God. Pieces coming together now, more information working through.
There was a moment of hesitation, some mumbling in the back of his mind, then Scriabin spoke slowly. This is not a good sign, my boy.
I must've done this but I can't remember anything, I can't remember anything at all. It's all...there isn't even a blur! There's nothing, no time, nothing! It's like someone ed- edited my life, it's like someone spliced two scenes together and- God, nothing, not even a clue not a single scrap of anything, I can't remember anything I should remember something, I have...what happened? What's happening to me?
Calm down, you're not making sense. A moment of thought. Have you checked the car? Maybe there's a clue of some kind.
Edgar lifted his head. He caught something black at the edge of his vision and looked down.
His trench coat. He was wearing his trench coat.
Blinding sudden panic, too quick to defend against and too strong to resist. He scratched his arm and knocked his glasses askew as he tore the coat from his body and threw it in the back-seat.
He sat and breathed hard, the sudden onset of cold raising the hair on his arms. Shivered, hoped it was from the cold. He wrapped his hands around his shoulders.
He wasn't wearing his seat-belt.
He felt something, a kind of vibration and trembling and he felt it, could feel it in his throat. He listened, found he was making a strange keening whine and forced himself to stop.
Calm down. Scriabin sounded thoughtful. This isn't good for you...
What happened, what happened? Reality kicking in and he wasn't prepared for this. Did I black out? Oh God, did, did someone take me here? Did, what happened, I don't remember, I can't remember anything, I can't-
Calm down. What's the last thing you remember?
He looked out the window and saw it was drizzling. Still dark outside. How long had it been? Wait, the car was still on. Turned the key. As the engine shut off he realized it wasn't as silent as he thought. This new level of quiet was even worse. I...I was talking to you. I was talking to you about something...
Something?
Um...something... It was hard to think. He couldn't shake this feeling that he had lost something, that he had lost far more than just time. Some kind of strange violation, a betrayal of his mind and body and memories. The blank spot in his mind where that time should have been became a fertile ground for everything that might have been. Growing panic. Um...arguing. Arguing about something.
Yes, that's right. Scriabin sounded very calm. Perfect contrast. That's right, an argument...hmm.
It was 'cause... Struggled to think of anything, anything other than what could have happened while he...he wasn't here. It was because you were being nice to me, and I didn't know why...we...I can't remember any of the details...everything gets fuzzy and then I'm here, and I can't-
It won't do any good to think about it now, Scriabin said in a matter-of-fact way and Edgar fell silent. Whatever it was that just happened can't be undone, necessarily. The important thing now is to assess the damage. Later on, we can determine what caused this blackout and whether or not it can be avoided.
Edgar pulled his hands from his shoulders, ran them down his chest and across his shirt. What should I check for? Oh God, anything could have happened to me, anything...oh God, was I wearing this? I was wearing this before, wasn't I? Oh God, what if...
He put his hands in his pockets, felt his keys and his wallet. He ran a hand across his face and it felt smooth.
Did...did I shave when I woke up?
I don't think whoever did this to you would have gone so far. Scriabin sighed.
Do...do you remember anything?
A pause, then a soft laugh. Me? Are you asking me?
Yes. Edgar was...yes, he was too frightened to be offended or annoyed at his tone. Do you?
Hmmm...
Edgar checked himself over again as Scriabin thought. When he ran his hands across his lower ribcage, he felt a soft kind of ache in response to his touch. He lifted his shirt, looked a bit closer and saw that a bruise spread its way down his right side, ran down to his hip.
A moment of hyperventilation, shaking hands then necessary distraction to prevent further emotional damage.
He pulled out his wallet and ignored the lingering ache, checked through its contents, struggled to focus on something mundane. Couldn't remember how much he had in there originally, but he didn't carry a lot of cash with him anyway...all of his credit cards and identification still in place...
No, I don't think I do. Scriabin sounded amused. Unfortunate.
I...I can't believe this happened to me. Why here? Why now? Why me?
Questions you've asked before, but you've never gotten an answer.
Oh God, anything could have happened...I could have been-, I'd rather have a blur than just nothing, than just this sudden jump-
Stop thinking about it for now. It won't help you. You need to calm down.
How can I calm down? How can I-
You know as well as I do how to calm down. Scriabin sighed. Just think about something else. That's your specialty.
Edgar turned and looked at the church. Worn red stone with a dead lawn, although one could see where someone had gamely tried to cultivate some flowers without much success. There were two small spotlights that illuminated the carved wooden doorway and inside he could see the faint glow of candles through colored glass. He wasn't in the position to make out the sign at the moment, although he was sure it was nearby.
Stared.
Maybe...maybe I should...
Hmm?
Maybe...maybe I...maybe I drove here for a reason...
If you did drive here.
Oh God... He shut his eyes at the thought. Focus on something else, anything else.
He felt in the back-seat for his coat. He didn't want to wander in the rain without some kind of protection and his coat was all he had. I'm so...I can't believe this is happening...
Yes...this isn't good, is it?
I...I can't think about this now, I need...
Hmm?
He opened the car door, stepped out, and threw on his coat with one smooth movement. He shut the door, then quickly looked over his car. He didn't see any new damage...
What do you need?
I... It was hard to say, especially to him. He locked the doors and made his way towards the church.
Because if there's one thing you don't need, it's this.
The inside of the church was not much warmer than the outside. There were candles lit, although from the distance and with his broken glasses, Edgar couldn't tell if they were real or artificial. A bowl of holy water near the door, pews extending to the pulpit, all empty. He let the door close behind him, hopefully leaving the issue of his lost time outside. The dull noise echoed across the vaulted ceilings, emphasized the silence that came after.
No sense of peace...
No, I wouldn't imagine so. Not anymore, I don't think.
No, Edgar thought. He took a few determined steps down between the pews, glanced at the stained glass windows on either side of him. Felt his fingers twitch. No, not this time.
No to what, exactly?
I...I'm not going to argue about this with you. Not here, and not now. I need this. There, he said it. He took a seat and shook himself off.
You don't need this.
Yes I do! A moment to compose himself. This is one thing I won't let you touch.
You can't stop me.
Yes I can.
When have you ever? A pause, and Edgar didn't respond. Listen, I'm going to be somewhat kind. I'm going to give you a warning.
What? A warning against what?
Remember the last time I did this to you? You used to be a bit more resilient back in the day, but that's apparently not the case now. Last time I did this, the last time that I told you the truth, you handled it less than admirably.
He wanted to say that that wasn't the truth.
Scriabin continued. So I'm going to give you a warning this time. I am going to cut your umbilical cord.
My what?
I'm going to pull you out of your pathetic womb and I'm going to make you live.
What are you talking about?
I'm going to deconstruct everything you believe in. I will bring these exalted ceilings down around you and show you what you've locked yourself away from for so long, tear apart the bindings you so willingly entrap yourself in.
The hell you are.
I'm going to do it, and you'll thank me for it later. But I want you to be prepared. I would rather not have you pass out halfway through this, our little session together. That would be far from productive.
You can't do this to me. You can't do that.
Spend your time however you like. Edgar got the impression that Scriabin shrugged somehow. I'm giving you a warning, not a choice.
You can't take this away from me! Edgar shouted in his mind and felt his nails digging into his palms. This is all I have!
No it isn't. He sounded bored. You can spend your time arguing with me, if you like. Maybe we can consider it a warm-up-
No! You're not touching this!
Empty threats.
I... Edgar struggled to think of any time Scriabin had been afraid, anything that he could exploit, could use to back himself up. I...I can rewrite my memories again, I could do that, I will do that if you don't leave me alone-
Ha. You can try. You know why that worked before? For one thing, I wasn't prepared, and for the second, you were truly motivated. You were completely delusional. I'm afraid you can't turn that on and off at will. Besides, what memory will you edit me into anyway? You already did that with your previous tantrum, you threw me into practically everything, regardless of relevance-
I will, I swear to God-
Okay, I'm tired of waiting. He heard a snap. It's time. Are you ready?
You're not doing this-
God has turned his back on you, Edgar.
No He hasn't. He wasn't going to let this happen, not without a fight. Scriabin sighed in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar.
I can see what this will be like. Doesn't make that much of a difference...it's not even something we're unfamiliar with, is it? At any rate, where was I...? Ah yes. God has turned his back on you, Edgar, and you have turned your back on him.
I have not! Felt the urge to shout that, to hear it reverberate from the high empty ceilings, but controlled himself.
The minor details I'll bring up later, but let's focus on the most damning evidence first. Your time in the afterlife...
Complete and total shock. A real and tangible loss of body heat, he was sure, and his mouth fell open.
You...you're not...
From what I can gather, you met God, didn't you? And Satan as well, and they didn't exactly match up with your current belief system, did they?
You...you can't-! ...You said we'd...we'd work on it together, you said you'd leave it alone! His mental voice getting louder and it kept breaking. You said you didn't know! You, you said you wouldn't hurt me, you said you wouldn't touch that-
Oh Edgar. You really are so naive.
He had worked so hard, he had worked so hard to keep this from him, to keep this memory a secret for this exact reason, and then, then...he had been tricked, he had fallen for it, he had fallen for false sincerity, he had grasped for that scrap of outright affection and, and...
A deep sense of betrayal, pain manifesting in his hands shaking uncontrollably, his throat tightening. And underneath it all, that disappointment and disgust he felt for himself for having been so gullible, for having been used so easily.
Remember, my boy... Scriabin's voice was soft, mimicked the tender tone he had used before. This is for your benefit.
I c-can't...I can't believe you're doing this... Couldn't process information, couldn't block. That moment of vulnerability, when he foolishly gave away his trust, gave away responsibility, repeating and repeating and repeating. I can't believe you're doing this to me...I can't believe...
You may think I'm hurting you. That same soothing voice. He felt his skin heating, prickling underneath the bandage beneath his eye. His eyes stung and something twitching somewhere, maybe his hands or maybe he was just shaking. It may seem that way now. In the end, you'll thank me. You need me, Edgar, you need me to do this for you.
Stop... He couldn't logically fight, not now. He hadn't been prepared for this, and that in itself hurt just as much. Stop...don't do this to me...
Now, if this information is true, which it probably is, that means that your soul is no longer in God's hands.
Stop, stop please...how...how could you hurt me like this...
You're in the hands of something else now, some kind of strange system, although they didn't elaborate. You are now outside their jurisdiction. Satan mentioned it...that he and, as one can extrapolate, God, have no power over that system's decisions. You are outside now, Edgar, outside the realm of gods and devils. You are a free entity, untouchable by all others.
Edgar crossed his arms on the back of the pew in front of him, pressed his forehead against the folds of his coat hard so he could feel the ache.
How could you do this to me...? How can you do this to me?
And he wasn't listening and he kept talking and oh God, why won't he listen? God cannot touch you. The Devil cannot touch you. God doesn't care either, Edgar, as he showed you when you met him. He does not care about you. I somehow doubt he ever will. And I doubt that he would care at all if you ended up right back in Hell, like Satan suggested you would.
Shivering.
If you are damned already, which at this point is fairly likely I would say, judging from your current behavior, then there's no reason to continue with this charade. There's no reason to torture yourself like this anymore. There's no reason to play the martyr, drive more nails into your willing hands. You don't have to hurt yourself over your behavior anymore. Restraint without motive is pointless. You have no motivation to be good, Edgar, as there is no longer any kind of reward. And lord knows, there is no such thing as true altruism.
Too hurt by the lie, too deeply hurt by the flagrant betrayal of his trust to muster any kind of argument, to even revert to his most oft-used defense of denial, too hurt to do anything more than beg for mercy.
Please...please, please don't...
But you may be wondering, you may be wondering about the support that your god gives you. What could be the harm in that? Perhaps Heaven is not your primary motivation, but instead the thought of unconditional love from some source, some source beyond your control. The thought of someone who is always there, will always listen, and will always support you invisibly. The greatest placebo of them all.
Energy expended, now shivering in waves.
And that is one of my primary reasons for doing this. You're depending on something else, something unreliable and in the end destructive, to support you when you should be depending on yourself. You should depend on your own strength, your own ability. You should find your strength in yourself, in your character, not in a pleasant fantasy.
I'm not strong...I'm not strong enough... Hoped the admission of weakness could stop this, that offering his throat would stop the attack, grant the dominance that he was sure must have motivated him. Heard his breath hissing past his teeth, felt the brief warmth through the fabric of his coat.
Yes you are, Edgar. Authority in his voice that he could not question. You just don't want to admit it. You've always had the capacity for change, you've always had that power. You've always been the master of your own fate. You have the ability to make decisions, you have the ability to take charge, to control what's happening to you. You've always had that power but you've never used it. You've never believed in yourself to see it. You've never had the strength to find it. You've always fallen back on your support lines. You've always shifted responsibility for yourself, for your fate, for your happiness, for every stupid little thing to your god. That way it's out of your hands. That way you're safe. That's not healthy, Edgar. You're capable of so much more.
I trusted you...
You did. And look where it's gotten you. You shifted responsibility for yourself onto me, and look where it's gotten you.
His breath caught, trapped in his throat, a short gasp and he tried to stop what he knew was coming.
How could you do this to me...
Do you think this is a bad thing? No, silly question. I can feel your pain quite acutely. You think that shifting that responsibility to me was a bad thing. There's a difference between me and your god, Edgar. There's a big difference. I am here to motivate you, and I will motivate you to change. I will direct you, influence you, and force you to find that power. I will find your strength, I will find the power you used to have, and I will show you how to use it. I will give you your life back. I won't sit back and let you lead a life of lies, like your god was so fond of doing. I will give you strength, the strength you need to fight the system and stop the decay you know is coming.
Mental voice growing weak and high. I don't want to depend on you...
Well, good! You shouldn't want to depend on anyone except yourself. You are the only constant in this world, Edgar. This entire scenario, it's always been under your control. You are the only one who can save yourself. There is no time for lies and false redemption. You don't need God, Edgar. You never did. You need yourself.
Pulling back further, further, trying to get away from the thing that burned and pain, get somewhere safe. I do, I do need Him, I can't do this alone-
You won't do this alone, remember? I'm here. I said I'd be here, and I will be. I will be your greatest asset in the challenge to come, Edgar. I will be your greatest gift, your weapon against whatever fate is in store for you. I won't let you sit back and take it anymore. I won't let you give your life away to other people. I will be your change, your catalyst. I will take everything wrong about you and make it right. I will work and fight and push you until you win, until you break free of this system and you can live your own life again. I will work to preserve your sanity, I will give you the mental power, the fortitude, the motivation to stand against the coming storm because I will strip away the lies, the false shields and the defense mechanisms that stand in your way. Your god can't do that. He wouldn't want to do that. He's content to stand idly by, to let you go. What kind of loving and merciful god would let this happen to a child so devoted, so dedicated to him? What kind of god would leave you to some other system's machinations without a second glance, as you know your god has done? He doesn't care about you. He doesn't love you. These are facts, Edgar, not beliefs. You know this is true.
Tiny words written in a child's hand, scribbled with crayon on a piece of construction paper and slid under a door. Reassurance, reassurance, everything will be okay, everything will be okay as long as
He does...
God doesn't care about you, Edgar. stop hurting me You're nothing to him. stop hurting me You're insignificant, a minor cog i cant make it stop that fell out of place. You're part of something bigger now, i dont want this to be true something outside his control. please tell me you're lying and Your god can't save you now.
make me stop believing you
Finality, reality. The door slammed and caught and a faint scream from far away, long ago.
Your god can't save you now.
A choked sob, and his entire body tensed and tried to erase it, tried to stop breathing. Tears soaked into his jacket, his eyes clenched shut and willing, willing with every fiber in his being for it to stop. An immediate subconscious mental tirade that demanded that the tears stop, that he find some other method of dealing with it than something so childish, useless, and weak. Stop crying right now. It won't help you. What kind of man are you stop that immediately
Scriabin was quiet for a few seconds as Edgar struggled to get himself back under control. Furiously erasing erasing erasing.
He hovered on the edge. His breathing was shaky and came in gasps and his eyes still watered. Under control by only a few threads, a few threads of doubt and hope that were all he had.
There was no cruelty in his voice. The only one who can save you now is yourself. Don't you understand? It's up to you, Edgar. You can't depend on anyone else anymore. God won't help you. You're out of his hands. You've been cut away from him, forever removed from his grace and shining light or whatever it was.
Snip.
He has abandoned you. He has left you for dead. Nothing you say, no prayers and no pleading, no begging for forgiveness, will bring him back. Nothing, no one will take this cup away from you, Edgar. It's up to you, it's up to you to overcome this. He will not save you.
Snip. Snip.
God has abandoned you. god no please You are alone. no oh god NO NO
Completely alone.
A loud sob tore through his throat, echoed in an empty church. Reality hit hard and it hit without mercy. Emptiness that fueled tears and made it hard to breathe.
He is gone, Scriabin said softly. He will not come back for you. You know this. You know this is true. He has abandoned you.
Racking pain, emotional that tore its way through his stomach, his chest, ripped through his throat and he struggled not to make too much noise, not to disturb anyone else who may be here. He kept his eyes shut, his face hidden. Could feel the welling up of deep pain, of deep emotional pain that never found a previous voice that worked through his body so slowly, came from his mouth so loudly. Not sobs but loud whines, half-screams caught and cut short.
Edgar wept.
He wasn't sure for how long. It was the first time that he could really remember ever doing something like this, ever crying this hard over anything. Over everything. He had no frame of reference.
Sometimes the motion, the action took precedence over his thoughts and he wasn't sure why he was sobbing so hard, just that he was doing it and he couldn't stop, he just couldn't stop. Every time he took a deep breath, struggled to find those defenses that had protected him against this for so long, he touched that same kind of pain. The uprooting of something he had used so long as support, as a way to bury everything, as a way to block reality, as a way to make his life tolerable and give it meaning through something other than other people. He would touch that wound, that deep and fresh wound and pain would shoot through him again, the memories of Hell and what he'd seen and the thought of what would happen to him, and the deep fear and knowledge that he was right, Scriabin was right. He had no one to turn to now, no one except himself.
And within that wound, he found something that had been bleeding, something infected and deep and painful, something that had worked its way into his thoughts for so long that it was barely noticed, the thousand capillaries that never warranted further attention. Infection deep from a time he couldn't remember, from a wound he never healed and never tried to heal, simply ignored and hoped it would go away. Within that, within all of the pain of having his support stripped away, he found his true fear, the real fear that made him resort to all of this, this distance and the relationships and the reliance on others, the reliance on others for his decisions and his life and he was scared. He was scared that he couldn't do it. He didn't know how, he didn't know what he was doing, he didn't think he could do it. He didn't have the confidence, he didn't have the knowledge, and he didn't have the ability and he was going to die, he was going to lose. He was going to lose everything. He needed this, he needed someone to take this responsibility off his hands and tell him what to do because he'd just end up ruining it, he'd just end up ruining it and burning his hands and he couldn't do this alone, he never could do this alone, he always had someone, someone in the back of his mind that he could turn to, that could make the laws that he could follow because he couldn't decide for himself, too petrified of making the wrong decision, too afraid to ruin something he didn't even have so he gave it to someone else, he gave everything to God and kept the emptiness and called it his life.
And when he touched that part of him he recoiled so violently that it was blotted out immediately, wiped from his memory through countless years of practice and resigned back into that dull ache, that ache that gave this new wound, this missing part of him, the potential to hurt as much as it did.
He touched it once, had a moment of self-revelation that terrified him so completely that his entire body shook with the force of his next cry of pain, that the shudder of his body only encouraged him, only encouraged more tears and hatred at those tears and memories gone gone gone. Pulled and found the roots ran too deep and now never touching that again.
There was more present pain, something more real and powerful, and that was enough to focus on.
Nothing from Scriabin. He didn't hear it, didn't catch that momentary blip on the radar as Edgar approached the truth then vengefully scribbled over it, crossed it out and turned and killed and thrust it deep, pushed it away so strongly that he wasn't aware he did it himself, and there was enough pain going on at the moment that it'd be hard to differentiate one spike from the other.
A good thing that, at least. A good thing that this came and went as quickly as it did, a wound too early to open, too painful to touch, not now.
Gulping breaths, pain pressing into the bridge of his nose, entire body shaking in fits. The lenses of his glasses caught tears, kept them even when eventually the sobbing quieted and he could feel something approaching control.
It took some time for control to find a lasting hold. At first he would feel as though the storm was over but then a stray thought would send him back into what had happened, into what the future held for him and him alone, and control would vanish again. Several tries and failed attempts before he really began to feel as though he could at least stop crying. And the easiest way to prevent failure was to consider what had caused that failure, and that was feeling. So control sunk in and feeling faded, a tradeoff that he was more than happy to make.
His lapse of control, the realization of what he had been doing, prompted a flood of something like shame at having resorted to something so useless and self-indulgent, at having lost control so completely. Emotion that was quick, intense, instinctual and then forgotten.
When he finally leaned back against the wood of the pew, he felt deeply, deeply empty inside. More so than he ever had in his life. His emotions typically ran a minor gamut, small fluctuations barely noticed, and he thought at those times that maybe he felt empty, because he didn't feel much. But this was different. He didn't feel much then but now, now he felt absolutely nothing.
He stared at his coat, shook the tears from his glasses, took a few deep breaths. His entire body still shaking, shivered and he felt weak. Nothing except physical sensation coming through anymore, nothing logical connected with anything resembling real emotions. Empty inside, everything gone.
You won't be entirely alone, Scriabin said softly and it was that same gentle voice as before, that faint almost musical tinge. He sounded deeply sincere, as if he really did want to soothe the hurt, comfort him somehow. If Edgar cared at this point he would have been suspicious. He didn't care. Remember, you won't be entirely alone. I'll be here with you.
Edgar didn't want to say anything. He didn't want to do anything. Wanted to sit here and never move again for the rest of his life.
I can support you. I can teach you, I can show you how to take control. I'll figure out how to beat this, and we will beat this. You can depend on me, because I'll be here. I will work for you, I will work to help you through this. I will find what's right for you, not for your god. I will contribute in ways that are tangible, that will have solutions. I can do everything your god can't. I won't abandon you. Believe in me. Believe in me.
Nothing. He could hear his words, he was understanding them, but he felt nothing in response. He felt absolutely nothing. He could see the polished wood and tiny pencil and the black book with its golden embossed letters and the crucifix that marked its vocation in front of him, he could see and hear but nothing, nothing worked through. He didn't want to feel anything. He wanted to stay like this, stay comfortably numb.
Wanted to stay here forever, just drift away. Never feel, never think, never go back to his life. Face the future. Never wanted to feel again.
Scriabin tried to force a carefree tone into his voice without success. Come now, that wasn't so bad, was it? It didn't take as long as I thought, and it wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. And you stayed with me through the whole ordeal, and you even expressed some emotion, some real emotion for once. I'd say we've made progress, wouldn't you?
Nothing. Like Scriabin was talking to someone else. Didn't move.
You have nothing to fear now. Still talking softly, although he abandoned the pretense of nonchalance. Ethics have no meaning to you. There is nothing to stop you, there is nothing that can stop you now. A whole new world is open for you, is open to you. You've unlocked your real potential now. You can become who you were meant to be. You can become strong, you can become assertive, you can become more than what you had resigned yourself to before. Now you can beat this. Now you can find your real strength.
Didn't want to think anymore. Tired, so tired. Wanted to stop existing. Not die necessarily but stop existing.
Didn't want to deal with this.
Didn't want to deal with his life. His decisions. What the future held for him, what he knew would be in store.
A heaven for me, and a hell for you.
Oh God.
Come on, get up. Gentle nudging words. Maybe Scriabin had enough tact to know that now was not the time for sarcasm. Let's get out of here. I think it stopped raining.
I don't want this to happen to me. I don't want this.
Well, neither did I. I warned you, didn't I? I tried to warn you. Now it's time to pick up the pieces, it's time to fix what you've done wrong. Hard to mask resentment left open so long. It's time to do what you've put off for so long. It's time to fight, Edgar.
Mental voice pulling back and he sounded like a child. I don't want...I dont want to be me. i dont want to be me anymore.
It's too late for that. A voice familiar somehow, a memory cast aside and Edgar's fear quickly driven deep, hidden. A shallow attempt at confidence, but at least it was an attempt. Scriabin sensed this, changed the tone of his voice. Let's go outside.
take this away from me... Curled up in the corner of his room, small hands buried in short hair, voice not yet changed and a body before real awkwardness. Small and insignificant, insignificant in the face of everything. Six years old and gone. take this away from me, please, make it stop hurting...
A questioning noise.
Rocking back and forth, wishing for some kind of human contact, something reassuring, some kind of love from someone somewhere even if it wasn't intangible something. take this away from me, take this away from me, give me back my life, give me back...
What life did you have? Quiet and emotionless.
Running even deeper. someone someone someone take this away from me. Nails digging into the back of his neck. please take this away please someone take this away from me, i dont know what to do, i dont know what to do, someone take this...
A noise from Scriabin he wasn't sure how to classify.
please make it stop hurting...make it stop, make it different, take my life and make it good again, someone fix it, someone fix everything, please... A shaky gasp. ...Scriabin, Scriabin, please...
He heard Scriabin take a deep breath.
please help me...please help me take this away from me...fix it fix it please, i dont know how, i dont know what to do i dont know how to make it better, i cant fix it, please, someone...someone take it and make it right, please...Scriabin...
I...
Deep weakness, such deep weakness and that counter-voice that ran far below what either of them consciously heard, something stronger and long-lived, something much older than Scriabin could hope to be. Contempt for that weakness, outright contempt.
Ripped, ripped from the womb too early. Scriabin's metaphor perhaps had been too apt.
Scriabin, please... Felt his muscles tightening again, but he had no more tears to shed. Not now, not with that sense of shame, the self-loathing that came with admitting weakness. The words came desperate and honest and in a voice Edgar thought he forgot and wanted to forget. Scriabin please, please please help me, please help me, i cant do this, i cant do this alone, i cant do this by myself, i need help, i need you to fix it, i need you to take it away from me, please oh god please take this away from me, erase everything ive done and i dont know what to do oh god ive ruined everything ive ruined everything
Oh Edgar... Real affection, it sounded real. Familiar too. Cynical side of him tried to match it, found it matched the voice of old memories. A tone that was kept deep inside his life and his thoughts, his definition of emotion and affection and of course, of course that's what Scriabin would use for sincerity. Isn't it obvious?
All words to try and build fear, to try and build distrust and fear and it didn't work. At the sound of that affection, whether faked or not, Edgar reached out. He had been burned once, he had been betrayed in a way so painful he couldn't bear to think about it now, but he reached out anyway. As he saw it, he had no choice.
take this away from me, Scriabin, please...Scriabin...
Edgar... Trying to find words. I...
don't abandon me, don't abandon me, i cant do this by myself
That voice, the logic that he so often depended on, running a diagnostic check on his words in the background and beeping and clicks not noticed. After all this time, he finally admitted it, finally admitted he needed someone else, and now Scriabin would surely use this against him.
That soft weight on his shoulders, the brush of air against his cheek. Closed his eyes and hoped, hoped and he could feel Scriabin's arms settled around his neck, the touch of his fingers on his skin.
I won't leave you, Edgar... Edgar wanted him to sound sincere so badly, so he did. Not now. I won't abandon you.
take this away from me...
I can't do that. Felt Scriabin briefly nuzzle his neck. Or maybe the wind was playing with his coat. Reality was not welcome right now. It'd be nice if I could, if I could go back and erase all of the things you've done. But I can't. I can only deal with the aftermath.
Edgar didn't care if guilt was relegated back to him, as long as the consequences...
tell me what to do...
Edgar... A soft sigh, his fingers tracing along his neck, felt his heartbeat. Edgar, that's what I do best.
A sigh of relief, kind of.
Believe me, Edgar. Arms curled around his neck, some kind of awkward embrace. You don't need God...now, you are God.
He didn't want to ask questions or for any kind of clarification.
A deep and intense need within him, something lost through countless years through the processed lines of data, something lost through thoughts and gone. A plea repeated through his life and only answered through the one thing that gave his life meaning, through the prayers he held and the scapular he had been given when he was young. Only answered once, he thought it was answered once and answered permanently that once and then, and then he was lied to, he had been lied to, that love was a lie and it was gone and dead and now that need rose again, desperate and raw and it fought through the computer and through the blanket that suffocated all emotion and all pain.
love me...?
Oh Edgar... A soft sigh. You're so far gone now, it wouldn't even matter. Maybe someday, when you're more aware, we can really discuss this. But you're not in your right mind, and...
He wasn't sure what Scriabin intended to say. He simply trailed off.
He wasn't there, he knew it. The arms around him weren't there and he couldn't feel him breathing. He just wished he could.
It's been long enough. His voice was soft and gentle. It's been long enough now. Regression is never a good idea, not for such long periods of time. It's time to come back, to wake up.
i dont want to come back.
I know. But it's time for responsibility. Take a few deep breaths, and come back to me.
He didn't want to, but the words he chose were perfect. Perhaps not his intent, but they were.
To me.
Someone to come back to, an order to obey, someone to please and hopefully gain recognition in return, but mostly just someone to come back to. Someone to come back to for any reason at all.
Let the beeping, the monotonous click come back, dial tone and the gradual reset. Rather than work through all the emotions lying about he just shoved them all away. Erased, deleted them. Logic found a stronger hold, worked through emotion and erased memory. Embarrassing thoughts relocated, pushed to the back of the mind, and a renewed sense of determination, determination to find something else to do to get his mind off what he had experienced, what he had done.
That's better.
Was that what you expected? Arguing with him was a quick distraction. Was that what you thought would be helpful? Was that what you were hoping for?
A brief pause, and he could hear the smile. Much better, I would say. Feeling a bit more combative, and that's something I'm more comfortable with. You're more comfortable with it too, I'd imagine. There's no harm in taking time to heal, after all. Traumatic doesn't even begin to describe what just happened.
I don't want to talk about it.
Scriabin laughed and Edgar found himself smiling. He knew precisely why he would say that, what his motivations would be. Still, it was a convenient excuse, something they both understood, and besides.
Healing. Right.
Let's go outside. I really do think the rain has stopped. I can't hear anything.
Edgar stood. He nearly fell at first, his legs shaky and weak, but he eventually managed to find his sense of balance. He walked out of the church with only one second glance.
True enough, no rain. The sky was dark and there were no stars. He vaguely wondered what time it was, but that wasn't really important. The streetlights were on and that was enough.
He looked to one side as he stood in the doorway and caught sight of a narrow flight of stairs leading back around the edge of the church, just barely lit by the nearby streetlight.
I remember...
Not like he had anywhere else to be. He took a few cautious steps down, watched for puddles, and slowly the old church playground came into view. No real direct light sources here, it wasn't a place to be after dark, but the streetlights on the sidewalk nearby gave him enough illumination.
Old memories, memories of happier times, he thought or hoped.
The playground was slightly recessed compared to the rest of the area, a natural wall to prevent curious children from going too far. Bushes hid most of the chain-link fence from view. Brightly colored plastic constructions, an old swing-set, some benches, a sandbox, metal jungle gym.
Something strangely calming about a playground in the dark. Empty yet harmless.
Edgar walked over to the swings and took a seat. He was too tall for this now and his knees came up higher than they should have. Didn't matter. Seat was wet as well, but he didn't care.
He looked up towards the darkened sky, thought about where he was. He spoke softly but he wasn't exactly sure who he was talking to.
"Every Sunday when I was little...when we came here...this was always what I looked forward to. I always waited for the sermon to be over so I could play out here..."
"Edgar does not play well with others." How ironic.
"That's right..." Edgar sighed. "That's what they'd write about me...good student, does his work, does not play well with others..."
Pushed lightly and listened to the creak of aged metal trying to support a grown man's weight.
Listen, Edgar...
What?
I think it'd be best if from now on, while you're recovering, while we're making plans to overcome this lock business, if you stayed away from-
Something rustled nearby and he turned sharply towards the noise.
Shit. Scriabin almost sounded disappointed.
"Hello...?" Maybe not his smartest move, but at least it let whoever it was who had joined him know he was here.
A gawky teenager eventually managed to extricate himself from the bushes that encircled the playground. He brushed himself off carefully, adjusted his clothes and fishnet gloves, picked up his suitcase, and began walking briskly towards Edgar.
A slight twinge of nervousness along with familiarity. That hair...it was cut in a style that Edgar knew wasn't common. The tattered sleeves, the box on the front of his shirt, and the boots...
God fucking dammit, Scriabin muttered. I was so close...
Not particularly paying attention to Scriabin at the moment. The teenager came closer. Definitely headed for Edgar. That in itself was bizarre...Edgar never generated attention. Something he had accepted over time, but to be the center of someone's attention like this...
Well, someone other than Nny that is. Still sounded bitter.
Being someone's focus made him nervous.
The youth circled him once, apparently completely unaware of how strange this behavior may have seemed, then stopped in front of him. Now that he was close enough Edgar could make out the definite signs of acne over the majority of his face.
"Hey!" A strangely casual tone, as if he knew Edgar already.
A moment's pause, which was all Edgar was sure he would get. "...Hello?"
"Your name is Edgar, isn't it?"
"...Who are you? Why do you want to know?"
Good, you didn't just give out information.
He didn't seem put off by the suspicious tone in Edgar's voice.
"I'm Jimmy." He put a hand to his chest. "But you can also call me 'Mmy,' heh. Some of my friends also call me 'Darkness.' Cool, huh?"
This can't be what it looks like, there's no way that someone would ever...
Scriabin was trying very hard not to laugh. You've got to be kidding me...
"Okay, uh...how do you know my name?"
Nice job, just confirmed that was your name.
Well, what's he going to do with it anyway?
"I've been following you." Jimmy grinned and Edgar realized he had no idea how potentially creepy that would sound. For all intents and purposes, Jimmy was speaking to Edgar as if they were friends or acquaintances, as if they had talked several times before tonight. He spoke as if he expected Edgar to know exactly what he was talking about. It was disconcerting on several levels. "Just watching you and Johnny. Well...mostly Johnny, but you were usually there too. He's who I'm looking for..."
Of course, looking for Johnny. What other reason to follow me could there be?
That would explain his choice in fashion, I suppose. Scriabin snickered.
Jimmy sounded so familiar with him and Edgar felt exceedingly awkward for not having anything close to similar feelings towards him. The strength of Jimmy's conviction forced Edgar's tone to be kinder than it normally might have been. "I...guessed as much...?"
"Well, not looking for exactly. No, not looking anymore. I've finally been able to track him down after all this time! I've found him, I finally found him!" Jimmy sounded deeply enthused by the idea. The more excited he felt and acted, the more distant Edgar felt. The sheer bizarreness of the situation, of the conversation, seemed completely unreal. This couldn't be happening. "I'm going to go talk to him but I have to ask you some things first. I thought you'd know and all, since you're with him a lot of the time."
Jimmy started as if to sit down next to him but then stopped. Frankly Edgar was seriously uncomfortable, and maybe his body language made it clear that Jimmy'd be better off staying where he was.
Jimmy stared at him expectantly, and Edgar felt as though he had to say something. He still felt unbelievably detached from the entire conversation and found that as a result, he could think of absolutely nothing to say.
"So...you've been stalking us, basically." Just rephrase the situation.
So you did pick up something from those pop psychology books.
"I wouldn't call it that." Jimmy looked dramatically stricken. "This runs a lot deeper than that, this is more than any mere 'stalking.'" He emphasized the quotation marks with his fingers and a roll of his eyes. "This is about art."
"Art?" Edgar thought back, remembered the paintings he had seen so long ago. Was this a friend of Johnny's from-
"Yes, art." Jimmy sighed. "Well, I don't know if you'd understand...I never saw you kill anyone-"
Edgar stifled a small gasp and immediately recoiled away from him.
So he's that kind of admirer. How perfect is this. I couldn't ask for something better than this.
Now the familiarity of his tone made Edgar feel almost...dirty. This was not the kind of person he wanted to be associated with in any way, and in particular, not the kind of person he wanted to be stalked by.
Oh ho ho, I'm taking notes on this. This is going to be great.
Jimmy continued. "But I saw you there most of the time, when Johnny descended on the unworthy." The change in his tone and the smile confirmed Edgar's suspicions. "God, it's so beautiful! To see those people who think they're so great get shown what they really are inside! To see real justice!"
Justice...you think this is about justice? You think this is righteous somehow? He's- how...h-how can...you have...you have no concept of human life, you can't be serious...
Edgar didn't think that he was hiding his disgust very well, but Jimmy apparently didn't notice. "You saw it, you were there the longest. I mean, you really saw it!" Again, that excited almost-squeal. "You were right there when Johnny showed them, showed everyone! You were there, right there when Johnny dispensed real justice on the scum of the earth!"
My goodness, this sounds familiar! Didn't we talk about this back when you encountered that pedophile? Scriabin trying to talk and laugh at the same time.
Jimmy stretched out a hand. Edgar feared for a moment that he'd try to touch him, but Jimmy just gestured at the sky. "You remember the best times, don't you? You know, back when he didn't talk so much, when he didn't let the killing get to him and it was a lot funnier. That's what I want to tell him when we meet, I want to tell him that the blood is what matters. Isn't that a cool phrase?"
You think this is funny! Couldn't stop the indignant mental scream. How could, how could you think someone dying is funny, how could someone ever think that, my God...!
He does have a point though. Scriabin forcing words out between gales of laughter. Nny does tend to talk a lot more nowadays, doesn't he?
Oh my God, how can someone...
"Didn't talk so much..." Edgar felt a strong twinge of nausea, and Scriabin stopped laughing for a few seconds.
"Yeah, when he was always going on with all those words." Jimmy waved a dismissive hand. "I think Johnny's losing his focus on what's really important. The beauty of what he does, the art of death." A longing sigh. "It's so beautiful, to see the last spark of life burn out under your hands, to know that you brought awareness of someone else's pointless bleak existence to them the moment before they fade from this cruel world."
Oh god, gothic poetry- gothic poetry! This can't get any better.
Edgar wasn't listening to Scriabin. "You...you think what he does is beautiful...?"
"It is beautiful!" Jimmy turned his attention back to Edgar. He sounded vaguely offended at the question, no doubt expecting Edgar to understand what he was saying immediately. "You must understand, you're with him all the time. You know those bullies, those close-minded weaklings who always mock people who are better than they are. You know there are people out there who deserve to die, but there are so few who can actually do it, actually kill! I couldn't believe it when I first saw Johnny work, I couldn't believe he did what I dreamed of! He got revenge!"
You don't understand anything...oh my God... Stronger twinge of nausea, and this time Scriabin really did stop laughing.
"Oh God, it's so sweet to get revenge." Jimmy hissed with excitement through his teeth. "Johnny showed me I don't have to take it, I can do just what he can! And it felt so good, the first person I-"
Oh God, oh my God, he's killed people too-
Edgar felt dizzy, a faint blackness on the edge of his vision, and then he heard a shocked hiss in the back of his mind. Something pushing and the blackness slowly faded away.
Goddammit. You stupid fanboy, couldn't you have waited a day or so? This would be perfect if he wasn't so fragile right now.
I...this can't be...
Sigh of frustration. Don't think too hard about this just yet. Maybe in a few hours, but not right now. Just try and make it through this conversation without passing out.
Jimmy had been talking during Edgar's brief mental interlude, apparently not noticing that Edgar wasn't paying attention.
"...was the sweetest of them all! That's why I wanted to talk to you first." Jimmy knelt down and looked Edgar in the eye. "I just want to clear up a few things. You must know a lot about Johnny, but you don't kill like he does, do you?"
"No," Edgar choked out.
He could hear Scriabin bite his tongue.
"So Johnny doesn't have a partner or anything?"
Scriabin hissing in pain at biting back his words.
"No." Same weak voice.
"Great!" Jimmy smiled again. "I didn't think you'd be his partner. You're not...the right type for it. Although that coat is nice."
Type, type, my God, these are people's lives, how can you-
Come on, calm down. You can get offended and all later when you're more prepared for it.
"Type for it..." Mumbling in distraction.
"Only two artists can really communicate. I mean, there's a lot of nothing that goes on between two normal people in this empty world, all that shallow meaningless talk." Recited speech. Sinking suspicion that it was intended for Johnny to hear. "We're brothers of the mind, me and Johnny. Don't you think? We understand each other completely. I can't wait to meet him, I know it'll be amazing."
Wow. And I thought you were naive.
"Understand...you think you understand him?" Vague anger. You think after all this work and effort I put into doing that that it's as easy as just saying it was so?
"Of course I understand him." Jimmy waved a hand again. "We're kindred spirits, dispensing justice in a black and dying world. He appreciates death, just like I do. I've suffered the same kind of injustice at the hands of the unappreciative masses. I can understand his pain. I mean, I've even got his boots! I know everything about him! I even stole some Noodle Boy comics."
Some what?
"He's..."
Can you just imagine Johnny's reaction to this kid? Scriabin probably didn't intend the question to be more than a setup for some sarcastic comment, but it made Edgar stop dead.
Oh my God, no...
He had to say something. If Jimmy did find and talk to Johnny, there was no doubt in his mind that Jimmy wouldn't survive the encounter. He had to try and stop him.
"He's...Johnny's insane."
Jimmy gave him a long blank stare that gradually faded into disappointment. "Geniuses are always considered insane."
"No, you don't understand, he's-"
"Besides, if he was crazy," Jimmy emphasized the word in a way that made Edgar's eye twitch, "why would he be friends with you? To be honest, I think you're a little too normal for him."
Too normal, my God, what-
He won't believe you. You should probably try a different approach.
"Just listen, just...this is...this is a bad time to try and talk to him..."
"Why?" Jimmy looked concerned for his hero.
"He's...just trust me." Edgar had no idea what to say. "This is not a good time-"
"Then when? You'd know, right? When should I meet him?"
He couldn't say never, as much as he wanted to.
Looks like you get to decide how long Jimmy gets to live. Blood's getting on your hands no matter what you do.
I've...I've got to warn Johnny, I've got to do something, if I can't get Jimmy to stop, I've got to...do something.
"I'm...not sure right now. Johnny's going through...a lot." Edgar cursed himself. That sounded so stupid. "He won't exactly be...open to new people."
"No no, that's just it." Jimmy smiled again. Just like Edgar was an old friend, and he barely suppressed a shudder. "I'm not a normal person, I'm not like those people out there. I understand Johnny."
Oh my God, you understand nothing about him.
Barely refrained from saying that out-loud. "Listen, it's...I'm his friend, all right? You must know that, considering you've been...following us."
Jimmy nodded reluctantly.
"I don't completely understand him-"
"Of course you don't." Edgar didn't muffle his slight sigh of distaste at Jimmy's interruption. Jimmy smiled at him again, completely unaware of how arrogant he sounded. "Only I could ever really understand Johnny. We're-"
"I know, brothers of the mind. I remember. But that's not the point."
Flattery may get you somewhere with him... Scriabin again trying hard not to laugh.
Edgar's mental voice expressed all of the indignant rage he wouldn't put in verbal words. I would never, ever flatter someone like this!
Good for you. At least you're learning something.
"I may not understand him, but I do know him." Edgar found he disliked how much control Jimmy was trying to usurp over this conversation, didn't like having to play into what Jimmy believed to be true. Edgar felt something strange, a desire to remind Jimmy that he wasn't exactly powerless and he wasn't as harmless as he may have thought. "He trusts me, and he talks to me."
Open jealousy on Jimmy's face, although he didn't say anything.
I'm still taking notes, Scriabin sang mockingly. You know I am. I can't do it here, not when you're like this, but later.
I don't even care right now.
"And I'm telling you, now is not a good time. I can't say for sure when Johnny will be...receptive to meeting new people..."
Jimmy did not appreciate being reminded of Edgar's familiarity with Johnny. His tone had a definite hostile tinge. "Well then when. You didn't answer me before."
"Give me a chance to talk to him." Another flash of jealousy across Jimmy's face. "I can tell him who you are-"
"No no no!" Jimmy held out his hands. "No, we have to meet in person! That's the only way I can really connect with him! I have so much to say!"
He just wants to die so badly. Why does this seem so familiar? Muffled laughter.
"Listen to me!" Edgar found himself getting irritated despite his best efforts. "Unless you want me to tell him not to see you at all..."
That was a childish thing to resort to and Edgar did regret bringing it up, but it was too late to fix it now. Jimmy sulked at the threat, but didn't say anything. Whatever friendship he assumed he and Edgar would create was now badly damaged, and it was hard to repair something that didn't exist to begin with.
Oh my dear boy, do you really want Jimmy to die?
No- no! What gave you that idea?
"Give me some time to talk to him. I'll try and figure out what's wrong. Maybe I can help him through this period, and-"
"What could you do for him?" Jimmy didn't hide his jealous tone now. "You can't understand him on the same level as I can. I mean, you don't even kill people. You've never experienced that rush. You've probably never even suffered like we have! You never had to go through endless days of teasing and mockery! You've never had people make fun of you or been so constantly misunderstood! You've never been surrounded by stupid people who can't appreciate true greatness, true genius when they see it! You never stood up and showed everyone what real power is like! You don't understand Johnny at all, you're too normal." Jimmy rolled his eyes at the word. "What makes you think you can help him through whatever this is better than I can?"
Edgar narrowed his eyes and fought to keep his voice level. "Maybe it's because I've actually talked to him."
The two stared at each other.
"What could you talk to him about?" Jimmy glared.
"I just- ngh." Edgar ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. He knew where this conversation would go if he didn't put a stop to it. "This will get us nowhere. I'm telling you, you shouldn't try to find Johnny now. Maybe in a week or so, but not now-"
"A week or so?" Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "Why should I listen to you?"
"Because I'm his friend. You know that, if you've been stalking us as much as you say. I can talk with him-"
"That's just because you got there first." Jimmy moved a hand towards the suitcase by his side. "Johnny hasn't found his real soul-mate yet because he hasn't met me."
Scriabin immediately stopped laughing when Jimmy fingered the silver lock on the case. There was a definite suspicious tone in his voice. Hmm?
"And when I meet him, when I finally meet him after all this time, then he won't need you anymore." Jimmy tried to put a dismissive tone in his voice. "I'll be everything Johnny will ever want. I can be everything, his companion in everything. We won't need you. Maybe...we'll even get rid of you..."
A smile, another hand twitch towards the case.
Oh? Oh what's this? The sudden change in Scriabin's tone caused Edgar to jump a little. He was unprepared for the pure venom, the viciousness and menace. He'd never heard him talk this way before. You think you can kill him? You think you can kill him while I'm here? Try it. Just try it you obnoxious little stupid naive gothy fantard wannabe, go ahead. Go ahead, try and hurt him, I'll rip your scrawny little pimply body into strips if you even get close to him. I'll tear you apart with my bare hands if you so much as think of hurting him. Try me. I dare you. I fucking dare you.
Snarling in the back of his mind, growling and a deep and fierce sense of protectiveness.
In a way, Edgar was touched, although that was quickly and easily muffled by how remarkably uncomfortable this situation was.
"Well, it doesn't matter anyway." Jimmy stood up and brushed himself off with exaggerated motions, then swept up his suitcase with one hand. "You don't know him like I do. You can't connect on the same level. I'm going to meet up with him."
Fine, go ahead you idiot. Get yourself killed. Serves you right. Scriabin still growling deep.
Scriabin, stop it. Stop that, this is a human life we're talking about-
Oh stop with the fucking morality play, you want him to die too. Just admit it for once.
"Two weeks." It was the first number that came to mind.
Jimmy glared at him for a few seconds, then walked away without another word.
After he left, Edgar stared at the sky and sighed.
Let's get out of here. Scriabin sounded disgusted. Go home and take a nap, then I want to talk to you.
That doesn't sound particularly encouraging.
I would talk to you now, but I can feel some wounds still running deep. You need time to heal. Again, resentment. But as soon as I can, I want to talk to you.
A few droplets spattered against his upturned face. Figures the rain wouldn't stop just yet.
Edgar got up slowly and left the church behind.
Author's Note: The scapular that Edgar mentions is the Scapular of Our Lady.
Also, I wrote another crazy fic that I can't put up on ffnet cause it rapes the strike html tag, which is not allowed here. BUT it's crazy creepy fun for everyone, so you can find it at www ashido com / igtky / and read it there. It's called Violation.