It hurts too much (all the time)
"Where it began, where it began." The voice grumbled to itself in the downpour outside the mansion.
"Where, how, why and now." The voice spoke as though it were a child speaking rhymes. Then the being shook with a silent, insane laughter.
He flexed his powerful hands as he stood in the rain. His mind ran over details of the mansion. Details of the X-Men. Smiling faces. Memories like photo's, flooding back until there is no sense and no recognition. So much information. So many things to consider. It was all too much. It was a like being blinding by light.
When you know too much, it can cripple you.
He moved slowly, savoring the steps, towards the mansion.
Something told him that in his youth he crossed this lawn. His thick heavy tail dragged through the grass and muck behind him as he lumbered to the top of a familiar hill.
Didn't he play here? Didn't he laugh? Wasn't it real?
He shook his head, now unsure.
Didn't he remember having friends?
And he word teased through his ancient mind. "Friends." No. There were never any friends.
There had been business deals and partnerships of convenience. But in the last two thousand years he could not remember a friend. When he laughed now he laughed alone.
If there had ever been friends they were from the beings 'pre-historic' period; Memories so old and degraded by long life that a whole new intellectual entity had arisen from the tattered remains and newer experiences.
But somewhere inside a suspicion nagged at the being. He treated these suspicions as proof of his own impending insanity, which had already settled in ages ago unnoticed. But sadly these suspicions were instead the result of the last threadbare piece of soul the being possessed.
"No!" The suspicion called out. "Healing! Wellness! Stop!"
And the suspicion was heard, then ignored.
"Tick, tock, wait till it's dark." He told the suspicion mentally.
He had watched all night as the lights in the mansion winked out one by one. Darkness, concealment, cover. It was all he had been waiting for. This entire side of the mansion that faced him was now dark. And he crossed the lawn leisurely, he found himself lost in some strange and vague nostalgia, that he couldn't quite fathom.
Would there still be a key under the mat? Would Evan still be leaving his window unlocked? Was there ever a key? Was there ever a mat? Would the window ever leave Evan unlocked? Wasn't his name Ethan? And who was he if there were never any friends?
And as he opened the downstairs double doors the smell of the place hit him. He stopped dead in his tracks.
No friends? Somehow that seemed ridiculous now. How could there have never been any friends?
But in a moment he had become accustomed to the room and distracted by its warmth. And his mind twisted and turned on itself in fear. There were so many reasons to have stood in this place. Was he going in or coming out. Was he late for class or far too early? Did he have his books? Did he do his homework? Did he kill his friends?
And a bitter smile came to the aged face, revealing a sleek and worn pair of fangs. Did he kill his friends?
That must have been it! He had killed them all! He remembered the killing. Lots of killing in fact. So much that he couldn't keep track of it all. So much that the details stopped being important. Faces and numbers in a mass beyond words. Was it a daily practice? Monthly? Did he save it up or meter it out, as he felt necessary? He wasn't sure. Not really. But there had been so much killing. This had to have been the answer.
He had killed his friends.
He felt so relieved. Of course there had been friends. Sure. Friends.
He looked up the staircase. It seemed so small to him now.
Surely it was wide enough for him to pass, but he would have to duck low, so as not to scratch his horns on the ceiling.
But where would he go? There was so much to do.
But what was he supposed to do?
"N't N'w" He chastised himself, bringing his stained black claws up to clutch absently at the thick armored skin of his face. As he tried desperately to remember what he was supposed to do next.
He ran his claws down to his chin, and then down the long bony protrusion that came out under his chin, much like the beards worn by the Ancient Egyptians.
His great dull gray eyes survailed the room. There were no clues here. No answers.
He had wanted to go up the stairs and down a hallway. There was something he was supposed to do. Something secret. Something important.
"Tick, tock, tick, tock" He thought absently "Find the girl and fix the clock." That didn't quite seem right though.
"Walk through rain and back again." And his mind tingled with recognition. That had been a part one of the poems he made up to remember things. But how did the rest go? What was he supposed to do next?
He stood quietly, trying no to remember, but rather just to let the rest come to him.
"Walk through rain and back again." His lips curled slightly. "To the place where things began."
This was exciting to him. This meant he was close.
"Find the child, sleeping tight." He shivered inside with rising anticipation. "With eyes of sun and hair of night."
He seemed to recall it more clearly now. It was all coming back to him. This was important. This had to end this now.
"Creep up quiet in the night and pinch it out like candle light, " He remembered now. Of course. Again, with the killing. "And in this all is right. I'm sure of it. I'd stake his life."
"Life, wife, strife, knife." He added mentally. Then his eyes opened wider as the idea appealed to him.
"Oooooohhhh." He thought, reaching for his belt. "Yes, " He seemed barely to breathe until he found it and drew it up from it's sheath. "Knife." His lips twisted in to a large lizard-like smile and he moved gracefully up the stairs and down the hallway on all fours, his tail thrashing side to side, and his knife in his teeth.
"Where it began, where it began." The voice grumbled to itself in the downpour outside the mansion.
"Where, how, why and now." The voice spoke as though it were a child speaking rhymes. Then the being shook with a silent, insane laughter.
He flexed his powerful hands as he stood in the rain. His mind ran over details of the mansion. Details of the X-Men. Smiling faces. Memories like photo's, flooding back until there is no sense and no recognition. So much information. So many things to consider. It was all too much. It was a like being blinding by light.
When you know too much, it can cripple you.
He moved slowly, savoring the steps, towards the mansion.
Something told him that in his youth he crossed this lawn. His thick heavy tail dragged through the grass and muck behind him as he lumbered to the top of a familiar hill.
Didn't he play here? Didn't he laugh? Wasn't it real?
He shook his head, now unsure.
Didn't he remember having friends?
And he word teased through his ancient mind. "Friends." No. There were never any friends.
There had been business deals and partnerships of convenience. But in the last two thousand years he could not remember a friend. When he laughed now he laughed alone.
If there had ever been friends they were from the beings 'pre-historic' period; Memories so old and degraded by long life that a whole new intellectual entity had arisen from the tattered remains and newer experiences.
But somewhere inside a suspicion nagged at the being. He treated these suspicions as proof of his own impending insanity, which had already settled in ages ago unnoticed. But sadly these suspicions were instead the result of the last threadbare piece of soul the being possessed.
"No!" The suspicion called out. "Healing! Wellness! Stop!"
And the suspicion was heard, then ignored.
"Tick, tock, wait till it's dark." He told the suspicion mentally.
He had watched all night as the lights in the mansion winked out one by one. Darkness, concealment, cover. It was all he had been waiting for. This entire side of the mansion that faced him was now dark. And he crossed the lawn leisurely, he found himself lost in some strange and vague nostalgia, that he couldn't quite fathom.
Would there still be a key under the mat? Would Evan still be leaving his window unlocked? Was there ever a key? Was there ever a mat? Would the window ever leave Evan unlocked? Wasn't his name Ethan? And who was he if there were never any friends?
And as he opened the downstairs double doors the smell of the place hit him. He stopped dead in his tracks.
No friends? Somehow that seemed ridiculous now. How could there have never been any friends?
But in a moment he had become accustomed to the room and distracted by its warmth. And his mind twisted and turned on itself in fear. There were so many reasons to have stood in this place. Was he going in or coming out. Was he late for class or far too early? Did he have his books? Did he do his homework? Did he kill his friends?
And a bitter smile came to the aged face, revealing a sleek and worn pair of fangs. Did he kill his friends?
That must have been it! He had killed them all! He remembered the killing. Lots of killing in fact. So much that he couldn't keep track of it all. So much that the details stopped being important. Faces and numbers in a mass beyond words. Was it a daily practice? Monthly? Did he save it up or meter it out, as he felt necessary? He wasn't sure. Not really. But there had been so much killing. This had to have been the answer.
He had killed his friends.
He felt so relieved. Of course there had been friends. Sure. Friends.
He looked up the staircase. It seemed so small to him now.
Surely it was wide enough for him to pass, but he would have to duck low, so as not to scratch his horns on the ceiling.
But where would he go? There was so much to do.
But what was he supposed to do?
"N't N'w" He chastised himself, bringing his stained black claws up to clutch absently at the thick armored skin of his face. As he tried desperately to remember what he was supposed to do next.
He ran his claws down to his chin, and then down the long bony protrusion that came out under his chin, much like the beards worn by the Ancient Egyptians.
His great dull gray eyes survailed the room. There were no clues here. No answers.
He had wanted to go up the stairs and down a hallway. There was something he was supposed to do. Something secret. Something important.
"Tick, tock, tick, tock" He thought absently "Find the girl and fix the clock." That didn't quite seem right though.
"Walk through rain and back again." And his mind tingled with recognition. That had been a part one of the poems he made up to remember things. But how did the rest go? What was he supposed to do next?
He stood quietly, trying no to remember, but rather just to let the rest come to him.
"Walk through rain and back again." His lips curled slightly. "To the place where things began."
This was exciting to him. This meant he was close.
"Find the child, sleeping tight." He shivered inside with rising anticipation. "With eyes of sun and hair of night."
He seemed to recall it more clearly now. It was all coming back to him. This was important. This had to end this now.
"Creep up quiet in the night and pinch it out like candle light, " He remembered now. Of course. Again, with the killing. "And in this all is right. I'm sure of it. I'd stake his life."
"Life, wife, strife, knife." He added mentally. Then his eyes opened wider as the idea appealed to him.
"Oooooohhhh." He thought, reaching for his belt. "Yes, " He seemed barely to breathe until he found it and drew it up from it's sheath. "Knife." His lips twisted in to a large lizard-like smile and he moved gracefully up the stairs and down the hallway on all fours, his tail thrashing side to side, and his knife in his teeth.