Chapter 12
He loathes to agree with the servant. With everything that makes him as he is, he loathes that reality, except that the servant is right. He despises being here.
The screaming needs to stop as well.
He loathes to agree with the servant once again. No part of him will ever be guilty of not loathing that, however, the servant spoke the truth. There's a rival within.
Composure. To not expose itself. The one within needs that.
So what if a force is reaching out to engulf him within it, and he can't act in any way to resist its approach? What importance does it bear if instead of it being black, dark and unholy, the force is white, bright and too pure for him to comprehend? Is it of high consequence that he cannot reconcile with the presence of it, thus the screaming?
It has no tact, the one within. No consideration whatsoever.
It's tainting him. Polluting him. Making him feel that he's anxious to leave. Making him fearful.
He needs to ground himself.
He needs to breathe, first.
And then close his eyes to start the process of grounding himself.
He's able. He's able. He is able.
Breathing in lightly, only to contradict the surrounding reality that's driving him to deeply breathe in, he just as lightly closes his eyes. And then he waits.
For a moment, the screaming stops, and relief pours out within.
It's only for a single moment, however, because almost too grotesquely attached to the relief before it–as though the relief had come as a lure- comes nothing.
Should he...? Is he perhaps supposed to breathe again? To rectify this, because...
There used to be a time when he would close his eyes, tuning out his surroundings as he did, and then perspective would hit him with neat clarity. To him, nothing has ever been quite above the ambience of a clear mind. A mind not at all empty, and yet unfilled with thought in such a way that hindrances were impossible, has always been to him, the peak of holistic influx.
However, clarity at this specific moment, in this specific confinement, feels too much like an effort that he needs to make in order to achieve. Before, closing his eyes used to be enough, whereas now, it isn't. The truth is that his closed eyes now, are only just eyes closed, nothing else.
By design, he softly muses behind closed eyes. It's all strategically by design. They know what they're doing, and so does he. He is who he is, after all, and with that being so, it's not his place to push himself with force to find clarity. That simply isn't his way, no matter the unshakably present impulse to aim for clarity. That simply isn't him.
It's no use keeping his eyes closed now. If he keeps his eyes closed, the possibility of hearing a whisper taunting him about forcing himself to clarity, will increase per passing second. He can't have any that, and so to concurrently disconnect himself from the temptation of pushing himself to reach for a clear mind and bar internal whispers, he opens his eyes.
As soon as his eyes open again, something about the whiteness surrounding him, reminds him that he's not alone.
There used to be a time when he knew for a fact that what he felt, was his alone, that he shared it with no one else. During that time, singularity had been a distinct pride of his, and in secret, he'd always revelled in the fact that he was like no other god, gods who could not see things the way that he saw them. And yet, ironically, here he is, begrudgingly agreeing with the servant for one, proving that all the way that he could have descended, he did. Upon being a host to whispers within, he didn't need anything else to aim at diminishing his being. His mind, particularly.
His mind, until recently, had been a place of organisation, order and civility, with naught of chaos and barbarianism. There used to be a time when no one else and no voice seeped into his mind and screamed. He never had to endure the sound of undignified screams within his immaculate mind. Screams as though his inside is spreading apart...
He hates it. All of it, he hates. The absence of a sound mind, the disturbance of being in accordance with a mere servant, and then being dictated by a voice that he didn't care much for before, he hates it all. Irreconcilably so.
To be confronted by the long forgotten chills, which he felt when this enclosure was opened, would be a better battle than this. That one, at least, would have an end, a purpose of making him better than before, where this screaming pretends to hold too much power over him to the point of inaction, implying that he's powerless against it; a lost battle declaration.
That's it!
He will not contend, he will conquer.
Encouraged that way, he once again closes his eyes, even knowing that it won't do anything to change his current situation, and allows himself to fall backwards.
26Chapters
This is what it must be like to be a lesser.
This feeling as it truly is, must be the constant state of those not supreme. Flat on the floor, surrendered to waiting, because there's no path for them to take action, and not knowing what is to come -or when it's to.
He is no lesser, however.
That he can distinguish the difference between lessers and supremes, proves that he is not one of those lessers. Not that he ever needed any affirmation on the fact, but being situated where he is, under the circumstances that have him there, it feels proper to simply have that thought and bask in it.
It's comfort, if anything.
He can admit that. Not proudly, but he can.
For as much time as he needs, he will pretend to be the weaker of the two of them, seemingly defeated this way, and thus the willingness to bask in the first available comfort. An observing lesser may take it be that he's simply defeated and cannot do anything to combat the voice within, but really, he is strategically avoiding being pushed into an action. If there is anything about him, it's that only he pushes himself, but not because he is compelled to do so by others. In the end, he is the stronger, not a voice that rarely makes itself known, precisely because it knows to remain in its hidden place, where it belongs.
In short, this is him winning. Albeit on the floor, looking the part of defeated.
With the right timing, they shall all see about whose power is which, because unlike them, his discipline understands the reward in patience.
26Chapters
'Pardon me,' all of a sudden rips through his surroundings.
It's a soft, -calming, even- apologetic and permission-seeking sounding intrusion, and immediately, he detests it. Although completely the opposite of the rash screaming, instead of being a welcome distraction, it's not.
It's not, because the screaming stops. And the sound is so very unwelcome to his ears.
He would not prefer the screaming, no, never that, but given the choice, he wouldn't choose the soft invasion of that voice.
To explain it, only as a form of self-absorption, he supposes, or a fine distraction perhaps, it feels as though something within him stills. Peculiarly, it makes no sense to him. The meaning behind the sudden internal stillness, he cannot comprehend. What he is sure of is that if it wasn't for the appearance of that voice, he wouldn't be in the predicament of not understanding himself within. It's jarring, because it's as though he cannot willingly recuperate.
'I am so very sorry to intrude,' the voice continues, sounding truly apologetic, 'but I'm afraid that your first chore is to start in precisely two minutes.'
As though he didn't hear any word that was spoken, he allows only silence to meet the announcement. Or rather, to be more in depth, he's ignoring the servant's voice. Ignore is too ugly a word for a being of his calibre to use, actually, but considering his state, it's fitting to use, he believes. It would be an honour to the servant, if he thought, 'the voice is paid no worth of acknowledgement,' and so no, nothing of that of sort.
'Prepare yourself, please,' it sounds to encourage. 'You will be required to write an essay on the topic 'Colour', and everything will be provided. All the best.'
After that, a sharp wave of definite quiet arises. How it's possible that it's finely distinct from his own refusal to speak or make a move, he doesn't know, but what he can immediately understand about the silence left behind by the absence of the servant's voice, is that it feels to pile on him uncomfortably. Like a weight trying to keep him down, this new silence leaves his surrounding, to rather latch all around him, that he can no longer can bear to remain with his back pressed against the floor.
With defying speed, he bolts up from the floor and onto his steady feet. Just as suddenly as he makes it onto his feet, however, realisation with such force, that he has to close his eyes to bear the impact.
The white. The servant's admonition. The silent coercion. The tasks. He's beginning to see it deeper now.
There's something inside this room. Even behind closed lids, he can see the pieces of the purpose of this room coming together. There was the internal screaming that inaugurated him into the room, and he didn't like that. And then, there'd come the soft voice, which he liked even less. Now, there's a silence that he cannot stand. So no one can convince him that it isn't all deliberate.
It's the room. It's deliberate.
It's forcing all of these reactions from him, unstable and inconsistent, the little things in between, and in that same force, is where the attempt to take away his volition lies, unhidden even. And now, there appears a desk, and he finds himself walking towards it.
Volition violation.
It's not more than two steps from him, but the fact that his legs have an obedience to someone that is not him... He knows that there's nothing that he can do to stop himself from being mistreated and made to behave as though he were an ordinary being, but someone mark his words, once he overcomes all of this –and he will-, he will show them, and he will have the last dignified and well avenged laugh.
26Chapters
Colour.
White, to be accurate
It's mocking, if he may. Compared to the array of colour that he likes.
The cruelty within them, those two. Three to the fish.
As he writes it all down, gradually, something is beginning to unfold. Or he should say, a new height of deeper enlightenment his getting nearer his view of the horizon. Before he began putting pen to paper, he'd stubbornly been in the mind to be rebellious at whatever crack he could manage. He'd understood that he wouldn't get away with it to the degree that he wanted it to project, but still, there's been satisfaction in maintaining his mental rebellion.
Once he began exploring the given topic, however, little by little, an awakening stirred.
Where he had initially thought that the room smelled too clean, no, immaculate, without dirt –like Chi-Chi's weekly disinfectant chlorine, the other one had whispered (with some type of pride, it had seemed), that he hated being inside this room, that it was too silent, and the he wanted to get out, he's now elevated.
It was always right in front of him. The clever light detail in the room is one. The unvoiced atmosphere of purity is another. The-
'Pardon me,' the same soft voice from before pierces through the room again.
Why, of course.
It makes all the sense for the voice to make itself available before he has had the chance to finish his essay. It makes perfect sense.
In any case, partly sardonically (in his mind), he smiles to the incomplete essay, while his hands loose both the three sheets of paper that his three fingers held down to the desk, and the pen that the other hand had been holding. His hands now free of the items, he leaves his ten fingers to splay leisurely on the small desk, just waiting, as the rest of him is.
'Your essay task is set to expire in three minutes. Your next task, will be a listening exercise. Be attentive, and again, all the best.'
Hmm.
All right.
26Chapters
Why ever did he think that the listening exercise would be of the same pattern as the essay? Did he become elevated in intellect, only to relax to such an extent of... Imbecility?
In truth, could he not have anticipated that they would make him strain his ears, looking to pinpoint the source of the sound in a room void of openings? Not only that, but to have him so committed to doing the task, standing properly upright, with his arms pressed to his sides and his eyes closed in concentration, that he cast aside the fact that he's really only listening to crackles of breaking sequences, sounds that want to erupt, but never quite getting it right, not actual words being spoken? Is that not imbecility?
26Chapters
He's given up now. Not because he has no other choice but to stop waiting, but because he can't waste something as pure as hope on a pair -and the fish- of foul beings. What he believes that mere beings do not understand about waiting and wanting, is that it's hope it's in crudest form. The material of vulnerability woven into waiting, is so perfectly sewn into the fabric of waiting, that to the ordinary one, it effortlessly blends into waiting, not seen as the root of hope.
As he is no ordinary being, he knows better, so deeply better. It's why he gives up on the entire concept of waiting for a change to come. Consciously, he makes the choice to stop waiting, because he had been waiting. That, he cannot deny. Of course, obviously, set by the task that came before it, to expect it exactly that way, he had waited for the listening exercise to come to an end. He really had waited. As much as his ears strained to do the exercise, they had also been wide open to hear the soft voice make its intrusion.
The intrusion never came, and after a while of wanting it to sound any moment now, he caught himself before it was too late. That was when he made the choice to give up.
He almost doesn't want to believe that he had been about to fall into their trick. However, when he groups the pair with their evil deeds, cowardice first, and then their vile conduct, there remains no doubt in his mind that he shouldn't have expected any less than the attempt to make him fall.
But why would they do that to him? –There's a saddening pang that hits against his heart with that voice- He didn't do-
Frowning, he immediately blocks that lamenting voice by celebrating the thought that he's all right now. What matters is that he's given up waiting for the crackles of sound to come to an end, so he's all right now.
He's all right.
26Chapters
'Pardon me.'
He will, under no circumstance, breathe out any breath of relief that at last, the listening exercise is coming to an end. He is no longer bothered to want it to come to an end. Where was that voice when he wanted it to sound?
'Your listening exercise is now over,' the voice of the servant announces.
As to be expected, the tone of voice is precisely the same as before, seemingly soothing and understanding, but it will no longer fool him. The mouth that houses that voice is really a hurricane of evil, and that invalidates any comfort that the voice may ever utter.
'My sincere apologies for having carried on the exercise for far too long,' it provides, 'but Lord Beerus and I were called away to an urgent summit. It went on longer than we expected, I am afraid.'
He is not bothered at all. He cannot be bothered. It matters nothing to him. He will keep on in the same position, nothing else.
'To make up for the extended task,' the voice continues to speak, 'you will be allowed a little break, before you are expected to sleep for the next twenty-eight hours. You may use your break as you please.'
He is not bothered, is all that he replays in his mind. Over and over, while and as the servant speaks to him, he repeats that he is not bothered. He believes it, and that is all that matters to him.
