A Fly Trapped in Amber
If sunlight was human, than it would be Amber. Words are boundaries for the emotions I feel for Amber. She approached me, one day. Our friendship was a simple, sweet thing; questions and answers floated between us like clouds. It was only a fortnight after, that Amber revealed her secret to me. She told me of liberation, and power; of an organisation dedicated to this crazy, abstract, impossible notion of freedom. I had agreed, for I was already drowning in the beautiful golden of Amber.
The truck arrived in the evening. I was ready. Amber was not present, but a slightly built woman of thirty picked me up. The road stretched ahead of us like a dull ribbon, and I feared it would snap, sending my dreams and me into nothingness. The Evening Primroses headquarters was heavenly, because Amber lived there. A mansion of rigid symmetry, and pallid walls was my home for two years. The inside of the house had killed a thousand trees; wooden doors, floors, and lives. And in this place would begin my training.
My room was populated by six other children such as me. Our beds were small and woollen and we each had a wooden drawer to store our memories in. These were soon filled with small objects that contained memories of the boys. We were silent, and solitary at first, but in each Contractor lies the instinct to dominate, and that is what makes us so savage.
The ashy cloud morning was our compass in this world of training; without it, the days would blur into meaningless colours as we perfected the skills of killing. We would wake at a time where the sun only just up, and would begin. Our instructor, Amagiri was a large man, who was born out of iron rules and focus. We would run in endless formations, until my throat was not my throat, it was fire blooming out from my stomach. Than it was breakfast, and we were only given enough to stave off hunger, not enough to satisfy us. Hunger was made routine for us, and it became as familiar as the clouds in the sky.
Afterwards, we were learned in the complexities of the world; language, maths, skills, geography, politics. I was reminded of my trivial lessons about fractions, in my old life, and I smiled.
In the late afternoon, we were reminded of the fact we were the dominant species. Our lessons were taught in the oh-so-obvious flaws of humans; their tendency to do the irrational, their willingness to believe other humans. We learnt to manipulate the mind, and that is a deadly thing.
We are not beings, we are sacks of meat, and we will die; that is what Amagiri taught us. The trick was, he said, was to prevent you from dying for as long as possible. And we were shown how to. How to fire guns, detonate bombs, throw knives, shoot bows, fight with our hands and fight; how to end lives.
In the evening, where the pale lilac infected the sky and stained it maroon, we were separated and trained by specialists. Mine was Amagiri. I showed him, the majesty of my power and so we began. And so we ended. He made me practice with different items; guns with the bullets charged, bags of flours-which when combusted, would spread a make-shift fog -, bows with arrows glowing golden. I was finally drawn to the idea of knives, with the handles and blades inked with my power. I threw the blades at the crude diagrams of human bodies. It stuck in the lung; I wiped my nose, and imaginary heart that nestled there erupted in dust and smoke. Just like a certain plastic doll.
The day ended, and the night sky burnt with stars.
And then there was the ashy, grey morning.
I really enjoyed writing the training scenes; hopefully I did a good job. This is my longest chapter, since I realised how short most of my chapters seemed.
Question of the week:
If you could bring back a dead character from Darker Than Black, who would it be?
