Overwhelmed

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darkangel
Posts: 14
https://twitter.com/dm_kuchnie
Joined: Tue Mar 09, 2021 12:07 am
Location: India

Overwhelmed

Post by darkangel »

This short story is the result of a particularly painful death after getting swarmed. Hopefully, it's an enjoyable read!
Overwhelmed

“People know the value of knowledge, but not of forgetting.” Spoken casually, Malithese’s words come unbidden as I try my best to stuff today’s events in a tiny box. Suzy’s broken corpse, faithfully guarded by Brimstone, our pathetic attempt to flee and walking into an ambush, Not being prepared enough to know the bloody layout of the quarter…
I inhale sharply, dimly noting the smells of old leather and parchment, which very clearly warn me to not vandalize the volume I am clutching for dear life, the phantom ache of coiled tendrils holding me still while eating through layers of skin reinforcing the notion.
Very gently, I return the volume to its shelve, finding the most shadowed armchair in the Camari library’s sitting area. It is quiet, quiet enough that when I enter my memory bank, I can visualize it quite clearly, with its rows and rows of boxes, each secured with an impervious lock, but what makes this place bearable to me is the woman who stands beside me, forever stuck ageless, and the ideal of everything I want to be.
We exchange no words, as we walk down the endless rows of boxes, the all pervading quiet like a mantal of protection. By now, I know better than to indulge my curiosity as to their contents, since as impervious as those locks are, the sleightest of touches by me can shatter them to non-existence.
I feel muscles I didn’t know were taught to the point of breaking slowly unclench as I walk, the woman keeping easy pace alongside, I welcome the slew of possibility that emerges as the locks upon the boxes containing today’s events form, after all, pain, regret, grief, they can break you worse than any weapon, and what use are you, to yourself, to others, if you can’t produce results without breaking?
“Miss Annabell?” The attendant’s words are enough to lure me out of the bank, and back to the library’s background noises, which assault my senses like salt on a wound, but, They reinforce the fact that I – we are real, and exist as one person. We are real enough for the sudden presence of sound to hurt, real enough to politely thank the attendant and get a greatful smile. But mostly, we are real enough to be convincing enough to hear and accept the words we once told a broken shell of a woman to echo back to us.
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