Smoke and Mirrors
30th of Fall, 516 AV
Twentieth Bell
[863]
30th of Fall, 516 AV
Twentieth Bell
There was a hollow thunk, of Aislyn’s knife hitting something hard.
Her murder attempt never struck flesh, instead sinking into the soft grain of wood. A wall. Wide eyed, Aislyn stared at the blade, sunk several inches into the hard interior. She withdrew it slowly, her reflection in the metal of the blade slinking into view as she undid what she’d done. Her appearance was warped in the knife’s mirror glint, but still distinct. She was still ‘Maya’. She was still breathing. She was still alive.
”Bad trip?” Turning towards the voice, Aislyn found herself facing the greeter man, who at some point had reemerged from wherever he had gone. He was eying a small blue pill, holding it up to the thin beams of light that streamed in from the rare window in the room. He didn’t look towards her when he spoke. It took the woman several moments to comprehend what he had, several more to actually realize the implications of his words. It wasn’t real. None of it. Not a single moment had been real, yet she’d experienced it as if it was. Not dreamlike, not powerless.
Especially not powerless, actually.
In a strange way- past the cold, shivering, empty feeling in her chest- Aislyn felt invigorated. She had been mournful of her memories, before. She had wept before she had realized no one cared in the slightest how sorrowful she felt.
After that, she had been fearful of what had happened. She had gone into hiding because of them, each person- each event- another piece in the puzzle. She had driven herself near insanity, attempted to end her own life on more than one occasion, all because of something someone else had done to her. Or rather, several someones.
Then she had been angry; angry at herself, angry at those someones, and perhaps she still was.
Yet now, at least, she was content. There was no way to put it into words, but in some deep, peculiar way. she had enjoyed the power she had gotten- she’d changed the endings, rewritten her mistakes. She had relived the moments she regretted most and fixed every one of them. Nothing could go back and repair what was broken, but she could go forward and fix what was yet to come. If she didn’t make the same mistake twice; didn’t fall into the same trap. Perhaps- perhaps- she could prevent anything like that ever happening again.
But that was a big ‘perhaps’.
Sheathing her knife, Aislyn rubbed the weariness out of her eyes, steeling herself. If she had control, she could change everything. All she needed to do was grasp that control in the first place. Looking down at her surroundings, Aislyn picked up her journal. She’d wanted inspiration, now she had it. The greeter’s question was left without answer, instead met with Aislyn’s return to the work she’d yet to begin, her charcoal-smudged hands leaving black circles where her fingertips touched. On the new page, she began. A simple circle that became a head, a line that became a chin. Featureless scribbles that became hair, curves that became eyes and ears and noses. On the page a face emerged.
She’d never been a fan of largely scaled and reference-less portraits, but this was a special occasion.
Running her finger over the page, she smoothed marks that became shadows, drawing a fingernail across where creases should be. When her charcoal grew too small she drew out another one, and when that one snapped, another. She worked with purpose, a renowned vigor she couldn’t have imagined when she had walked into the strange building earlier in the day. Her wrist ached by the time she finished, her eyes focused on what she had done.
The face of Markis stared back towards her, steely and uncaring. He wasn't much to be afraid of when he was confined to a piece of parchment. She wasn’t a child, anymore, and her childhood fear couldn't control her forever. Perhaps she’d sell the portrait- someone would surely buy it. Put it in a nice wooden frame and place it on display, wait long enough and it would be gone eventually. She signed the image like any other, a soft Maya in the corner of the page. He was gone, too, just as gone as Wanda or Taji or Kuvarakh. Perhaps he was still alive, but he might as well have stopped breathing the moment she had escaped him, seven years before.
Content with her work, Aislyn stood up, notebook in arms and a surprisingly pleasant feeling. She left a handful of mizas where she had been sitting, ample payment for whatever it was she'd been given in the first place.
”A bad trip?” She repeated dully, brushing herself of charcoal dust. It seemed she had indeed found the inspiration to work. ”No, no… I don’t think so.”
There was something fulfilling about cutting the strings that had puppeteered her for so long. Something vivifying about personally being able to repent all the things she’d tortured herself for doing wrong. Something that, for better or worse, left her just a little bit less fearful of the things she’d faced.
No, not a bad trip at all.
Ledger-4 GM for 'Hindsight' pill.
Her murder attempt never struck flesh, instead sinking into the soft grain of wood. A wall. Wide eyed, Aislyn stared at the blade, sunk several inches into the hard interior. She withdrew it slowly, her reflection in the metal of the blade slinking into view as she undid what she’d done. Her appearance was warped in the knife’s mirror glint, but still distinct. She was still ‘Maya’. She was still breathing. She was still alive.
”Bad trip?” Turning towards the voice, Aislyn found herself facing the greeter man, who at some point had reemerged from wherever he had gone. He was eying a small blue pill, holding it up to the thin beams of light that streamed in from the rare window in the room. He didn’t look towards her when he spoke. It took the woman several moments to comprehend what he had, several more to actually realize the implications of his words. It wasn’t real. None of it. Not a single moment had been real, yet she’d experienced it as if it was. Not dreamlike, not powerless.
Especially not powerless, actually.
In a strange way- past the cold, shivering, empty feeling in her chest- Aislyn felt invigorated. She had been mournful of her memories, before. She had wept before she had realized no one cared in the slightest how sorrowful she felt.
After that, she had been fearful of what had happened. She had gone into hiding because of them, each person- each event- another piece in the puzzle. She had driven herself near insanity, attempted to end her own life on more than one occasion, all because of something someone else had done to her. Or rather, several someones.
Then she had been angry; angry at herself, angry at those someones, and perhaps she still was.
Yet now, at least, she was content. There was no way to put it into words, but in some deep, peculiar way. she had enjoyed the power she had gotten- she’d changed the endings, rewritten her mistakes. She had relived the moments she regretted most and fixed every one of them. Nothing could go back and repair what was broken, but she could go forward and fix what was yet to come. If she didn’t make the same mistake twice; didn’t fall into the same trap. Perhaps- perhaps- she could prevent anything like that ever happening again.
But that was a big ‘perhaps’.
Sheathing her knife, Aislyn rubbed the weariness out of her eyes, steeling herself. If she had control, she could change everything. All she needed to do was grasp that control in the first place. Looking down at her surroundings, Aislyn picked up her journal. She’d wanted inspiration, now she had it. The greeter’s question was left without answer, instead met with Aislyn’s return to the work she’d yet to begin, her charcoal-smudged hands leaving black circles where her fingertips touched. On the new page, she began. A simple circle that became a head, a line that became a chin. Featureless scribbles that became hair, curves that became eyes and ears and noses. On the page a face emerged.
She’d never been a fan of largely scaled and reference-less portraits, but this was a special occasion.
Running her finger over the page, she smoothed marks that became shadows, drawing a fingernail across where creases should be. When her charcoal grew too small she drew out another one, and when that one snapped, another. She worked with purpose, a renowned vigor she couldn’t have imagined when she had walked into the strange building earlier in the day. Her wrist ached by the time she finished, her eyes focused on what she had done.
The face of Markis stared back towards her, steely and uncaring. He wasn't much to be afraid of when he was confined to a piece of parchment. She wasn’t a child, anymore, and her childhood fear couldn't control her forever. Perhaps she’d sell the portrait- someone would surely buy it. Put it in a nice wooden frame and place it on display, wait long enough and it would be gone eventually. She signed the image like any other, a soft Maya in the corner of the page. He was gone, too, just as gone as Wanda or Taji or Kuvarakh. Perhaps he was still alive, but he might as well have stopped breathing the moment she had escaped him, seven years before.
Content with her work, Aislyn stood up, notebook in arms and a surprisingly pleasant feeling. She left a handful of mizas where she had been sitting, ample payment for whatever it was she'd been given in the first place.
”A bad trip?” She repeated dully, brushing herself of charcoal dust. It seemed she had indeed found the inspiration to work. ”No, no… I don’t think so.”
There was something fulfilling about cutting the strings that had puppeteered her for so long. Something vivifying about personally being able to repent all the things she’d tortured herself for doing wrong. Something that, for better or worse, left her just a little bit less fearful of the things she’d faced.
No, not a bad trip at all.
Ledger-4 GM for 'Hindsight' pill.
[863]
