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| The Last Monkey of Nalai [Prequel Short Story] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Thu Dec 31, 2015 12:51 am (821 Views) | |
| Keter | Thu Dec 31, 2015 12:51 am Post #1 |
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What good are memories in the end if they're all someone has? If they have nobody to share them with, or to reflect against. What good are the memories from dead people from years long past if they are all of the same thing, of the same room with the same lights and the same kinds of people? What good are the memories if they all recount the same aches, the same struggle, the same restraints? What good do memories serve if the person who has them doesn't even have freedom? What good are the memories if all they are in the end are stories from long, long ago, known, once experienced, but studied endlessly. What good are memories if they are not one's own, but instead those of somebody else? What good do memories serve if the person who has them doesn't even have freedom? What might the answer be to any of these? Would it be strange to realize that the same answer applies to every one? Then again what good does the answer do for somebody who can do nothing about it, at least not by themselves? What if, at long last, they were no longer alone? What if the darkness in their heart that defied the light they were trapped within had finally been heard from the outside, just ignored by those closest but at long last heard by somebody or something that saw opportunity held where nobody could find it? Well then, you would have the answer. Every generation born anew, and every life wasted in a pit for the crimes of a common spiritual ancestor. Inevitably the memories were always returned, and each time the new family would act in a slightly different way. Some reacted with fear at what they had brought into the world, echoing legends from long ago and the nightmares that were to never be repeated, seeing the child as the enemy. Some reacted with fear at what might happen to the newest member of their family, listening to the worlds of a child who could recount not only the ancient experiences firsthand but of the previous life and what had become of them. In the end it was always the same, the child was found, the child was captured, and the child was to be imprisoned for the rest of its natural life. In the end every generation had the same tragedy, carried out by people who went forth in life thanked only by the families closest to the individual, and cursed only by the families closest to the individual. They did it not for thanks nor fear but because they believed it to be the only choice to safeguard so many innocent lives, because they had all been taught the same stories that the child could speak of. In this life, in this time, the child was born a boy. When came the time that he could recount his old lives, once again the people came. This time the parents did nothing to stop them from coming, the neighbors did not see fit to safeguard the child, and no incarnations would even consider the absence of one of their histories. Whether it was from fear of the lost incarnation or from the people come to take him, even the boy couldn't tell. As far as anybody in Nalai knew it was a scary story of old, never to be repeated, but for Keter Laluan, though perhaps just Keter now, the stories were not just true but of his oldest life. The boy had been brought to the same hidden room that he had been to in countless lives past, the numbers lost to the same walls, to the same chains, to the same lights, all the memories overlapping, cannibalistic in consuming one another just to make sense of the same scene from each lifetime. Even the youngest that the lives could remember blurred together, names almost lost, but this one clung onto like the final remnants of a life that could foresee no hope or believe in any freedom. Here was Keter Laluan in the same place as all incarnations of the Abyssal Monkey. No years to form as an individual other than knowing the same wall as so many lives past, there was only the Abyssal Monkey, reborn again in the same prison. Hopeless, angry. As always, by the tenth year in the prison he began fighting vigorously against the chains, pulling, letting the manacles, shackles and collar cut deep into his flesh. He knew it wouldn't kill him, even try as hard as he might, at worst it might infect him, it would hurt, but as always he would survive. He would be unconscious from lack of oxygen, or from lack of blood flow, but every time his eyes shut would just be rudely awakened by another day he knew was passing without freedom. As always he would grow angrier with the passing of time, his entire life a silent promise to be trapped in here for all of eternity for the crimes of the past. Yet as always his screams seemed to go unanswered, ignored, even with his silent, faceless guards coming in every few days to force food and water down his throat, to keep him alive in this prison until old age claimed him. The Abyssal Monkey as always screamed until his throat was raw, until he spat blood from his lips, interrupted only by choking and coughing up more. He was alone. As with all lives before. But perhaps not quite as all lives to come. Again he stopped screaming, interrupted by his own strangulation, drowning in his own blood. He was too exhausted to keep the blood in his lungs, to let the metallic fluid end this incarnation, to try again for freedom in the next when they least expected it. He hoped for it each life but always failed, death always just out of reach along with any potential freedom. Done? A voice echoed in Keter's mind. It was odd for he could not recall a life before where he had hallucinated, even in the maddening confines of his prison and the constraints therein, I will assume the silence is a yes. I do not know who or what you are, but I must say that anything requiring so much security has my interest. The voice came again. Indulging intrigue in this new predicament for at least a moment while he caught his breath, the Abyssal Monkey's eyes darted around the room, looking for where the owner of the voice might be coming from. I think that as a result you would be very interesting indeed, the kind of creature to gamble on. The voice said in his mind once again, The kind of creature to stake my life on! Well, so much as it is. The longer that the monkey had to think on the voice, the more he realized that it didn't sound normal, or Nalaian. It wasn't in his mind-- not just in his mind, not a figment created by generations of isolation and imprisonment. Somebody-- no, something was speaking to him, something was in his mind. Something had managed to get into the cell with him without the guards realizing it. Keter's mouth began moving, but his throat was too damaged to do anything unless he forced himself to scream once again, yet the voice in his mind seemed to not hold this against him as it returned to communicating. Wondering what I am? Just think of me as the shadow on your heart, but even there it is cold on the surface. The voice feigned a sort of helplessness to its sound before chuckling, Let me in and I will guarantee what I can only assume it your long-awaited freedom. I will wait for your answer. Was this real? Some part of Keter's mind believed it might be a trick, finally after so many years of torture and death had his captors decided to change the way that they had him imprisoned? Were they finally offering false hope or was this really something unaccounted for? If he accepted its help would he be free from being alone with his memories or would they come in to mock him, to finally just insult him to his face? No matter what the answers were, at least he knew it would be a change of pace to the same life he had been forced to live so many times before. He was too desperate to question the offer and so what he forced through his bloodied throat, what he coughed out was simple, "How?!" Oh, do not worry about the details. The voice in his mind laughed, That was more than adequate enough to earn your freedom, and I think I know exactly what you need for that. |
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7:31 PM Jul 11

