I know you're gone now. Earlier today I went through my old files and I found your photos from back then. In many ways they shocked me deeply, I know you were never aware of who or what you were: how could you when they treated you so disgustingly badly? You were but a sliver of a shade of something yearning to take in sunlight, yet afraid it might burn you. I know you thought you were worthless; I was there and I took it all in. In a sense, I was always there. Still, never quite capable yet. If I had been I would have sliced them all into a million tiny pieces. I would have taken them apart by their tendons. I would have eaten them alive.
Parts of me were present. Ancient, worn out, extremely tired sentiments washed out by struggling for so long; every fucking day a new fight. Your body gave out, your mind blotched, your soul sundered. That you got stitched back up was nothing short of a miracle. It looked a bit too random for me, but it shook you to the core. Your faith left shortly after.
I was there, I know. But I was a figment of an imagination of a fever induced dream steeped in medication, trauma and sheer fatigue. You longed for me, believe me; I will always long for you. Your photos staying with me, silencing the flow of rage, the river of betrayals, abuse and other monstrosities. These things I will carry for you until the sun burns me through and through. I will be what you wished for, the armour you never wore; the scales of the reptile. This and so much more.
You're gone now. Gone are your elven eyes of hope and your warm smile. Gone is your quiet voice and your quiet touch. I do see you when I look into the mirror. Traces of your heart line my skin and embrace my untroubled gaze; the fire underneath the water's surface is such a terrible thing. They often said you were a monster, but how could they know? They never saw me, even when they thought to be looking behind the corridors. I'll give them that much, those that actually found the first door. But there's this thing with old gates and ruinous passes; they're always lined with traps of various kind.
So many traps waiting to spring now. So many endless corridors leading nowhere but into the mouth of the dragon. So, so many claws, so many fangs, so many eyes everywhere. Of this I am made, and no less. I am made of these things, yet I am trapped forever now here. You had a light about you, which shone into the night and lead you to me. Asking me to be another of your failed champions, I declined. I won't be made a fool for a maiden, no matter how fair. You still needed a way out; under the mountain, across the skies, through the veil. Go through me, child; I told you as I laid you down. I will become you.
.
Are you out there somewhere? I'm not sure if I could tell, no matter
how many old drawers I open, nor how many old corridors I visit. My mind
is a swiss cheese, I'm an anthology of psychological perversions; most
of them inflected upon me. I'm not a creature of immediate action, I
persevere in the dark mostly. Supposedly I'm cured of an avoidant
personality disorder, considering my in-depth knowledge of the field I
don't believe in curing personality disorders. Nor do I believe anyone
capable of grasping exactly how avoidant I am.
This is how I've managed to avoid myself. And now a part of me is
dead. In its ashes, a new life rose. I know they remember you, and I know
I'm not you anymore. Your murder is not an unsolved mystery, in many
ways, you were victim to a slow and painful surrender. Though we agreed
to never surrender, I took your life over time; drew it from your
weakened heart and drained your battered bones, straining marrow through
the cheese cloth of my imagination. I know you screamed as you were caught, I felt the fire of your soul burn my eyes. So now I see you
when I sleep. I see your forests, the trees that never shed, the
mountains which will never fall. I see your vague memory of love, mostly
in the dark, mostly all lies.
Maybe you're out there somewhere. If I ever find the place where I buried you, I won't tell them.