81 Ymiden, 724
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He was unaware that he was dreaming. There were no contextual clues guiding him to the understanding that he was in fact, waist deep in a dream he had no control over. On second thought, this lack of control was a blessing to him. Kotton drank not because he wanted to lose control, but so he could have mastery over how much control he could lose whilst still having one hand on the reigns. He smoked less because he wanted to dissociate his mind from reality but because he wanted to see how much disillusion he could handle before being undermined completely. He didn’t injure himself because he liked the way it felt, but rather because he was the one to determine the lengths of the cuts and just how deep he could go before seeking medical help. It was like eating, it was like exercising, it was also like sleeping. He was the one to determine how much or for how long, when, and how he did these things. There was so much in life he couldn’t control; he couldn’t begin to count all the things outside his ability to helm- he would need a dozen or so more fingers or toes- so, whilst he normally dwelled in anger and sadness on just how inept he was in mastering his life, he chose to also think about those things could master. The list of things he could control may be short, and paltry, it was still something and it gave him meagre comfort for the times when he felt lost and abandoned. That's not to say what he could control bore any inch of resemblance to anything other than maladaptive behaviour, but it was something. Kotton needed some sense of control, whether it was in the waking world or outside it. However, right now he had neither.
He opened his eyes for the first time since waltzing into his dream when an enormous being comprised entirely of stone approached him.
It's steps made the ground quake. Bits of dirt and debris levitated in the pulse of his stride. A poor flower had even be uprooted. “If you could kill, would you?” It asked. There was a face to this monstrous being, but it gave nothing away as to how it felt. It was devoid of expression just as Kotton was devoid of control.
Lack of hearing wasn’t important in this dream of his; for whatever reason, he could hear perfectly. There was no need to read lips or pick up on any subtle cues from ones' body language. It was just him and this stone person, remiss of language barriers and all the problems that spawned because of them. He paused not because he was trying to make sense of the question, not because he was contemplating any pious response he should give, but because he already had an answer at the ready and he wasn’t sure how to word it.
Since this was a non-lucid dream, Kotton was not impeded by morals or ethics or thoughts of what was right or wrong, just or partisan. His subconscious lingered within reach, normally undetectable during times of consciousness. Now, there was nothing to keep it from flourishing without obstruction. He was beside himself when his mouth sputtered an unexpected, “yes.” On the other hand, he felt free in this dream of his, there was no wrong or right, no black and white. There was simply him (and this random rock-monster). There was no need to overthink or over-analyse. There was no need to excessively doubt or dwell. Since that seemed to be the case, or what was over the course of the next several minutes, the young man rolled his shoulders back, raised his chin and stuck out his tongue in a form of rebellion.
The stone figure nodded its head. Within seconds, curlicues of vines associated with the likes of wisteria and akebia rose behind the being. Thick, thin, short, long- they crested over the hedges of other plants, slinking their way to tickle the back of his neck. Directly behind the dense greenery was a body. It was alive. It was male. And it was trying their hardest to stand up after having been fatally wounded. Kotton could see it. It wasn’t hard. His kneecap had been blown away from his femur and tibia. His fibula was nowhere to be seen. Kotton could have spent hours trying to locate it, but he didn’t need to. Nay, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to watch. After having spent countless hours examining patients and observing them for vital signs, he was burnt out. Would it hurt to remain idle and just look?
The man squirmed. He was wearing heavy set armour, most likely intended to stop the attack of an enemy or the wrath of a dragon’s flaming blow. Even with the armour, his knee was not a knee anymore. And as he continued to observe, the man's shoulder wasn't a shoulder anymore either.
“Please help me,” he whispered as Kotton found within himself the strength to approach him. “Just put me out of my misery.”
Kotton blinked once. Twice. He blinked three times before attempting a hasty side-eye to anything other than this dying man. Lo and behold, at his side was a ring of mushrooms. Instead of giving him advice, much less any form of distraction, the ring of mushrooms diffused an egregious odor that smelt of death and decay.
Was this a sign? Was this supposed to mean something to him? He thought he was free of overthinking and over-analysing, doubting and dwelling, but here he was looking at a fucking mushroom cloud, wondering whether or not the smell of rot meant he should give this fatally wounded warrior what he wanted, which was death.
A whispering word fluttered between his ears just then. “You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork.” Kotton couldn’t recall precisely when he had been given these instructions. Suddenly a semi-tangible presence fostering a mess of red scraggly hair and equally as unkempt beard appeared in front of him as if by magic.
“Sign here, please,” he stated matter-of-factly. He had no eyes.
Kotton didn’t hesitate to scrawl his signature on the ledger. But why had he been so eager to sign the paper? The moment swept him up as if he were a dead log caught in a sea storm. He needed to ready himself if he were to perform the deed of which he had signed to do. And when a scythe been magically administered into his dominant hand’s grasp? What now?
“You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork.” Those words echoed in his head, but they weren't the only ones. He was still haunted by the plea of the wounded soldier: “Please help me. Just put me out of my misery.”
He wasn’t aware of what he was doing, at least not compared to how he would be had this been a lucid dream, a dream had some shred of control over.
The scythe he held in his hand was very cold. It was far colder than he thought it would be. It was heavy too. Much heavier than he had anticipated, though he had no basis in which to compare its density. Still, it felt heavier than it needed to be, probably because it held all the lives, all the souls that had seeped into its existence from the murderous hands of those who held it prior.
Kotton's mouth filled with the taste of metal. He hadn’t noticed he had bit his lip so hard so as to draw blood. Down his throat the putrefactive liquid went until it met up with the contents of bile bobbing inside his belly. Regurgitated bile wasn't the only thing sitting like a rock in his stomach, there were repressed emotions of guilt and remorse, and now, an over-stimulating amount of abhorrence and contempt for what had been requested of him, the one who held tightly to the weapon that determined ones' fate. He felt ready to collapse under the pressure. Sure, he had signed his desire to kill another. Sure, at the time, he had felt apathy for the dying man presented at his feet. And sure, he had originally felt free, navigable to think and emote and express. But now? He wasn't so sure.
In a twist of events, a voice abruptly sounded not within his mind, but into the environment Kotton occupied. He still held the scythe, but only for a second more until it vanished from his grasp. He blinked, muddled by the perplexity of what had just happened, yet at the same time, he wasn't entirely without recognition.
“You may have said yes, but your heart still says no. So no.”
So much happened between his standing before a fatally wounded solider, holding a sharp weapon that may or may not have declared ultimate death, to travelling through space and time filled with images only fathomable to an intelligent and cunning mind, until he was at last lying face up in his bed, gazing doltishly at a candle that continued to burn on his bedside table.
There were no memories of what had just happened. There was nothing other than the tugging of heartstrings, and even that only made him think he was experiencing some form of acid reflux.
Nevertheless, his heart insisted on eliciting an extra heart palpitation that reminded him of why he chose to do what he did. He wanted to help people, troubleshoot their problems, and be the warm-hearted middle-man that made comfortable someone's inevitable journey from life into death. As he thought this, the random picture of a scythe popped inside his head. He would reminded himself to continue being the best healer he could possibly be.
He opened his eyes for the first time since waltzing into his dream when an enormous being comprised entirely of stone approached him.
It's steps made the ground quake. Bits of dirt and debris levitated in the pulse of his stride. A poor flower had even be uprooted. “If you could kill, would you?” It asked. There was a face to this monstrous being, but it gave nothing away as to how it felt. It was devoid of expression just as Kotton was devoid of control.
Lack of hearing wasn’t important in this dream of his; for whatever reason, he could hear perfectly. There was no need to read lips or pick up on any subtle cues from ones' body language. It was just him and this stone person, remiss of language barriers and all the problems that spawned because of them. He paused not because he was trying to make sense of the question, not because he was contemplating any pious response he should give, but because he already had an answer at the ready and he wasn’t sure how to word it.
Since this was a non-lucid dream, Kotton was not impeded by morals or ethics or thoughts of what was right or wrong, just or partisan. His subconscious lingered within reach, normally undetectable during times of consciousness. Now, there was nothing to keep it from flourishing without obstruction. He was beside himself when his mouth sputtered an unexpected, “yes.” On the other hand, he felt free in this dream of his, there was no wrong or right, no black and white. There was simply him (and this random rock-monster). There was no need to overthink or over-analyse. There was no need to excessively doubt or dwell. Since that seemed to be the case, or what was over the course of the next several minutes, the young man rolled his shoulders back, raised his chin and stuck out his tongue in a form of rebellion.
The stone figure nodded its head. Within seconds, curlicues of vines associated with the likes of wisteria and akebia rose behind the being. Thick, thin, short, long- they crested over the hedges of other plants, slinking their way to tickle the back of his neck. Directly behind the dense greenery was a body. It was alive. It was male. And it was trying their hardest to stand up after having been fatally wounded. Kotton could see it. It wasn’t hard. His kneecap had been blown away from his femur and tibia. His fibula was nowhere to be seen. Kotton could have spent hours trying to locate it, but he didn’t need to. Nay, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to watch. After having spent countless hours examining patients and observing them for vital signs, he was burnt out. Would it hurt to remain idle and just look?
The man squirmed. He was wearing heavy set armour, most likely intended to stop the attack of an enemy or the wrath of a dragon’s flaming blow. Even with the armour, his knee was not a knee anymore. And as he continued to observe, the man's shoulder wasn't a shoulder anymore either.
“Please help me,” he whispered as Kotton found within himself the strength to approach him. “Just put me out of my misery.”
Kotton blinked once. Twice. He blinked three times before attempting a hasty side-eye to anything other than this dying man. Lo and behold, at his side was a ring of mushrooms. Instead of giving him advice, much less any form of distraction, the ring of mushrooms diffused an egregious odor that smelt of death and decay.
Was this a sign? Was this supposed to mean something to him? He thought he was free of overthinking and over-analysing, doubting and dwelling, but here he was looking at a fucking mushroom cloud, wondering whether or not the smell of rot meant he should give this fatally wounded warrior what he wanted, which was death.
A whispering word fluttered between his ears just then. “You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork.” Kotton couldn’t recall precisely when he had been given these instructions. Suddenly a semi-tangible presence fostering a mess of red scraggly hair and equally as unkempt beard appeared in front of him as if by magic.
“Sign here, please,” he stated matter-of-factly. He had no eyes.
Kotton didn’t hesitate to scrawl his signature on the ledger. But why had he been so eager to sign the paper? The moment swept him up as if he were a dead log caught in a sea storm. He needed to ready himself if he were to perform the deed of which he had signed to do. And when a scythe been magically administered into his dominant hand’s grasp? What now?
“You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork.” Those words echoed in his head, but they weren't the only ones. He was still haunted by the plea of the wounded soldier: “Please help me. Just put me out of my misery.”
He wasn’t aware of what he was doing, at least not compared to how he would be had this been a lucid dream, a dream had some shred of control over.
The scythe he held in his hand was very cold. It was far colder than he thought it would be. It was heavy too. Much heavier than he had anticipated, though he had no basis in which to compare its density. Still, it felt heavier than it needed to be, probably because it held all the lives, all the souls that had seeped into its existence from the murderous hands of those who held it prior.
Kotton's mouth filled with the taste of metal. He hadn’t noticed he had bit his lip so hard so as to draw blood. Down his throat the putrefactive liquid went until it met up with the contents of bile bobbing inside his belly. Regurgitated bile wasn't the only thing sitting like a rock in his stomach, there were repressed emotions of guilt and remorse, and now, an over-stimulating amount of abhorrence and contempt for what had been requested of him, the one who held tightly to the weapon that determined ones' fate. He felt ready to collapse under the pressure. Sure, he had signed his desire to kill another. Sure, at the time, he had felt apathy for the dying man presented at his feet. And sure, he had originally felt free, navigable to think and emote and express. But now? He wasn't so sure.
In a twist of events, a voice abruptly sounded not within his mind, but into the environment Kotton occupied. He still held the scythe, but only for a second more until it vanished from his grasp. He blinked, muddled by the perplexity of what had just happened, yet at the same time, he wasn't entirely without recognition.
“You may have said yes, but your heart still says no. So no.”
So much happened between his standing before a fatally wounded solider, holding a sharp weapon that may or may not have declared ultimate death, to travelling through space and time filled with images only fathomable to an intelligent and cunning mind, until he was at last lying face up in his bed, gazing doltishly at a candle that continued to burn on his bedside table.
There were no memories of what had just happened. There was nothing other than the tugging of heartstrings, and even that only made him think he was experiencing some form of acid reflux.
Nevertheless, his heart insisted on eliciting an extra heart palpitation that reminded him of why he chose to do what he did. He wanted to help people, troubleshoot their problems, and be the warm-hearted middle-man that made comfortable someone's inevitable journey from life into death. As he thought this, the random picture of a scythe popped inside his head. He would reminded himself to continue being the best healer he could possibly be.