51 Vhalar 720
Continuing after Drink Me, Doctor.
The door to the room was thrown open, a frantic Yeva running inside, gasping with blood coating nearly the entire length of her arms. Her freckles were smattered with sprays of blood and her hair, pulled back, had managed to find itself covered with sticky red, "B-B-B-Baskara," she gasped, shutting the door and collapsing against it, shaking from fear. It rolled from her in waves, an overcurrent to the shame. At once, the familiar was roaring from the fireplace, a basilisk of fire rushing to her feet, "I-I-I did s-something."
"What happened?"
The familiar pressed her consciousness against hers, feeling. Yeva's lip quivered and she pushed herself from the wall. Confusion. Shame, "I-I-I-I-"
"Breathe," Baskara ordered.
Yeva silenced, focusing on the air in her lungs. In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out. When the medic spoke, the words were soft, barely a whisper, "I don't know." She pulled a hand from the doorframe and stared at the red print left behind and the crust that was beginning to form along her fingers. She flexed them and the covering cracked. She knew how the blood came to be, but its memory was a foreign thing. Those feelings had been someone else's.
How she had smiled behind her mask when the bone fought against the teeth of her saw.
How sweet the screams had sounded.
Yeva didn't want to remember. She didn't want to know who that was.
"There was an amputation..."
She could not look at the familiar. More shame flooded her and she stumbled towards where the lantern burned at the desk, the blue book waiting ominously for her return. Beside it, a collection of filled bottles and the one that had changed everything, "I know what it does," she realized, eyes burning as they settled upon the dark glass and split label, "It was sour and it changed me!"
She could taste the rush of accusation. Her fists clenched and she realized how dangerous these drinks could be. Two she had sampled and both had caused harm in one way or the other. Were the rest so vile? Who would make such a thing! Yeva covered her face with her hands, uncaring of the mess it left across her cheeks as she crept towards her book. She pushed her shoulder back and opened the cover.
She turned the pages.
Her last entry started so simply - an experiment of mere curiosity - she reread her words and her mouth dropped, "It changed me," she whispered again in horror, seeing how the drawings on the paper grew darker with every etching. How she had been so oblivious to it all - at the time it had felt so right. Now, with clear eyes and the powers of the sweet & sour brew faded, she hardly recognized the feelings she once harbored. Yeva gripped the page, horrified.
Baskara said nothing, but tasted the shame. In her silence, the snake pieced together what she could. She had warned the medic and the girl had not listened.
Yeva reached for the quill and dipped the tip into the inkpot, scrapping away excess and, at the bottom of the page, beneath the sadistic drawings of taunting faces and cruel acts, she wrote:
The door to the room was thrown open, a frantic Yeva running inside, gasping with blood coating nearly the entire length of her arms. Her freckles were smattered with sprays of blood and her hair, pulled back, had managed to find itself covered with sticky red, "B-B-B-Baskara," she gasped, shutting the door and collapsing against it, shaking from fear. It rolled from her in waves, an overcurrent to the shame. At once, the familiar was roaring from the fireplace, a basilisk of fire rushing to her feet, "I-I-I did s-something."
"What happened?"
The familiar pressed her consciousness against hers, feeling. Yeva's lip quivered and she pushed herself from the wall. Confusion. Shame, "I-I-I-I-"
"Breathe," Baskara ordered.
Yeva silenced, focusing on the air in her lungs. In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out. When the medic spoke, the words were soft, barely a whisper, "I don't know." She pulled a hand from the doorframe and stared at the red print left behind and the crust that was beginning to form along her fingers. She flexed them and the covering cracked. She knew how the blood came to be, but its memory was a foreign thing. Those feelings had been someone else's.
How she had smiled behind her mask when the bone fought against the teeth of her saw.
How sweet the screams had sounded.
Yeva didn't want to remember. She didn't want to know who that was.
"There was an amputation..."
She could not look at the familiar. More shame flooded her and she stumbled towards where the lantern burned at the desk, the blue book waiting ominously for her return. Beside it, a collection of filled bottles and the one that had changed everything, "I know what it does," she realized, eyes burning as they settled upon the dark glass and split label, "It was sour and it changed me!"
She could taste the rush of accusation. Her fists clenched and she realized how dangerous these drinks could be. Two she had sampled and both had caused harm in one way or the other. Were the rest so vile? Who would make such a thing! Yeva covered her face with her hands, uncaring of the mess it left across her cheeks as she crept towards her book. She pushed her shoulder back and opened the cover.
She turned the pages.
Her last entry started so simply - an experiment of mere curiosity - she reread her words and her mouth dropped, "It changed me," she whispered again in horror, seeing how the drawings on the paper grew darker with every etching. How she had been so oblivious to it all - at the time it had felt so right. Now, with clear eyes and the powers of the sweet & sour brew faded, she hardly recognized the feelings she once harbored. Yeva gripped the page, horrified.
Baskara said nothing, but tasted the shame. In her silence, the snake pieced together what she could. She had warned the medic and the girl had not listened.
Yeva reached for the quill and dipped the tip into the inkpot, scrapping away excess and, at the bottom of the page, beneath the sadistic drawings of taunting faces and cruel acts, she wrote:
Beware of this brew. I can only hypothesize what those who taste sweet feel, but its bitterness was a deceptive horror. I did not even notice how it warped me so subtly. I found myself wanting to hurt others. I romanticized agony. I savored it.... When I had a chance to force it upon others... I ran to embrace the opportunity. Even after drinking, it did not matter the morality of malpractice under the influence. I thought only of myself... I aided in an amputation... The procedure was necessary, but my pleasure was not.
He cried and screamed and had I not been wearing my mask, they would have seen how it made me smile.
Forgive me, Ilaren. Moseke. Spirits. Cassion - anyone.
The effects of this poison have worn off, but how can I recognize myself?
What have I done?
