Entombed. (Semi-conscious stream of thought/Labyrinth of memory-woven illusions)

[Gildarts]

How do you escape this though? You can’t even MOVE! So, I considered the raw pain. The raw sorrow. The rawness of emotion that has cut me so deeply throughout my life. The agony. The torture. The resentment of the idea of death which was a weight I carried on my shoulders far too long. I’m a warrior. I fight despite the pain. If anything, this suffering is the reason I took up arms in the first place. It is still within me. I’ve borne my strengths from it. Made myself impenetrable armor. And by that, I mean I am the armor. Pain can’t hurt you if you are the pain. Fuck, I have to focus. Can’t get sidetracked, though, I do have the entire span of lifetimes to wait up in here.

Ageless. Isn’t this what every woman wanted? Commemorated for her beauty? I had only once fallen in love and the man died two days later. I watched as the guts spilled from his stomach, he had been completely eviscerated. Carelessly, I went after him. His body was cold by the time I arrived. It isn’t much of a story. I cried as my hands tried to press in his organs into his filth, you know, septic and all that fun jazz. I wouldn’t let him die, so I shouted to a vacant corpse of a man I once knew. Life ends quick. So I have to protect my own. Do what I can. Katia, I couldn’t save you from myself. I was too quick to fire. Such a chink in the armor that I am. The chink that ends you in this forever fates of life.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t have bullets at my disposal to make my peace now. Lucky I didn’t too, who knows what kind of poor decisions I could’ve made, from murder-rampage, which I’d done before, or would I finally overcome mankind’s wonderful self-preservation measures? If I could pull the trigger of a gun just one more time, would I choose to end my own life?

Well, I guess that doesn’t fucking matter, because I don’t have a fucking trigger anyway, eh? How’s that for cheap. No ammunition but my wits. And even those seem to have slipped. Some of the memories in my head aren’t mine nor are they even real. But I don’t just get to choose which ones those are. Or… Do I?

I could recreate myself to what I believe is right and true. Into what I want to believe. And what better place than this to start?

Maybe.

First, I had to try Plan A. Which was uh, focusing on raw emotion as a way to break out. The way I see it, the more human the less stone I’ll be able to be. Emotions are human. If this is a spell binding me here, then I may be able to find the chink in its armor. Maybe.

Or maybe the illusionist Behemoth, the dastardly monster, had thought this one up too. It may not have been real. It was hard to tell what was anymore. The last time I had gotten free from his illusion was by calling the mirage’s bluff. Can’t exactly do that here with my hands (or rather) muscles bound in cement or whatever.

No grenades, no weapons, no gunpowder. In this moment, THIS is who I am.

Now, again Christa. Ask yourself the ultimate question, because dying isn’t an option, quite literally. Ask yourself.

What will you do to survive?