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

[Gildarts]

Well Adams? Your clock may be ticking. Isn’t this what you live for? I beat on myself a little, but what person in their right mind doesn’t? Time. Time to focus. Time to get through this. Survive, just like I always have, without my parents, without my sister. Here I was, always thinking it was my job to protect her, and it was. But how many times did I have to fail it to see that my purpose could have been greater?

The definition of Hell once again returned to me.

But I’m not dead yet. And I can still become who I had the potential to be. I wouldn’t take the title savior, but rather liberator. From death, from oppression. For my people, the secondaries, taken from home and treated like slaves by all Primes because of birthright? Who the fuck was I to respect titles like that? I, who had surpassed death so much more than being an immortal would grant me.

It was time to break out of this prison. Time to dredge up the memories and make them worth something. With every memory, the pain would cut deep. Daringly close to cutting apart my soul. But that had already been done by Katia’s death, so what more exactly did I have to lose?

It was my turn to take all the pain in my life and face it. And I had a purpose. After this, I would be stronger. After this, I would stop wasting the time those who had died on the battlefield for me had granted me through their sacrifice.

Time to start inflicting emotional pain. Time to break out of this stone shell. It was time to reclaim my life.

As though I had taken a knife to my own skin, the rush of blood oozed out as I thought about the very first tragedy I could remember. The screams of two little girls that were forbidden. Now, I granted myself the ability to scream. With the momentum of a whip, the pain didn’t hesitate mid-air, but came ruthlessly down like truth to reality. They collided. My pain became real.

The flood of pain and sorrow and anger and resentment of the stormtroopers who had come into my childhood home and killed my parents did not ever cease to a dribble. The waters came and washed me away, they did not cleanse my sin like a biblical flood, but merely allowed me to feel them wash over me with every wave. With every granule of corrosive acid. Toxic. The leak wasn’t to be contained. Not when  I allowed it to feast upon my flesh and have at my soul. This was how I would free myself. I know it sounds silly, but this torture would either be my way to freedom from the stone curse, or, it would be my liberation so that I could forgive myself for all I had done. Maybe, it could be both.

Katia and I had escaped that one, survived. Left our parents on the floor because dead caracasses couldn’t save anyone. Two little girls had lived in a scenario they’d been out numbered and outskilled. Never should anyone underestimate humanity, or a little girl desperate enough to kill to protect someone they loved. I had never changed from that little girl, that is where the killing began. Maybe by accepting this though, I might be allowed to finally grow up. Finally stop hiding behind the same weapons that killed my parents and sister, and play a different tune. I doubted that I’d ever give up my bullets and gunpowder, I was just too good at them. But, I could stand to give peace a try before I turned to my artillery of war.

I could change. I didn’t have to be powerless without my guns anymore. I was winning, the tormenting agony was temporary, as I thought it would be. And by accepting it, I stole the power it once had over me. I was going to beat this psychological warfare. One lash at a time.

I readied the “whip” knowing there were pages of memories more to go. Was God even watching? Or in this moment, did I get to choose finally, that I was my own God? The choices we make define our own reality. If that isn’t God, then who or what is?