Enter Eternity
By Speedbump
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, of course. My muse just rents them once in awhile.
Archive: ask me first, please.
Darkness is my master, my lover, and my destiny. Darkness, and a silence so deep and profound that it leaves me wondering if I exist at all. Am I real, or am I a figment of my own delusions? Ah, but what does it matter whether I exist or not? I will suffer alive or dead, my soul demands it.
These walls, these dim curving walls with their arches and passages are familiar, and so they are comforting. Well, as much comfort as I can accept at this point. I am unworthy of comforts, unable to ask for companionship, incapable of demanding relief from my self imposed exile. And so I skulk and hide, slipping from one tier to the next, discovering hidden secrets that I will no doubt carry with me to my grave, for I have no way of telling anyone what I've found.
I remember speaking, how can I not? Cycles ago, my friends here ridiculed my habit of running off at the mouth under stress. OK, hell, all the time. They didn't understand most of what I said, often becoming angry at my 'Earthisms". But I needed that release, that form of therapy afforded with venting my frustrations in a verbal flux that defied imagination. They grew used to it and even, on memorable occasions, picked up a few sayings to call their own. As I picked up some of theirs. I remember D'Argo telling me he would prefer to 'go out on a swing'. That was pretty funny, really, the mental image that little tidbit brought forth. And then there was the time when Aeryn...
No. I can't go there. I won't. That part of my life is inaccessible, irretrievable, locked up, buried, stowed away, forever missing and gone. The pain of reliving those intact memories is to debilitating for me, and so I stay in the safe parts of my memories; the safe parts, but not necessarily the sane parts.
I know I am going mad, that in the crude vernacular of my youth, I'm completely whacked out, I have bats in my belfry, my boat don't float, my mind is Swiss cheese, I'm a few crumbs shy of a cracker. But then, crackers don't matter, do they? Neither do I. Matter, that is. I don't matter, my life, such as it is, has slipped into something resembling a dismal tale told by Poe. The pitiful, demented creature roaming the dim halls, making no sound, avoiding all contact, existing on air and painful memories.
I can speak, actually, but I sound like a gibbering idiot. People accused me of running off at the mouth before, but now that all my words come out like they've been through the Mixmaster, I can't find any humor in that particular phrase, 'gibbering idiot'. No humor, but far too much truth. I found not speaking at all to be a much better alternative than attempting to speak. And now that I avoid being in the presence of others, it doesn't really matter, does it?
Here, right here, this is where I'll sleep tonight. Is it truly night, ship's night? I don't know, but neither does it matter. I sleep when I'm tired, I wander when the mood suits me. I eat when I come upon a stash that my shipmates have left for me. They understand my need for solitude, you see, even if they don't agree with it. Their need to help me is nearly as strong as my need to suffer. I eat, I sleep, I wander, and that is my life these days. That, and I remember. Oh, how I wish I couldn't remember, how I wish all my memories were just so much dust and debris. Earth, the wormhole, Crais and Scorpius, my friends, Aeryn...all of it would be better off dust in my mind. But it's too late now, and so I live with the pain of my actions.
I killed her. I know what the others say, that the chip killed her, that I was not responsible for it. But truly told, I killed her. My hands tried to crush her skull when we were still on Moya; my hands guided the module to land skillfully on her Prowler. My hands, my body, my heart and soul, died along with her. For what did I want to live? Why did I tell the Diagnosian to go ahead and take out the chip? Why didn't I just beg D'Argo, once again, to kill me and get it over with? I realize now I am a coward. God knows, I didn't deserve to live while she died, but neither could I come up with enough courage to kill myself, or beg my friends to do it for me. Scorpius sentenced me to live like this, to be a mental and emotional cripple until my body gives up the ghost and dies. I deserve no less for what I have done.
Zhaan told me, rather harshly, that she's never met another being with my capacity for self-recrimination. She's right, of course. She usually is. I'd rather wallow in self-pity and shame, blaming myself for her death and being ugly about it until I die. Like I said, I deserve no less. It's a fitting punishment.
The floor is hard, cold and unforgiving. I've gotten used to it in the last few monens, but sometimes I wish for a soft bed. Tonight I am tossing and turning, restless. I need something, and I am avoiding it like the plague. It hurts to go there, it hurts so damn much. But I don't know why I can't just get up and go, I know that before this 'night' is through, I'll do it. I get off on the pain about as much as I hate it. It's the only high I get these days, that old adrenaline rush from the pain of memories. Try it sometime; see if I'm not right.
I finally give up and begin my journey, letting my mind wander as I creep through the halls. It never works for me to memorize where I'm going, I run on instinct these days. It's not like I'm on the clock or anything. As I begin to recognize certain passageways I realize it is indeed ship's night, and so I am still alone. There's a turn that goes down to the maintenance bay, a place I avoid these days. Memories, you know. That hall leads to the central chamber, where I sometimes pilfer food. Well, I guess it's really not pilfering, as they leave certain foods there for me to find whenever I make my rare appearances. That hall leads to the Terrace, another place I haven't seen since, well, since before she died. I can't make myself look at the stars; it's far too painful. Maybe I'm into pain, but that's just too much of a good thing.
My need drives me, and I nearly stumble with agitation. A DRD materializes in front of me, chirping softly. I make no contact with it, knowing that Pilot will be watching but not daring to make an overture of conversation. That always ends in frustration and disaster. I move on, sweating now, both eager and afraid. I want this, I need this, but I know the pain will be immense. That's my Jones these days, pain. I thrive on it even as it destroys me. The monkey on my back is one big ass gorilla.
There, the door is open, like it always is. They understand my need as much as I do, and make certain I have easy access. Likewise, they never disturb me, even though I am sure they know when I'm here. Pilot tells them, of course. I don't mind, it's sorta nice knowing they are there, watching maybe, but certainly listening, hoping I will once again attempt to join them in life. I won't, of course, but if this is the only way we can converse, my friends and I, than I guess it will have to do. Call it a silent form of communication, conversing by a series of absences and appearances.
I melt into the darkness of the room, letting my light sensitive eyes acclimate. That was one of the hardest things to come to terms with, my sudden sensitivity to light. It makes no sense, given what the Diagnosian said, but there you have it. Whoever said life made sense? If it did, I would never have been flung out into the distant reaches of the galaxy, now would I? But I can see, I simply can't tolerate bright lights. Maybe it's psychological.
Her things are just where they were before she died, her clothes neatly folded or hanging, her bed crisply made, her few possessions placed with precision in a small box. One possession is missing, the locket that Chiana had given her. That is around my neck, with her picture in it. It hangs next to the small charm holding the lock of her hair. Those items and this room are all I have left of her.
I reverently stroke her long black PK coat, feeling the pebbly texture and breathing deeply of her scent. I move past it and finger one of her vests, so provocative when she wore it, so empty now. I settle on one of her t-shirts, well, actually one of my t-shirts that she appropriated. I hold it to my face and inhale her unmistakable perfume, something so base, so fresh, so remarkably Aeryn that it makes me shudder. With the shirt in hand, I find her neatly made bunk and lay down on top of the covers. In moments, I have curled up into a ball, her t-shirt wet with my tears, and my body finally relaxing enough for me to sleep.
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My own screams woke me, that and the dream.
It was the same dream, over and over. Very little variation on that dream, ever. I relive that moment when I killed her until I waken with her name in my heart and that primal scream of rage and pain exploding from my lips. Usually the dream happens when I'm so far from my shipmates that they never hear. But for the first time, the dream comes as I lay sleeping in her bed, holding onto her in my memories and in my arms. They came running, as I feared they would.
My distress was monstrous. I flung myself into a corner, that wordless scream still bouncing off the walls, my hands protecting my face, my body curling protectively into a tight ball. What was I protecting myself from? I really don't know. I knew my friends wouldn't harm me, but maybe I was afraid that they would help me. Help was something I feared far more than death.
It was D'Argo who got there first, his big hands holding me firmly and protectively, telling me he wouldn't let anything harm me. I could hear Chiana murmuring assurances as well, stroking my face lovingly. I suffered their touch, because they couldn't do me any harm. But when Zhaan came in, I almost wrenched myself from D'Argos hold. As much as I love Zhaan, she is the only one who can touch me in ways unlike the others. I fear what my mind would tell her if she attempted unity. I fear her touch, her love, and her concern. I fear what she'd find, if only I allowed her to join with me.
My hysteria knew no bounds, and I nearly levitated myself from the floor with super adrenaline encouraged strength. D'Argo held me from behind, his voice speaking calmly in my ear. I barely heard him; Zhaan was in front of me, her face drawn with pain. Stark was beside her and I saw that his mask was unbuckled. I knew what would happen, I knew he wanted only to help, but relief from my pain wouldn't satisfy the desperate need for guilt that drove me. I continued to struggle, but in vein.
The seizure started slowly, just a hint of sluggishness in my limbs. When it hit, it did so with a vengeance, slamming me backwards into D'Argo, who squawked in surprise. Both of us rolled to the floor. I was aware of the ferocious pain in my head and the agony of quivering muscles in the rest of my body before I lost consciousness.
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When I awoke, I knew two things at once. I was in Moya's medlab, and I was in restraints. My head throbbed menacingly, my throat felt gritty with overuse. The light, I was relieved to see, was dim. The restraints made me nervous, but I knew, rationally, that they were there to keep me from throwing myself off the table during the seizure.
Movement to my right established itself as D'Argo, and he loomed closer. Murmuring soothingly as he unbuckled the straps, he sounded like a man calming a wild horse. Had I really gone so farbot as that? The answer, of course, is yes. I glanced at him gratefully as I rose to stand. He stood back, but not very far. The reason made itself abundantly clear as I stood up and nearly toppled over in pain. The back of my head exploded, I know it did. I felt it. If the pain before had been excruciating, this was doubly so. I collapsed in a heap, or would have if D'Argo hadn't caught me neatly and laid my spasm ridden body back down.
It took nearly half an arn for the spasms and the worst of the pain to recede. In that time, D'Argo had Chiana inject a painkiller to help. I guess it did, but it wasn't very noticeable. Zhaan was suspiciously absent, as was Stark. Afraid of setting me off again, I suppose. When the pain receded enough for me to sit up, Chiana brought in some soup and a platter of coarse bread of some kind. I was famished; the food didn't last long. After that, I slept again.
This time when I awoke, the headache was gone and I could stand without help. The room was empty, my clothes were neatly cleaned and laid out, a pack of food was waiting. Ah, so they knew I would want to take off, they understood even though they feared for me. Friends indeed, friends indeed. I dressed quickly and hefted the food to my shoulder. Moya's depths awaited, her unknown corridors beckoned. My guilt driven need for flagellation of body and soul was overwhelming. I didn't walk, I ran.
The next seizure may hit me in a bad moment, when I'm perched perilously over one of Moya's yawning chasms. Or maybe I'll suffer one so debilitating that I'll not be able to find my way to food and water in time. Maybe, just maybe, God will find some way to kill me where my friends cannot intervene. I would like that, to go out dirty, foul, in a manner I deserve. I hope that when I do go that I find her there, my love, my life. I hope she despises me as much as I despise myself. I deserve no less than to be loathed by her for an eternity.
When I get there, when I see her, I hope she'll tell me what I said in the neural cluster.