It's a charmingly-cozy place; the walls are an unoffensive pale green, there are potted plants in every corner, and overstuffed armchairs huddle together near the coffee cart. The large bay windows let in plenty of natural light, the Keepers all have warm smiles, and a soothing monotone drones tidbits of news and trivia from the polished wood-fronted radio, and sometimes there's even interludes of instrumental music. The dead man likes the music best.
It is a comfortable place, all told; if only, he thought with a wry, rotting smile, one did not have to be dead to enjoy it! Indeed, it was a true shame; he'd have loved to have sat in the sun and read so peacefully without the worry that his putrefying innards should leak and drip from his eyes or mouth, and splatter the page with foul sticky bile. Bless the kind-hearted Angels; they never mentioned it at all, not even to insist he wipe it up, or demand he cover the blackened and decaying patches on his hands. None of the other dead brought it up either; too polite even in death, he supposed. Not to say he was alone in suffering; far from it. Hordes of his fellow ghouls and revenants and disembodied spirits thronged about aimlessly, sometimes guided by the Angels but mostly wandering in a daze, occasionally moaning, shrieking or sobbing. Gods only knew under what horrible circumstances that particular lot had died----were they perhaps cursed to relive their demise for all eternity? What an awful existence! At least the man couldn't recall much about how he'd come to be here; just a sharp agonizing pain cleaving one side of his head, and a blinding flash of light. A woman's voice, screaming.
His eyes snapped open sharply. A name had come to him, that time. Aulea. Her name was Aulea. How he knew that, and who she was, remained stubbornly elusive and with an irritated grunt he resumed scratching at the raw patch near his wrist. He preferred to pick out the largest flecks of rot, so as to keep more of himself whole and clean-looking for as long as possible. The Angels helped to that end; they'd bind the gaps in his flesh and apply balms to stop the pain, clot the gore and mask the smell. Gods above, how the stench of death must cling!
"Ardyn, darling," says one of the Angels, her sweet voice cutting through the fog of his mental self-recriminations, "you have a visitor."
With a start, the man remembers that he has a name. Yes; this body had a name once, didn't it? It lived. it was real. This corpse was called Ardyn back when it breathed. He remembers how to draw in a deep breath----must remember to breathe; he had to pretend for the Medium's sake!---and sits up straighter, trying to smile for the young man who is approaching his chair. Those starry indigo eyes are uniquely arresting; Ardyn wishes he could remember where he's seen them before. The man smiles at him, taking a seat across from him and cautiously reaching for his unbandaged hand.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: The Man Who Wasn't There (1/?) Gen, Ardyn, Cotard's delusion
Date: 2017-09-15 05:03 am (UTC)It's a charmingly-cozy place; the walls are an unoffensive pale green, there are potted plants in every corner, and overstuffed armchairs huddle together near the coffee cart. The large bay windows let in plenty of natural light, the Keepers all have warm smiles, and a soothing monotone drones tidbits of news and trivia from the polished wood-fronted radio, and sometimes there's even interludes of instrumental music. The dead man likes the music best.
It is a comfortable place, all told; if only, he thought with a wry, rotting smile, one did not have to be dead to enjoy it! Indeed, it was a true shame; he'd have loved to have sat in the sun and read so peacefully without the worry that his putrefying innards should leak and drip from his eyes or mouth, and splatter the page with foul sticky bile. Bless the kind-hearted Angels; they never mentioned it at all, not even to insist he wipe it up, or demand he cover the blackened and decaying patches on his hands. None of the other dead brought it up either; too polite even in death, he supposed. Not to say he was alone in suffering; far from it. Hordes of his fellow ghouls and revenants and disembodied spirits thronged about aimlessly, sometimes guided by the Angels but mostly wandering in a daze, occasionally moaning, shrieking or sobbing. Gods only knew under what horrible circumstances that particular lot had died----were they perhaps cursed to relive their demise for all eternity? What an awful existence! At least the man couldn't recall much about how he'd come to be here; just a sharp agonizing pain cleaving one side of his head, and a blinding flash of light. A woman's voice, screaming.
His eyes snapped open sharply. A name had come to him, that time. Aulea. Her name was Aulea. How he knew that, and who she was, remained stubbornly elusive and with an irritated grunt he resumed scratching at the raw patch near his wrist. He preferred to pick out the largest flecks of rot, so as to keep more of himself whole and clean-looking for as long as possible. The Angels helped to that end; they'd bind the gaps in his flesh and apply balms to stop the pain, clot the gore and mask the smell. Gods above, how the stench of death must cling!
"Ardyn, darling," says one of the Angels, her sweet voice cutting through the fog of his mental self-recriminations, "you have a visitor."
With a start, the man remembers that he has a name. Yes; this body had a name once, didn't it? It lived. it was real. This corpse was called Ardyn back when it breathed. He remembers how to draw in a deep breath----must remember to breathe; he had to pretend for the Medium's sake!---and sits up straighter, trying to smile for the young man who is approaching his chair. Those starry indigo eyes are uniquely arresting; Ardyn wishes he could remember where he's seen them before. The man smiles at him, taking a seat across from him and cautiously reaching for his unbandaged hand.
"How are you, Uncle Ardyn?"