Alive or Whole
A short piece of fiction.
They say no one has ever been possessed for centuries. They say the thing that hovers in the background of legends is not real. They say someone who has been filled with something so dark and so evil could not possibly remain sane or good. They are wrong. The darkness escapes its confinement in a crash of glass and the thud of two bodies falling to the floor. It attacks the first people it sees, the people brimming with love and kindness and resilience. And as it does, it learns the plan. One of the people is released, sent back to her chambers to have her memories changed and her part ready to be played. The other is devoured. He made the choice, once, to take the burden of evil upon his shoulders so no other would have to take it. Now, a different evil consumes him, ravages his mind, besieges his soul. He is stronger than the other, the woman it took first, the woman he believes dead, the one who waits in endless waking slumber. He is older, more powerful, used to fighting back evil. But he is alone. The woman hovers in darkness, drowning forever in black, her lungs filled with rot, her life used for power. She cannot move, she cannot breathe, she can only live, only wait, only hold on for as long as she can. But she has help. She does not know it, but she does. A single, lonely heartbeat, a tiny, insignificant soul, the barest beginning of a new life. Her body protects them, keeps them free from the corruption she floats in, and they keep her together, keep her soul from vanishing, keep her mind safe from nothingness. She is alive. She is drowning. She is surrounded by darkness, the only light left in her world, but she is whole. That is something that cannot be said for the man. He holds on for years. For decades. Centuries. He stands alone against the dark, against an infinite sea of black, and he does not waver. He curls himself tight around the heart of his power and refuses to let it be taken. He walls off the parts of himself he has never touched and ensures they are not used. But he cannot protect everything. He cannot control his body. He cannot stop the things the darkness makes him do. He can wrest control, sometimes, in brief moments of clarity, but he cannot regain himself. As time passes, he grows weaker. He continues to hold out, continues to hold on, but he is not all-powerful. Some of his oldest memories go first. A friend’s laugh. His sister ranting to him about a man. Smiling at children and showing them how to fight. Then he loses years. A war is wiped from his memory. A conversation. He no longer remembers how someone he loved died. He forgets the sound of a planet’s songs. He is alive. He is locked away alone. He is powerless. He is resilient. But he is not whole. They are the only ones who have held out this long. They are the survivors. Even the girl was only influenced, briefly possessed, and then let go. They are the ones who were consumed, devoured, stripped to the soul, and shattered. They remain alive. They remain sane. And they remain good.
They say no one has ever been possessed for centuries. They say the thing that hovers in the background of legends is not real. They say someone who has been filled with something so dark and so evil could not possibly remain sane or good. They are wrong. The darkness escapes its confinement in a crash of glass and the thud of two bodies falling to the floor. It attacks the first people it sees, the people brimming with love and kindness and resilience. And as it does, it learns the plan. One of the people is released, sent back to her chambers to have her memories changed and her part ready to be played. The other is devoured. He made the choice, once, to take the burden of evil upon his shoulders so no other would have to take it. Now, a different evil consumes him, ravages his mind, besieges his soul. He is stronger than the other, the woman it took first, the woman he believes dead, the one who waits in endless waking slumber. He is older, more powerful, used to fighting back evil. But he is alone. The woman hovers in darkness, drowning forever in black, her lungs filled with rot, her life used for power. She cannot move, she cannot breathe, she can only live, only wait, only hold on for as long as she can. But she has help. She does not know it, but she does. A single, lonely heartbeat, a tiny, insignificant soul, the barest beginning of a new life. Her body protects them, keeps them free from the corruption she floats in, and they keep her together, keep her soul from vanishing, keep her mind safe from nothingness. She is alive. She is drowning. She is surrounded by darkness, the only light left in her world, but she is whole. That is something that cannot be said for the man. He holds on for years. For decades. Centuries. He stands alone against the dark, against an infinite sea of black, and he does not waver. He curls himself tight around the heart of his power and refuses to let it be taken. He walls off the parts of himself he has never touched and ensures they are not used. But he cannot protect everything. He cannot control his body. He cannot stop the things the darkness makes him do. He can wrest control, sometimes, in brief moments of clarity, but he cannot regain himself. As time passes, he grows weaker. He continues to hold out, continues to hold on, but he is not all-powerful. Some of his oldest memories go first. A friend’s laugh. His sister ranting to him about a man. Smiling at children and showing them how to fight. Then he loses years. A war is wiped from his memory. A conversation. He no longer remembers how someone he loved died. He forgets the sound of a planet’s songs. He is alive. He is locked away alone. He is powerless. He is resilient. But he is not whole. They are the only ones who have held out this long. They are the survivors. Even the girl was only influenced, briefly possessed, and then let go. They are the ones who were consumed, devoured, stripped to the soul, and shattered. They remain alive. They remain sane. And they remain good.
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