Controlled Chaos [Micah]

[Jesse Fforde]

The broil of emotion, so thick and so tender, storms inside of me. Yes, Micah’s description is apt. I walk around with a thundercloud inside of me. I think I always have, and that’s something that’s never going to change, though I suppose the colour of the clouds have shifted. I’ve always had a temper. I’ve never had patience. The general disregard of the populace often leads to petty frustrations and urges that cannot be satisfied. One has to submit themselves to the company that they have chosen, and either act as if no one is worth their time, or work harder to find a group of people with whom one can feel comfortable, because they are deserving of respect.

I have found that here, with Micah and Velveteen, and with so many of the others. They are people who have my respect, though if ask me to show it to them with petty words then they’ll lose my respect. I prefer to show my respect via action, rather than via words. My thundercloud, once born of ego and pride, has dispersed. It has now been replaced by this… thing. This monsoon. This formation that, at the moment might look scattered, but soon will turn cyclonic. The edges of it are green. Hail is imminent.

Sitting there with the barrel of that gun pressed against my temple, I am torn between two states of being; the one that desperately needs and wants help, and the one that desperately wants to succumb to the foreign madness, and urge that thunderstorm to its climax. There are two paths that I could take, and ultimately they both lead to shame. My teeth grind together as I turn to face Micah, as I shift the barrel of that gun from my temple, to the centre of my forehead. I do not flinch away from the coldness of it. I show no fear.

”Do you think I want to be like this?” I ask, words low as a hiss. ”Do you think I’ve always been like this? C’mon, you met me before. It’s different, isn’t it? Go on, get angry at me, because that’s what you do best. Call me out on all my flaws, there are plenty. Selfish, depressed. I just make everyone miserable, that’s what you’re saying, right? So do it. Pull the trigger. You said it yourself. People don’t want to be around me, so you’ll be doing them a solid,” I say. I am wound as tight as a spring. I have probably chosen the wrong path. I have decided upon anger rather than sorrow. Pride should have kicked in by now. I should be defending myself against Micah’s accusations, but I can’t. I won’t. It would all be a lie.

[Micah]

His hand didn’t shake, didn’t tremble or move an inch as he held that gun to Jesse’s head. He felt nothing in that moment. No remorse, no sympathy - nothing. And when he found himself looking at Jesse dead in the eyes he still felt nothing, except that slow burn of fury that was bubbling so close to the surface ready to explode in an instant. Micah’s eyes were hidden behind his trademark mirrored aviators hiding the purple slits that his eyes had become. They said that the eyes were the window to the soul, and it was true. Every single ounce of rage would have been clear for the other male to see. He wasn’t getting the satisfaction of that. Jesse didn’t need to see the state he had driven Micah too. No Micah would much rather that he felt it.

Jesse had a death wish and he was walking a very thin line that was eventually going to lead to his own self destruction if he didn’t grow a pair and pull himself out of the dark pit that he had seemed to fall into. It was so ******* tempting. All it would take was just a second. One single second to pull the trigger and lodge a bullet right in between his eyes. The satisfaction that the killer got from a successful kill was almost indescribable. It was euphoria. But as he sat there with the barrel of Pestilence pressed dead center on Jesse’s forehead Micah knew he couldn’t do it no matter how much he wanted to.

“Your bravado would be impressive if you were displaying it to someone else. However I’m me and I ain’t impressed by little boys throwing fits and tantrums, bitching about stupid ****.” Micah’s words were loaded with every shred of fury that he was feeling. “We all got problems kid but you take the cake.” He started to pull the trigger but at the last second he moved the gun and the bullet flew out of the barrel hitting one of the fresh severed heads that he had placed on the pike not long ago. It exploded showering the area in a cloud of crimson red blood and other satisfying things. It did nothing to calm the raging storm within him.

“You need to get your head on straight. Whatever the **** is wrong with you? Find out what it is and ******* fix it Jesse. And if you don’t know how, and don’t know why then go back and find out when it started. Find out what the fucked changed in that time frame that made you into this...suicidal maniac. Cause you’re right. This ain’t you. It ain’t the cocky little ******** I met all those months ago, and honestly I’d rather have that around than this thing you’ve become.”

[Jesse Fforde]

Even in this body, in its dead or undead state, whatever people want to call it, I can feel the adrenaline spike. I do not doubt that, if angry enough, Micah would pull the trigger. I have been shot in the head before. I am prepared for the pain. I almost crave it, because it will at least provide a distraction, an overarching agony that would demand all my attention. I have been shot in the head before. It did not kill me then. I wonder whether it would kill me now? And if it doesn’t, will Micah finish the job?

I smile, a slow and sinister thing that belies all my inner intentions. I’m sure that I wouldn’t recognize whatever is reflected in my eyes; I’m sure they don’t hold that same mischievous glint that I remember from when I was human, that most people I know now are probably used to. Now, there’s probably a cold hardness, a lack of something. A lack of spark and care, and yet a fire that cannot be quenched. A fire that rivals that in the clearing beside us.

If I were throwing a tantrum, Micah would know it. A tantrum is different to this. If I were throwing a tantrum, the fire would not be controlled. The chaos would not be controlled. The Eyrie would be up in flames, if I were throwing a tantrum. Tantrums are for children who don’t get what they want—I don’t know what I want. I don’t bother explaining any of this to Micah. Although it may seem as if I am being selfish, as if I am not listening, it is to the contrary. I am listening to every word, hanging from them, clinging to them, wanting to find within them that thread that will help.

Again, I am torn. I can pretend, or I can argue. I can submit, and put on a mask – I can act like the shithead I used to be and thus lull people into thinking I’m fine. Or I can put myself and my shame out on the line and actually, literally ask for help.

I am silent as I watch the grit and gristle from the dead head float and flop to the cold ground. I think that perhaps, if that bullet had gone through my skull, I should probably die. An exploded head isn’t exactly conducive to life. But the bullet hasn’t gone through my skull. Instead, I have Micah accusing me of being a tantrum-throwing child (to which I take great offense) and trying, in his way, to advise me what to do next. I sigh, shake my head, and return my gaze to the fire and the heat.

”Easier said than done. I have turned this thing over in my head so many times – it has no starting point. It’s just a slow build. It’s not like one day I was all happiness and sunshine and the next I was ******* depressed,” I say, again clenching my fists in front of me. ”When I think about Axel, and how betrayed I felt…when I think about Felicity, and Abigail, and Angelique…Ishaq. I have no idea where they are, they’ve disappeared without a trace, without telling me where, or what…that’s when it’s the worst. They’ve all just drifted away and what else can I conclude, but that I am not the man they thought I was? They don’t have any respect for me. They don’t give a ****. It makes me feel…****, I don’t know. Bereft. Yeah, that’s it. I feel bereft, somehow. There’s something missing and I don’t know how to fill the gap,” I say, the words whispered, low-spoken.

I choose to seek help, as lowly as it makes me feel. I choose to seek help, rather than throw myself over the precipice, alone.

[Micah]

The acrid stench of gunpowder lingered in the air as the blood and pieces of flesh stopped raining down to the ground. Micah drew in a breath that he didn’t need and slowly counted to ten in his head. A calming technique that he had used quite often when he was human, and even though it didn’t do much for him now that he was no longer mortal old habits were hard to break. It did however, let him relax enough to let his fingers shift and return to fingers instead of razor sharp claws. Pestilence was tucked into the waistband of his jeans and he was silent for a bit as he attempted to gather his thoughts.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the way Jesse clenched his fists as if he were trying to stay calm. Micah smirked at that. Maybe he wanted to get Jesse pissed off. Maybe it would give him the answers that he sought but as Jesse continued to speak, he started to have his doubts. What he did know was that if Jesse didn’t get a handle on whatever this thing was he was going to continue to spiral downward.

Jesse spoke of his childer then and that was something that Micah could relate to. He had several childer under him and he could count on one hand the amount that he actually spoke to. Several of them slept constantly, some he hadn’t seen in well over a year. Others were too busy with their own lives and Micah wasn’t one to interfere. He made sure they had what they needed, taught them what they needed to know and made it clear that he would always answer if they needed him. His own sire had been a complete waste, having taught him next to nothing about how the city worked. Why the hell would he do that to his own? Simple. He wouldn’t, and he didn’t.

Thinking about his childer made him think about the mistakes he’d made and where he’d gone wrong with some of them. Micah was willing to admit where he’d gone wrong but there were just some things he refused to take the blame for. Malachai was one of those things. Some of it could have been his fault but somewhere along the line Malachai had changed and became a stranger. Micah placed the blame for that solely on Echo. She’d changed him, made him into someone who was more interested in how many pies he could stick his fingers into. When he’d realized the man had had the disenthrallment ritual done he was relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. No, he didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about that either.

“I understand more than you think I do.” He looked toward the fire that was still going strong. “I’ve had childer disappear on me too, without a word. I asked myself why, and wondered if it might have been something that I had done that had driven them away.” It wasn’t his fault, but it had taken him a good while to let go of those thoughts. “This life is hard. Not everyone that we turn is cut out for it. But placing the blame solely on yourself isn’t fair. And as for Axel…” He couldn't stop the snort. “Anyone who chooses a piece of *** over their own sire really isn’t ******* worth it.” Not that he knew all that much about that whole situation. And really he had no room to talk there. He’d done the same thing, but in the end it had bitten him in the ***. There were no regrets to taking that path as it had helped to bring him to where he was now.

He sighed and picked up a stick from the ground tossing it towards the flames. “You need to quit beating yourself up. If you’ve done the best that you could then there really isn’t anything more you can do. Maybe if you can manage to come to terms with that, you won’t feel like this.”

[Jesse Fforde]

I try to imagine how I might feel if I were to just let it all go. I lean my head back against the trunk of the tree, the roughness of the bark digging into my scalp. My eardrum twitches as I hear Micah throwing something into the fire; my inner being seems to arch toward that fire, wanting onto to do just as Micah had just done. To throw whatever I could into it, to let everything burn.
I sigh as I try to relax, as I try to ignore the fire except for the warmth that washes over my skin, beating against it in waves depending on the wind. I remember who I am, underneath it all. I am the mute boy who grew up in a broken household with a grieving mother. I am the broken boy who found his own feet and forged his own way; who didn’t stand for bullying and who marked his place as ‘a crazy ****’ – the kid no one wanted to associate with because they were afraid of having their eyeballs cut out. Or their tongue, depending on his mood. I wasn’t at all that volatile but I enjoyed the rumours none-the-less.

I was the man who forged friendships with people who deserved it; the one who had specific loyalties, and those who had my respect, knew it. Those who knew me well knew that they could come to me for help should they need it. Those who knew me well knew me to be a teasing, sarcastic asshole who shouldn’t ever be taken seriously. I suppose, being wrenched out of that one world and thrown into this one meant re-forging those kinds of relationships. Those whom I have turned are relative strangers. Of course they won’t know not to take me seriously.

But I was also the man—and should still be—who wouldn’t have given a **** either way. How many times had I told them, all of them, that I am here for them if they need me? I do not coddle. I do not periodically seek after the wellbeing of people who should very well be independent and confident enough to take care of themselves. Childe is a stupid word that I never use. Progeny, minion, these are the things I will call those who I have turned because they are not children. Not at all. They are grown adults and within each and every one of them I thought I had detected strength and resilience. Maybe I was wrong.

I think about Axel and Micah’s words regarding him; I hadn’t actually thought about it that way, that he had chosen Phoenix over me. I suppose that’s how it is in the end, isn’t it? I don’t ever see him anymore. And yet I am not petty. For Axel to feel that he has to choose is something that I should scorn him for. What are we, fifteen years old?

I realise, then, deep in thought, that I have not changed. I grind my teeth together as I try to inch through the mire. Self-loathing is a scapegoat, a by-product of a depression that I can’t figure out. Even if I were to stop thinking of myself as a failure, I know that the black dog will still be there, barking at my back door, waiting to be let in.

”I think you’re wrong,” I finally rasp.

”Even if I come to terms with my own supposed faultlessness, there’s still something missing,” I say, eyes still closed, the shadows of the fire dancing in the darkness of my vision.

[Micah]

Micah had to force himself to keep his mouth shut. Had he opened it at that moment in time he would have slapped a bandaid on Jesse and told him to walk that **** off. He was worse than a hormonal human teenager. All these feelings and the emotional rollercoaster that Jesse seemed to be riding was making Micah uncomfortable. Part of him though, was pleased that the necromancer seemed to trust him enough to open up and lay it on the line. And because of that Micah owed it to Jesse to listen and try to offer him advice. The kid could take it to heart and try to listen to it or he could choose to brush it off. No skin off his back either way.

He sat there in silence turning over everything that Jesse had said, his brow furrowed in concentration. There was something that he was missing. He knew that. But what? There had to be a connection somewhere. Jesse was depressed there was no question about that. And his childer had come up more than once. He seemed to have this not so irrational fear of losing them, and since most of them had up and disappeared on him his fear had grounds. Hence the need for him to create. The fires, his childer, hell even his art. Could they all be linked somehow? It was entirely possible. Jesse’s need to create, no matter what it was….it was starting to piece itself together.

An idea started to form but Micah was hesitant to bring it up. What if he was wrong about it all? Where would that leave him? Right back at the beginning with a suicidal faction member on his hands with no way to understand or help him deal. However what if he wasn’t wrong about it? What if he was hitting the nail on the head? All he could do was suggest it.

“I get that you feel like something is missing. And there very well could be.” Here he hesitated briefly, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the dancing flames that Jesse had created. “Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe siring another childe is what you need to do to find that missing piece?”

[Jesse Fforde]

This seems to be a running theme between Micah and I. I wonder if it’s a theme that’ll continue far into the future and forevermore. Forever snarling at each other, only to always drop back into comradely amiability. I try to imagine what it might have been like had he and I met under different circumstances; back when we were both human. It doesn’t seem an impossible notion. We’re both tattoo artists. We both run, or did run, our own shops. Who knows? We might have run into each other at a convention somewhere in the city. We might have admired each other’s work. Hell, what if I’d worked for Micah, or with Micah, while an apprentice?

I can imagine that we might have been friends. Oh, I know we’re friends now, but it’s different now, isn’t it? He’s got experience over me. We’re not exactly equals. Not here, not now. Once, we might have been. We might have so close we could have been brothers. I never had any friends like that, though I know they exist out there somewhere. Maybe that’s what’s missing. Maybe that’s something I crave. I lost a brother. I found him again. And now he’s gone forever. It’s that kind of connection that perhaps everyone needs, human or not. Weakness or not. I bow my head.

I have to snort when Micah offers his suggestion, the possible answer. Eerie, really, given the path my own thoughts had just begun to take. A meandering path whose obvious conclusion could be exactly that – childer, or lack thereof. The bond that I forge with them, the power that I hold, the connection…

It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. But I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want that to be the reason why I am like I am. Why? It has to be a curse, doesn’t it? To sink into despair if I don’t share my blood with others, but to only have that despair brought forward because they leave, because they lose all respect for me? It’s a never ending circle. It’s vicious. It’s not something that I want to consider.

”Just to lose it again?” I ask. I want to laugh at him, but I have to concede. It’s a possibility. I shake my head and sigh. I push myself up from the ground. I should find a way to put the fire out, though it might be just as satisfying to sit there and watch it burn out.

”Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it,” I say. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But Micah doesn’t need to know that. For the moment I am intent on being agreeable. I don’t feel like arguing anymore, and I don’t particularly feel like talking about it anymore. The awkwardness has got to be a bit too much.

[Micah]

The snort had him rolling his eyes. Really? Micah was only trying to help. Jesse didn’t have to accept that help. ******* smartass. One of these nights….he didn’t finish the thought. More than once now Jesse had managed to get under his skin resulting in Micah snapping. It wasn’t helping but again when Micah looked at Jesse he saw so much of his past, immature self in the necromancer. Maybe that was why ever sarcastic retort that came from Jesse set Micah’s teeth on edge and more than once now he’d had to refrain from reaching over and just punching the smart mouth little punk in the teeth. That would have gone over real well.

“You never know unless you try.” How he managed to keep his tone calm and even was beyond him. On the inside he was just itching to grab Jesse by the front of the shirt and shake him like a ragdoll and try to force him to tear the blinders off of his eyes. It was a very valid conclusion that Micah had arrived to in regards to the issues that Jesse was having. The kid wasn’t the only one to lose childer. A few of Micah’s had simply faded away into nothing and had left no trace behind. Didn’t see him running off half cocked with a ******* death wish.

Micah stood and brushed the dirt off of his jeans. “Yeah I’m sure you will.” The sarcastic bite that clung to his words was obvious no matter how much he’d tried to keep his voice level. The killer was pretty sure that while Jesse might say he’d think on it, he really wouldn’t. The words might dance around in his head and try to stick there but in the end they’d be brushed off and the situation would remain as it was. No skin off of his back he’d done his best and that was all he could do.

He headed for the door that would take him inside. The bag of fresh severed head remained on the ground where Micah had left them and that’s where they’d remain for now. Right now the killer needed to put some space between him and Jesse before he really did haul off and cold **** him a good one just because he could. “If I were you, I’d think on it long and hard. Something has to give, and soon before it gets you killed. People ain’t gonna take this shitty attitude of yours for much longer Jesse.” He yanked the door open and disappeared into the Eyrie leaving Jesse alone with the fire he’d created and his thoughts.

[Jesse Fforde]

Although I make myself look busy as Micah makes his exit, I’m not doing much of anything. I don’t want to put the fire out. No, I won’t let it burn down the Eyrie. I’m reckless, but I’m not that damned stupid. I can tell by the tone of Micah’s voice that he doesn’t believe me. He shouldn’t, either, given my own proclivities. I’d prefer to indulge in fantasies of death and fire, rather than dwell on my own misery and why it might exist. Either way it doesn’t matter, does it?

As soon as Micah has gone, as soon as I can no longer see him, I drop what I’m doing and just stand there, close to the fire, arms hanging limp and my side and fingers curled into fists. The longer I stare, the less the world around me seems real. All I can see is the heat of the fire – not just the orange and the red of the dancing flames, but the blues and purples of the fire’s beating heart. The heat wraps around me, sinks into my skin, providing a rarely-felt warmth. My skin is as cold as death, and there’s nothing that can warm it again. But standing here, I feel warm. The longer I imagine it, the more I can feel those flames licking through my veins.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to think about what Micah has said. Just like every sane person always wants a thing they say they cannot have, just like when a person tells you not to look, you look, I cannot stop the train of my thoughts. I might try to deprive my mind of any thought at all, but it’s a fruitless activity. Of course I’m going to remember the night’s events. Of course I’ll have listened. Those words have sunk into my brain, forever etched there. Micah might think that I have no respect for him, but he’s wrong. He might think that I don’t listen, but I do.

And like gnats that are drawn to the light, those words keep coming back, circling my brain like vultures waiting for the kill. I do think about it. I think about what siring someone else could mean. I think about Felicity – we shared a bed, for quite a while. Even that kind of passion couldn’t keep her here. Abigail is… I don’t know where. I had a brief communication with her before she again dropped out of service. Axel, well, we all know where he gets his kicks these days, and though I might continue to let him know I’m there if he needs me, I know he won’t. He no doubt values Phoenix’s opinion over mine, now. Of course he would. She is my sire. She’s higher up in the hierarchy. I wonder if he grovels at her feet. Ishaq, I suppose, I knew was a chaotic and free spirit when I sired him. It’s no surprise that he hasn’t stuck around. Angelique? Maybe she’s one of the weak ones, one of those just not cut out for this life.

Dead weight, so many of them. And why should I create more dead weight? I want to create bright things, vibrant things, things that will live forever and never fade. I had thought that Abigail had such a spark. Hell, I thought they all did. But they have all faded.

I kick at the dirt and circle the flames. I shake my head as I resist the temptation to throw in another log. My thoughts run in tight circles even as my feet carry me around, and around that fire. I stay there until the flames have nearly died – until they have faded, just like everything else I have created. With reluctance, I throw handfuls of dirt over the remaining flames. They go out. I had thought that the darkness would engulf me, but it doesn’t. One glance up assures me that the horizon is lit from below. The sun is coming up.

Again, I shake my head. No. No, that can’t be the answer. I brush my hands off on my sooty jeans, and I head back to the Eyrie – to take that elevator up to my hut, where I will try to waste away the day. I’ll try not to think too much. But will avoid sleep, at all costs.