The Withered Mind | Doc |

[Kamikaze]

Dark walls, dark ceiling, dark floor, blood spattering all of it, and Kamikaze was in the middle of it all. The sewers were her sanctuary, keeping her from the busy city that buzzed above. The voices and the noises she could live with, as she had become accustomed to 'the voices' as her insanity grew. It was the people, both real and imaginary, that put her on edge. So here she stood, sword in hand, paladin body slumped beautifully on the ground. As moments passed, Kamikaze began to pose the body, sitting, eyes wide open, smiling, hands over the fatal wound. Something in this postmortem posing felt right, though another part of her felt it was silly and unneeded. Yet another part of her mind screamed for the death of another paladin. With this, her thoughts began to argue with one another, causing the woman to freeze in her position for a moment. “No. No, no, no. NO.” she repeated, slowly getting louder, her conversation to herself.

Feverishly shaking her head, she kicked the body over, then ran through the sewers, as quick as she could, a panicked look on her face. She needed help, she thought to herself. Fearing that she would either be fatally dealt with or locked up, she needed to find another route. A route that would take her to what she needed, instead of making it worse. Fumbling through her phone, she searched for anybody in the community that may have an inclination as to what she may need. Dr Nilson. He seemed the opportune person to chance. With this, the woman sent a frenzied email, as she dashed through the sewers, before crawling up and out, into the city she hated so much.

They sing to us. They call to us. They curse us. We cry. We need salvation. Our mind is not our own. My eyes they lie. The dead they groan. Safety. Safety we desire of us.

In her mind, the email made perfect sense. In her mind, it was a plead for help, for healing, for sanctuary from her own mind. As she rushed into the Quarantine Zone's supermarket, she slid under a near-destroyed counter, sword and phone in hand, the shambling corpses roaming aimlessly. As she attempted to rest, still on guard, she felt them return, the voices screaming, crying, yelling, demanding. It was a chorus of damnation, of pleading, of denial. They deserved to live, yet they had died. They cursed Shizuka for what she was, for what she became. They damned her to her insanity, to her tomb of her own mind. Quickly, she sent 'Doc' another email, another plea.

The bodies groan. The aisles groan. We groan. They curse us. They wish us to die. We do not wish this. We wish serenity.

[Doc]

Doc was in the University Quad scoping out young female bodies for Kaelyn. She had been so distraught over her trip to the Shadow Realm, that Doc felt he should at least help her. It wasn’t guilt per se, it was more, something he enjoyed doing and now he had an excuse to do it, in order to keep Kaelyn happy. So he sat on the bench in the Quad trying locate a body somewhat close to what Kaylen had been before her death.

It was mostly empty as classes had not let out yet, so he was checking Crownet through his phone, when he was alerted to a new email. He was expecting one from Ken or Vicki, so he opened it without really seeing who it was from. He frowned as he read it. He looked at the sender. He recognized the name, but he really had no interactions with her, so he was perplexed at the tone of the email. It was poetic in its simplicity, yet it was disturbing in manner in which the words made one feel the writer’s yearning for ‘safety’.

Staring at the words, he contemplated his reply. Was the email truly meant for him? Or had his email address been picked by accident? Would be he over-reacting by reaching out to her? The words in his email could be misconstrued had it been an error that sent it his way. Things in this life, as it was now, could so easily escalate and become overblown when no harm or ill will was meant.

Doc was calculating his carefully worded reply, when a second email came. This one too was achingly poetic, yet the tone was much darker. As though she were on the edge of a symbolic precipice fighting to assure safe footing, but failing. Carefully he replied to her email using his phone.

As he typed, he was already thinking where they could meet. His office was to sterile. Too claustrophobic. Definitely not Winterbrook, or the lab, not suitable at all. He imagined she would want a place she was familiar with; someplace she would feel ‘safe’. It would be best if he allowed her to choose the place.

• They wish to be heard. They want a voice. I will listen. I will come. Will you give them a voice?

[Kamikaze]

The screaming within her mind was deafening, causing her to grip at her head and twitch. The shambling corpses groaning and wandering around did not even seem to be noticed. With time, though, and an attempt to force them from her mind, the voices soon silenced, at least for the time being. The reply from the doctor came, and Kamikaze quickly pulled her phone to her, to read. He would come. He would listen. This.. this was pleasant news. Now, all that she needed to figure out was where they would meet. Somewhere safe, she would prefer. Somewhere she knew the ins and outs of. The junkyard seemed the place to choose, though a rather odd choice of all the others she could have thought of. Quickly emailing the man back, she then started to creep out of her hiding spot, toward the door.

The shadows watch within the yard. The items long forgotten, long abandoned. We will meet you there. We will wait.

The escape from the Quarantine Zone was quick, and her route to the meeting spot was planned. Checking her weapons, as she dashed past the zombies, as well as a few feral vampires, she found them in good condition, enough if the plan backfired, and her safety was shattered. Down to the sewers, and past the rats, then through to the ladder that released her from the QZ. When she climbed, her motorcycle was sitting, hidden away. Climbing on, she soon would be off to the meeting. The voices quietly attempted to plant seeds of doubt, of mistrust, of her inevitable demise. Others were still pleading for vengeance, for retribution for their wronged deaths. The doubt, the mistrust, it was there, even a little, but she was not going to let this opportunity pass her by. Finally reaching the destination, her GPS having signalled so, Kamikaze parked the bike in a shaded area, and attempted to hide it, before she slipped quietly into the Junkyard, mazing deep within. She needed to find a perch, an area that would provide her the safety she wanted temporarily, but also a good eye's view of the surroundings. Climbing onto a pile of junk, she laid flat, her head peeking out from behind, eyes staring at the entrance. Grabbing her phone again, she sent another email.

We wait patiently. The shadows sing to us until then.

[Doc]

His mind was focused on the contents of the email. With no more information than he had from the few lines, he presumed it was a schizophrenic disorder. He hoped he was wrong. Schizophrenia could be treated, in humans, but it meant a daily regimen of medications. This was not a disorder that did well when missing dosages. Nor could he offer any sort of solution with any permanence, since a vampire’s metabolism is so much faster than in a human, medication may have little to no effect on them what so ever.

However, it may not be schizophrenia, it could be Dissociative Identity Disorder. That disorder, was one at least that could be corrected over time. It would take effort on the part of the patient. It wasn’t a get well quick fix. This would take time, and there could be mental roadblocks from the effects of being turned. There was no medical journal that explained how the process should effect a human with a specific disorder. So he had begun his own journal, culled from the stories and conversations he had had with others. But even knowing that, he still had nothing definitive he could offer her, except his time and understanding. If he could help her, he would gain a whole new insight into the vampire psyche.

Distracted by his thoughts, he missed the hum of the phone as it indicated another email had arrived. He caught the second hum. Quickly the email was opened and read. Doc pressed his lips together in a grim line. ‘The items long forgotten, long abandoned’ could be any number of places in Newborough. There were several abandoned buildings. There was one right across from Genesis Labs, but it didn’t have a yard. Relinquishing the bench in the University Quad, Doc walked back to his car, and began a slow reconnaissance of the abandoned buildings he knew. One by one he marked them off his mental check list. Too many vagrants. No yard. Too many gang symbols. She wanted a place she felt secure in. None of these factories or buildings gave him that feel.

Driving in ever slowly widening circles, he passed by some derelict homes, and then the landfill. Stopping the car he stared at the landfill. That was a yard of sorts, but it didn’t have long lost items, not like a…

Doc snorted derisively to himself for being a thick headed fool. The junkyard. Of course it made perfect sense, when you knew the answer. Putting the car in gear, he made the remaining few blocks to the junkyard in almost no time at all. Parking and then securing his car, he stepped in through the entrance to the Junkyard. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, while slowly cast his gaze about the piles and mounds of junk and flood debris. He was loath to call her name, people who suffered from the schizophrenic disorder, often reacted negatively to shouts and yelling, as it tended to exacerbate the voices in their head. So instead, he pulled out his phone, and sent her an email.

• I have come. I will listen.

He waited calmly for her to find him.

[Kamikaze]

He had come, the man that would listen, the man that may be the key to silencing them. Crawling from her perch, the Shadow moved silently toward the man, cautious, though with purpose. Passing through, a few cans and some scrap metal gave her movement away, though she quickly paused, hiding for a moment, before returning to her path. Only a few moments, and then she stood in front of the doctor, keeping some distance between them. Her appearance was rather disheveled, even more since she was hiding in the junkyard for the man. Eyes were trained on the man, hands held behind her back. The voices began to seep, deeper into her mind, thickening the smoke in her head. She began to twitch her nose, then close her eyes hard, putting all of her will to silence them. Not now. She needed this. Not now. Taking a useless breath in, and releasing, she opened her eyes.

"We speak to the listener. We hear... the damned. The shadows sing the truth, yet they also lie to us, leaving lying voices in the damned as well as those that were there all along. We share this frame, this mind, with another soul... No... Not soul... Voice. Voice of reason. Voice of kindness... We share this hatred of the voices, of the lies in the mind, of the betrayal they weave. We cast them out, though the shadows sing of their return. We do not wish this on ourselves, or foes or friends... We wish the shadows would lure them into silence, but they will not. We ask of the listener, if they can help lure them into silence."

With this said, the woman's hands moved to her hair, gripping it lightly.

"They lie, they cry, they sing of damnation, they deafen, they curse. Too many nights in the land of shadows. Too many voices. Too many songs. They torture, they poison, they sicken."

Her eyes widened, as her speech quickened, almost nervously. Looking to the doctor, she was starting to nervously shake, rocking on her feet as well. Was he the key to sanity?

[Doc]

Watching her intently, not really mindful of her appearance after hearing her first few sentences. Doc understood why she appearence was in disarray. She was sharing her mind with multiple voices and those voices were at war with the other voices. Her frustration was apparent when, even though she tried to exude the outward appearance of serenity, her hands tugged and pulled at her hair, following by what he would call an agitated swaying.

“They want to heard. They have the right to be heard, I will listen. Yet they must take turns. I am but one, and cannot hear them all at once.”

Doc took one step toward her, then stopped. His manner non-threatening. He slowly held out his hand to her. She would have to close the distance toward him, to take his hand. Somewhere in that mass of tangled voices, the owner of the body, needed to be aware that he understood, but that he needed to know she could be strong enough to act when needed. A test, as it were, to see how far she had recessed.

“Lies bring attention. Damnation brings attention. Songs bring attention. Their story needs to be told. They have my attention. They can be heard, but patience will be needed. Order to the voices must be accepted, so that their words stay pure. Do the voices agree?”

Projecting calm assurance outwardly, inwardly Doc was trying to formulate a plan. She was not schizophrenic. He was of the opinion she did have dissociative identity disorder. This usually happened when a trauma was experienced. Soldiers returning from war were being diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and one of the symptoms that had been documented in several cases was DID.

He was not familiar with her history. Was this traumatic event that triggered this, current, as in happening after turning? Or was this traumatic event previous to her turning? If previous, the turning could have exacerbated the disorder, twisting it, mutating it. Whatever the answer, he knew he would not be getting those answers anytime some. There would be work involved in getting the owner of the body in more solid control.

[Kamikaze]

The voices within Kamikaze's mind slowly began to agree with the man's words, though the seeds of distrust were still there. They argued with one another, to be the loudest, to be the first, but this would need to end. Starting to pace, Kamikaze began to mumble to herself, to the voices most definitely, to plead to them for order, asking politely for them to help. It took a few minutes, Kamikaze's hands gripping her hair again, before letting go, finding herself walking toward him. A slow reach forward, shaky at best, and she quickly retracted, wincing at a loud internal scream, before she tried again. Perhaps the man wasn't there to harm her. Perhaps he could help bring order to the chaos.

They... They listen, yes. We listen as well. They do not trust, they have seen the destruction of this vessel, but they will listen. They agree with you. Agree that order is needed, but they fight over what order. They fight to be heard first. Death and waiting has long strippe them of patience. They wish to be heard. But we will do what we can to put them in order, to tell their tales, to give them a voice.

Finally able to grasp the man's hand, her hold was weak, though her gaze was dead locked to his, never wavering. She continued to hold the hand, then began to communicate what the voices were requesting.

They are afraid. Afraid of the changes. Afraid of the living and the walking. Afraid of those who enter and leave their presence without a word, without acknowledging them. They hate us for having a body. For having tangible form. For being able to touch, to smell, to taste, to hear. They are lost in the darkness, and plead for the light. They are envious, wanting what we have and wanting us to have nothing but the shadows. We have spent much time in their company, and can understand their feelings. We have family who share voices with them. Who are in the presence of them. Blood family. Birth, not by the fang. We lost them all. Mother. Father. Sisters. We were too weak to stop them from shedding their mortal coil. Too afraid to leave the city. Mother and Father deceased before our turning. Tragedy. We do not understand why they left us. We could never understand. Friends betrayed us. We sought friendship, only to be given betrayal. We moved to the Harper, and found the embrace of the fang. We were sick, when we were given the embrace. Wheels on our chair gave us mobility. We still felt weak. It took time to gain strength. To leave the chair. We understand the shadows' song now, the voices' pleas. They feel as if they are too weak to grow, and wish to grow. They feel as if a flower underfoot a great oak. They come to us, a beacon of their desires, their needs, their fears, their pain. We humble ourselves to them.

Kamikaze tilted her head, eyes still locked to the doctor's. She had never once explained what happened in the world to anybody but her journal. She felt as if she would have been mocked for keeping feelings of the past. A sorrow washed over her, and she pulled back, retreating a few steps.

Why do we bottle so much feeling? We do not wish this. We do not wish the feelings, yet we hold them so. We hold them to our bosom as a newborn. We cradle them, we keep them. The feelings we still hide terrify us. Feelings gained by each gunshot, each blade stroke we were dealt after time in the Harper. We understand reasons for the violence, and we have embraced the violence, but being dealt the violence is still...

Shaking her head rapidly, Kamikaze looked back to the doctor, then gripped her hair again, but not as tightly. It was a loose grip, her eyes closing for a moment, then she spoke again.

We... I... I.. have shattered. I have become more than one, within my being. We share this being, with the knowledge that we may never again become whole.

[Doc]

Remaining in the spot, he stood hand outstretched, passively waiting. There was a battle raging inside her. This was a key point in time. If he failed to win her.. no their trust, no matter what he tried in the future, it would come to naught. He knew of her name, he had heard it mentioned in passing, but then he had not heard it again. How long had it been? A year? Two? He could envision how the struggle had worn her down, made her fade away. But something brought her back. Something in her was tenacious enough to fight through the veil of voices and ask for help.

There was a fleeting attempt to take his hand, but she wheeled at the last minute as though she were in great pain. He could only surmise it was the voices rising up against her. When she began to speak, her movements were erratic, but through the maelstrom of voices, that he could only imagine, she spoke. He could see the fear, and the the plea for help, in her eyes. Then she did take his hand.

In a grip that he hoped would be seen as reassuring, he held her hand. What words could he offer to those who were jealous and envious of the corporeal form she had that they did not? The weight of those emotions carried from her to him. However he had the luxury of walking away, she did not. She spoke of abandonment. He could not walk away from her. She needed reassurance, companionship. Then she pulled her hand away and moved away.

He withdrew his hand some, but then held it back out to her. “You and They need more. Yes there is a fear of change, but with no change you and they became stagnant. Stagnation breeds weariness. The weary grow angry, and retreat. You and They fear betrayal.” He paused and nodded. “A legitimate concern.” He would not use the word fear, in any sort of affirmation. Fear was to the be enemy. They needed to overcome the enemy.

“Trust must be earned. But how can one earn trust, if they are not allowed to try to earn the trust?”

He paused long enough for the thought to seep through. “Is there one voice, who can fight the fear of change? One voice that will tell their story? The story needs to be heard. It needs to be freed, spoken of aloud, so that it does not wither away.”

[Kamikaze]

They needed to learn, yes. They needed to grow. They needed to trust. The voices within her head began to quiet down, as if they were contemplating, thinking quietly, before one specific voice rose to the challenge. It was a familiar voice, within Shizuka's mind. A voice she had not heard in over twenty years. The voice of her mother. She had been there, since the voices started, attempting to calm her, compared to the overpowering number of voices that did the opposite. She began to whisper to Shizuka, calming words, words of comfort that had long past soothed the child when she was ill. As she started to pace again, the Shadow looked to the doctor, then tugged at her hair lightly, nervously. She didn't know where to begin. She didn't know whose story to tell. She kept her thoughts internal, before the soothing words were repeated. A long pause, and then the female spoke.

They fear that the physical world will abandon them, as they had abandoned it. Long have they sorrowed over the past, but they will not forget, nor will they forgive. Some died recently, while others died centuries ago, if not longer. Some tongues I understand. Some tongues we do not know. Some young, not even a babe. Some crones, some elders. Perhaps they wish not their stories known, but that they are observing. The world of now is not their own, and they do not understand, but perhaps in time they will find this knowledge, with enough observations.

Smoothing her hair a bit, the Shadow soon seated herself on the soiled ground, cupping her cheeks in her hands. She had never gotten the chance to speak like this, to anybody, as she was grasping onto her fears too tightly. Perhaps the blow to her psyche, after her visits to the shadows, had helped improve this about her, to focus less on her fear, and more on the truth, whichever truth that was. But the fear she held tightly still was not of people, nor death, nor herself, but that feeling of abandonment that she suffered so long ago, and had felt a few times since.

Perhaps... Perhaps they need time to heal, as well... They wish to be remembered and not forgotten... as do we...

[Doc]

Normally the last thing Doc would do, would be sit on the ground and ruin his suit. But at this point in time, that was the last thing on his mind. Her pacing had stopped and she settled to the ground, so he did as well. It was a silent gesture of acceptance of a sort, an agreement to speak more, one which he embraced. Sitting cross legged, elbows resting on his thighs, he leaned forward, his hands loosely linked, as he listened.

The fear she had spoken of was not a new fear. Men of ages long ago also had this fear. A fear they embraced in their quest for a son. Henry the VIII was one such man. In his quest for a son, he banished, divorced, or killed the wives that failed to produce him a male heir. An heir that would bear his name, allowing him to continue to ‘live’. The irony was that he was remembered for his acts of cruelty to his wives, even though he never had son out live him. Books and movies were still being produced about him.

The silence between them grew Doc mulled over the situation. He had picked up on the plurals of her words, elders, crones. Not one of each, but multiples of each. And those that spoke a different language. It was almost as if she were a conduit to all the souls she had ever come into contact with, whether she knew them or not. He wondered if the fracture events were tied to this as well. Could each fracture be releasing more and more spirits that attach themselves to her, and demand to be heard? Could taking her outside of Harper Rock help? He would have to earn her trust before springing that on her. A journal, a book or books, could be a way to build that trust.

“This is a known fear. Many have tried many ways to become immortal. By acts, by actions, by achieving something never achieved before.” He canted his head slightly to the left, “But we, you and I have achieved this immortality.” He spoke to the owner of the body. “While we live, they will live and be remembered. But even so, we can write their stories. Tell their stories in line and verse, so that others may read and learn of them. Would this be agreeable to them?”