by Line, Al K.
Finally he gave up, exhausted, no fight left, just dumb acceptance of the last nail in the coffin containing his sanity.
Edsel was held fast by the straps and found himself hitched up onto hooks on the back of the bathroom door like a ragged bathrobe that had been put in the washer with the coloreds.
He was a fish on a hook, a tropical fish out of water, unique and impossible to miss among the single color of the rest of his species.
It's not possible, it simply isn't possible.
Edsel just stared, he couldn't help it. His body was both repulsive and fascinating, and as whatever drugs he'd been given began to wear off, and his head began to clear, the pain danced across his body swirling and writhing, following the patterns of his veins.
My head, he's done my head too. Finally they got it all, nothing's left now.
Edsel fought with inner demons as they clawed at his skin, savaged his sanity.
Lash. Aiden. Where are they?
The thing confronting Edsel in the mirror was impossible to ignore. His lower body was the pure red of The Ink, his upper body from the waist up to the collar bone the warped camouflage of red and black after the unsuccessful attempt at covering up The Ink and the subsequent tattooing over of the glorious ebony black he knew was his salvation.
Now it was all overlaid, and it hadn't stopped at the original Ink. It was head to toe, intricate beyond belief. Mesmerizing, fascinating and abhorrent.
Edsel kept staring, unable to look away even though his mind told him that he did so at his peril. There were limits, and this time he'd gone past what he could cope with. This wasn't him, this was somebody else. Something else, like a man emerging from the primeval soup, covered in mud and stained with red clay, washed over with the veiny strata of memories of rivers wandering over the world. A map of the planet, a lesson in geology, all bumps and hollows, stains and rivers, no longer a human being but a creature that God hadn't quite made up his mind about what to do with just yet, leaving the evolution up to fate, letting his Ink fight for dominance amongst itself.
No doubt about it — he was beaten. He could see it in the sunken eyes staring back at him from deep hollows — only a fragment of the man he had been remained, the rest was lost to the horror. He couldn't look away from the thing that was reflected across the room, everyday objects mocking him, the soap in the dish on the sink laughing at him, telling him that it would never scrub away the madness. Only the worms and the decay of ages could ever destroy what had been done to him now, and he would welcome such a release. The Void was the only place he would ever find peace again.
He was still, thoughts of revenge and escape forgotten. It was no use, he was dried up, nothing more than parchment for people to take turns making their marks on. A plaything for the evil in the world.
Across his chest was a large circular design that curved and twisted, highlighting the contours of his slender body, branching off to wrap around his shoulders and arms. His thighs were similar, spiraling designs that brought into stark relief the muscles of his quadriceps. It was ingenious, imaginative work that almost jumped off his body and created a three dimensional effect that went beyond mere illusion.
The skin was textured, every pattern and every tracing of the veins that pumped blood around his body was a raised welt — hard to the touch and as stark as his old scars.
His face and neck was the most intricate of all. Swirls around his nose and cheeks swept down to his chin, then writhed across his neck to meet with the patterns across his shoulders. He was bald again, shaved all over as he had been before, and over his scalp was a dome of concentric circles that leapt and danced, raised lines that shone in the crisp light of the day pouring in through the open window.
He could hear the gulls outside, laughing at him, mocking his belief that he was beyond more suffering, more Ink.
The blue, it was as bright as the clear sky, as clear and crisp as lapis lazuli, his veins highlighted permanently, brought to life, a walking anatomy lesson gone horribly wrong. The bottom half of Edsel looked like he'd been dipped in blood, the top half stained over with his failed black brand, his head lightly tanned, and all of him covered with the bright blue Ink that moved as his features squirmed at the sight.
I'm the ancient man, the wild creature; fearsome and terrible, now battered, bruised and broken.
"My gift to you," beamed Michael. "I do hope you appreciate quite how long this took to accomplish? How unique you are? How special this is? My finest work I do believe, certainly the most difficult with all that other Ink fighting for dominance. I did very well under the circumstances you know?" lectured Michael, as if it was all Edsel's fault he didn't have blemish free skin to work with.
"What have you done? Let me down. Where are Lash and Aiden?" Edsel watched the patterns around his lips dance wildly as he spoke, extending his features, distorting them as if the mirror was melting from fire.
"All in good time dear chap, all in good time. No need to be rude; it could have been a lot worse you know? You have been blessed, blessed with something entirely unique in the world, my secrets known to almost nobody else."
Edsel felt his mind violated, could feel Michael trying to push in, to occupy his head, take over, fade him away into the background.
He's Awoken. That's why we didn't sense him on the roof, not even Aiden. He hid himself from us.
"Of course I am dear boy, and not just a partial Awakening like you. I see so much, know so much. And this is my gift, what was given to me and what I give to you. Do you like it?"
Like it, do I like it? Haha. Here it comes, the final madness.
He laughed, the cries of a hyena, hysterical and uncontrollable, mind a mess of impossible confusion, nothing making sense, least of all the thing in the mirror.
Edsel's anger boiled over into a mindless babble that wouldn't let up. A broken damn, the vitriol pouring from his mouth in an endless stream of swearing and accusations, of promises of revenge and torture. On and on, spittle flying from his mouth, glistening as it caught on the raised welts that were his new tattoos, his bald head shining in the light, sweat beading, running down his face to mingle with the tears that flowed freely.
Michael stood there impassively, immune to the threats, the humiliation Edsel felt and the promise that he would see Michael dead if it was the last thing he ever did in the world. "When you have quite finished just let me know." Michael left, leaving Edsel to his shouting, hanging on the back of the door, unable to get free. Edsel kicked and screamed, continued his rant, watching himself in the mirror, a wriggling anatomy chart in multi-colored mockery of what it was to be a man.
In the end he was simply too exhausted to fight it any longer. Pain was building, flowing along the lines of his veins, swirling on his chest, pounding in his head like a jackhammer, each heartbeat sending a pulse of blue-hot fire across his body in waves, flowing along the veins, diverging into the patterns, building and building until it made The Fire, that addition to The Ink of The Eventuals, feel like nothing more than a slight irritation.
Lash. Aiden. Where are they? How long has this all taken?
Finally he was still, hanging limp, eyes getting heavy, body too exhausted to care, all adrenaline reserves spent and his immune system entirely overloaded.
Edsel sank into oblivion, his chest rising and falling with the beat of his heart, his pulse dangerously weak, his central nervous system totally fried. Heaviness claiming his limbs — dead weights that were nothing but useless appendages. He was just a lump of meat hanging from the butcher's hook, branded yet with no provenance, a creature that had been claimed by too many owners now, identity lost to helplessness.
~~~
Edsel struggled reluctantly to consciousness as a strange pain as cold as ice, like antifreeze running through his veins, pulled him back from oblivion. His blood was liquid nitrogen, cold yet unbearably hot. Strange feelings fought for dominance as they pulled him up to an unwanted awareness. He could feel the shape of the pain,
the brands on his skin radiating cool energy that was at the same time as hot as the forge itself.
He was on a large leather sofa, his restraints gone, his body still naked, the large windows allowing light to pour into the penthouse where he had drunk coffee with...
Where is he? Where is my goddamn family?
Edsel jumped to his feet with a start, recent events flooding back like the bright light of the day.
The room was empty of people; it was just him. Quiet, orderly, everything in its place, tastefully decorated and blue with light reflecting off the water.
Blue, just like him.
Stay calm, don't go off on one again. This can't be real, just a bad dream. Michael was a nice man, our friend, our host.
One look down at his body, combined with the pain he was feeling, told him this was anything but a dream. This was the stuff of nightmares come real — ripping apart the happiness he had been cocooned in for years now. After so much, he'd finally been happy, the past put behind him. Now it was back, worse than ever, and he didn't know what to do. Or why it had been done to him.
Edsel put a hand to his left arm, tracing the lines of his veins with a blue finger, tiny swirls following his fingerprint, as it did on each of his digits. The skin was hard, as solid as the scars that criss-crossed his body, a raised line that was about two millimeters high but may as well have been a mountain ridge. The blue was so clear, so prominent and crisp it held none of the old colors of his tattoos — this was pure and almost glowed with an inner white light.
Edsel could swear he could see energy flowing through this strange Ink, something he had never heard of or encountered before, the so-called 'gift' of Michael — a man he was going to kill if it was the last act he ever performed.
Perversely, Edsel felt pleased with himself. He knew that he had tasted madness, was lost to himself for a while, a gibbering wreck of a man after yet another ordeal, but he had come through, not unscathed by any means, and he knew he would never be quite the same again, but at least he still had his sanity.
I do, don't I? Now, what's next?
He got up carefully from the sofa, unsure just how delicate the new Ink was, or how long it had been since the work had been completed, and padded over to the window. His feet felt sore even on the deep pile of the expensive cream carpet. He sighed; it was all so goddamn familiar. He stared out to the sea, looked down to the streets below, felt a gentle breeze tickle his bald head — a strange sensation after having hair for so long.
Everything was quiet; no people; no movement, just birds drifting in the sky, lazy and sedate on the warm afternoon. Litter blew gently across empty streets.
Putting a hand to the window sill for balance, he lifted a foot to inspect the sole, not in the least surprised to see tiny blue lines as fine as cotton decorating his toes. There was some kind of picture of a stylized face, a bulbous head with razor sharp teeth staring back at him in miniature. The other one was the same.
Weird. No, fucking mental.
"Where are they?" Edsel screamed at the top of his lungs. "Where are you Michael? What have you done with them?" His voice echoed through the streets, disturbing the birds that cried back to him in annoyance, looking forward to a day when they never had such interruptions again.
Edsel felt the surge of adrenaline and the quickening of his heart make the decorative Ink erupt to new levels of pain, the extra blood acting as a catalyst for the white hot mist that flowed through the blue veins that weren't veins.
What the hell is this? What's it for?
Everything felt displaced, as if he was there but not there, calm yet angry, neither happy or sad. The lull of the still sea and the cloudless blue sky enveloped him in a silent embrace that took something away from him, offering nothing in return.
Edsel padded back to the sofa, half catatonic, hardly aware of himself, and sat down just before he fell asleep.
He'd been doing the same thing for days, he just didn't remember.
He was a man lost to himself, lost to time; lost to the world once more.
SAND
It had been days, weeks or months — Edsel had no idea. He didn't care, he was empty of feelings, hardly even remembering he once had emotions.
Edsel lay on the sand of the small beach that ran the length of the marina before disappearing around a narrow headland that jutted out like a skin tag, staring at the flawless sky. He watched the seagulls as they fought and called to each other, tracing their movements as they came and went from his line of vision, never moving his head, just laying there spread-eagled as the waves lapped gently at his feet, his body burning under the strong summer sun, neither caring or feeling as his skin burned and peeled from the damage. All apart from his new Ink, brighter than the sea, seemingly inured to any kind of external influence, as much a part of him as the layers it hid, a marked man once more.
Alone. Again.
Edsel was as one with the air and the water. Blue, always blue. It was all there was. The sky never seemed to have a cloud, the sea never stirred, only the tide rose and fell, in tune with Edsel's breathing. He was as slow as a tortoise, a non-being, part of his environment; just a thing, no longer a man able to think of vengeance.
All was emptiness.
His hand clawed at dry sand. It rose up in front of his face where it slowly opened, letting the grains trickle onto his chest, covering the flesh where short hairs were emerging, the blue raised spirals proud against the fine layer of yellow — particles that contained the history of the planet, lifeforms in their trillions crushed by the passage of time, now something else. Something and nothing.
Blue fingers played with the tiny grains, until soon they too were gone. The hand held nothing; it dropped back to his side.
Edsel's far away mind was as empty as the sky; no thoughts could stay there. He was a creature that abandoned the safety and security of its shell so now there was nothing left but a fleshy lump without its home or previous life. Ice and fire and dizzying patterns he no longer looked at or cared about took over his reality, yet they too faded into dreams. His mind was dulled, a patient with a heavy dose of nothingness to displace the sense of total loss.
Pain was slowly receding, coming in increasing intervals. He could even forget about them for a while, but as soon as he thought about Michael, his Ink, or Lash and Aiden, the pain would rip through his body and he had to close down his mind or risk going completely insane. He knew he was close to the edge and thinking was going to push him over, never to return.
Such bouts were seldom though, most of him simply stayed in emptiness, watching without much curiosity as a part of him awoke to anger and feeling for a while, before joining him in watching from a distance once more.
The sun shone down, day after day, like the endless summers of his youth where only the good days were remembered, the rest discarded as if they never even happened.
Maybe they didn't.
So he lay on the beach, doing nothing, letting the sun heat his body, the water wash his feet, the sand irritate his already abraded skin. Salt crusted his flesh, magnifying the ultra-violet rays, pooling around the contours of his Ink, drying and cracking like Ink of old, crusty until a chance wave washed up over his body before receding, baptizing him, cleaning him of everything. Washing it all away, leaving him alone.
Always alone.
Each day was the same.
He left the penthouse, wandered the streets as if looking for something, but mostly he couldn't recall what it was, sometimes finding it strange that he didn't even care that he couldn't remember. He somehow found himself at the marina, the boat still moored — he remembered the boat, that it was his — and then he lay on the beach until the day cooled. Then he went back to the scene of the crimes inflicted on him, never sure what they were, Ink merging into blood, normally as far as his thoughts went.
He did it all in a daze, a mindless man that became less and less Whole as the days blurred past — neither fast or slow, time without meaning. Ma
ybe he was succumbing to The Lethargy? Or just fading out of existence as there was nothing left for him now — it was all gone. Alone again, nothing more than a body for others to experiment on, test out whatever warped way they had managed to manipulate Ink through knowledge gained by being Awoken to the secrets they had discovered, a twisting of what should be a form of enlightenment to their own deranged beliefs.
Nothing made sense and Edsel didn't care any longer; he was empty; emotions drained from him like a halal kill — all that remained was Ink, nothing more.
Edsel watched through closed eyes as tiny motes danced in his vision, a redness that took away memories and emotions. He opened his eyes, turning his head away from the sun, exposing a burned neck, just like the rest of his body.
Suddenly, the sun was lost behind cloud and Edsel turned lethargically only to find that the shadow was that of a man: Michael.
I know him.
"I must say, I'm somewhat disappointed in you Edsel. I thought you had more spirit than this. Lazing about like you don't have a care in the world. What a waste. Don't you want some answers? To know about the new skin you find yourself wearing? Your family? Me?"
"Go away."
"Oh dear, feeling a little sorry for ourself are we? I don't know why, just look at you, you're beautiful."
Edsel climbed to his feet, blistered skin from the sun ignored, and turned in a circle, showing his body, hidden only by a pair of shorts so generously left for him by Michael. "Look at me. You call this beautiful?"
"Of course," said Michael, frowning at Edsel's inability to see it. "You're unique, much more interesting this way. I've been following your progress for some time you know? I was hoping that we would meet one day."
Edsel's burning body went cold. "What do you mean you've been following my progress? Just who the hell are you?"
I'm back. What have I been doing?
Michael turned and walked up the narrow beach, carrying his shoes in his hands, trousers rolled up like he fancied a quick paddle but had thought better of it. He sat on the wall that separated the sand from the paving and put on his shoes before turning his trousers back down. He stood, looked inland before facing back towards Edsel. "You coming or not? We have a lot to talk about you know?"