Pure Darkness

by Aja James

  “I…uh…”

  “Come with me,” she said with a tug on the hand she still held. “I know just who to take you to.”

  She gave a decisive nod, towing me along.

  “Ninti. She’ll know what to do.”

  And so I went. For the first time in the whole of my existence, I felt as if I might finally belong.

  But I knew it wouldn’t last. After all, I was a shapeshifting monster. The girl only welcomed me because I was in disguise. If she saw who I really was, she’d reject me just like everyone else. I was determined not to get my hopes up.

  I’d learned my lesson, hadn’t I? Well, apparently, not nearly well enough…

  Chapter Seven: Hitting a Wall

  *ERE*

  For a time, the orphan boy lived in relative comfort and peace, after leaving the human world behind. He worked for food and shelter like everyone else, doing more chores and hard labor than other boys his age. He had a small nook near the fortress’s kitchen hearth where it was always warm. He had a straw pallet to lie upon and a roof over his head to protect him from the elements.

  Far better than his situation at the human orphanage.

  He pinched himself often to ascertain that this was not a dream, for his home with the Pure Ones seemed almost too good to be true.

  There was one snag in the boy’s original plans, however.

  He’d learned the day he arrived that there was no place for him in the militia—it was immediately obvious to everyone, not the least to the boy himself, that he would never be a warrior. Aside from his slight build (which, even though he disguised by taking a different form, he could not account for in his lack of strength), he didn’t have a knack for learning the martial moves. He fumbled every weapon he tried to wield.

  But most of all: he simply couldn’t stomach physically hurting anyone.

  As such, useless for soldiering as he was, the golden-haired girl he’d met dismissed him without another thought, for she was only interested in warriors. And only one in particular. The boy barely saw her again except when she passed by in a hurried blur, chasing after the male she admired above all else.

  And so the years passed in relative calm despite the ongoing war.

  The General of the Pure warriors took the battles to their enemies, away from their secret base. Most of the time, the de facto Queen of the Pure Ones, Ninti Melammu (Lady of Life and Light), traveled with the General, for she was indispensable as a close confidante and advisor to the mightiest of all Pure warriors, as well as an inspiration for their small but determined army.

  Meanwhile, back in the stronghold, the Pure Ones treated the boy better than the humans had, but they recognized that something was different about him.

  He was not entirely Pure.

  There were few who tried to engage him, coax him out of his armor-like shell, but he’d learned his lesson in betrayal too well to ever trust so easily again. He kept to himself as he had done all his life. If there was anything he’d learned, it was that no one would ever care for him, because he didn’t deserve it. And no one would ever take his side, because it just wasn’t right to side with a Monster.

  The boy understood this unequivocally.

  Just because he longed for something he could never have, missed and mourned the absence of that lovely dream, it did not mean that he would ever know love…

  I stand before an intricate mural that covers three of the four walls of my chamber. It depicts the landscape of ancient China. Green, gray and purple mountains so tall their tops are covered by heavy mists and wispy clouds. Rivers, lakes and waterfalls. Songbirds, cranes, and swans. Colorful pagodas, bridges and fishermen’s boats. The art is so intricate and lifelike that I feel as if I am looking outside a window into a different place, a different time.

  Especially since the birds are flapping their wings and dipping their beaks. The water is flowing and glistening under the sun. The clouds are floating through the skies, sometimes unleashing a light rainstorm to make rainbows arch over the horizon. And the sky itself changes color with the transitions of the day, from dawn to noon, to dusk and night. The mural is a living thing.

  Just like my silken bindings, in fact. Bindings that somehow disappeared when I woke up on the bed an hour or so ago.

  It took me a few moments to get my bearings. I was cozily snuggled in bed rather than tethered to the cold, hard floor. I was drowsy but refreshed from what must have been a deep, untroubled sleep. I was free to move about without restraint. And there were stray short hairs scattered on the pristine white sheets. As if some sort of animal had slept right next to me.

  A dog? But I smell no slobbery doggy odor.

  A cat? But the short hairs are thicker and slightly rougher than the fine hairs of a cat.

  Well, and what do I know about pets of any sort, never having had one? Suffice it to say that I woke up rather disoriented and confused by my new, improved circumstances.

  The first thing I did post bearings-begetting was try the lock on my door. It is not locked.

  I actually opened it an inch, then wider, then slammed it quite soundly against the wall just to see if any of my…esteemed hosts would rush over to see what the commotion was all about and put misbehaving Ere back in his box.

  No one came.

  I then decided that bodily functions must be attended to, so I made use of the luxurious en suite bathroom, trying out each of the five-star hotel-esque installations. The fancy mechanical toilet and bidet were especially fascinating. I sat on the thing and sprayed warm water up my ass until my legs went numb. Afterwards, I immersed myself in fragrant bath salts in the gigantic tub, followed by a steamy shower until my fingers and toes resembled raisins. I brushed and flossed my teeth and assessed my reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror.

  I look refreshed. Pale and on the thin side, I suppose. But then, I’ve always been pale. I stare into my dark eyes as if hypnotized. I don’t know why, but I keep expecting to see different colored eyes looking back at me. Sometimes, I don’t recognize my own reflection.

  My hosts were thoughtful enough to provide not only the right sized bathrobe, but also a set of silk pajamas and slippers for my feet. Had all of these amenities been here before? If so, I was a fool not to take advantage until now.

  The double doors to the chamber are still open, exactly where I left them. And I am still here. I don’t know why I stay, as if held back by some invisible boundary like a dog behind a sonic fence. (Pets are apparently on my mind).

  Perhaps it’s because I have no place I need to urgently be, given that university fall semester has not yet started. And besides, I do not have teaching engagements this coming quarter; I am mainly working on grant research on my own schedule. Perhaps it’s because I have no one I need to see, given that I have no friends, no family, and no significant other. I am not a complete antisocial hermit, don’t get me wrong. I spend time in public places, in crowds. I meet people.

  I do.

  I just don’t meet them long enough to form any sort of relationship.

  But as I was saying—I go out. Like a popular nightclub I sometimes visit, where I saw with my own eyes how Sophia was never meant to be mine.

  Years ago, she went there to meet me. Instead, another man intercepted her. And the way they danced together…moved together. The way she touched him, breathed him in… Even from afar, I could tell that I was no competition in her eyes. He was—is—the one she wants.

  I remember feeling unaccountably angry. And hurt. And…resigned. I still feel disappointed, perhaps even sad. Why did I think I could ever turn her head?

  He has always been the one she wants.

  I shake my head slightly to clear it. These whispering, echoing thoughts sometimes flash through my mind before vanishing as suddenly as they came.

  I do not know Sophia that well; I’ve had limited interactions with her. And yet I have memories and thoughts as if I have known her forever. Just like my vivid
dreams, they bewilder me…

  Back to going out, social butterfly that I am. That’s how I discovered Dark Dreams. I like to go there every so often, mostly window shopping. But one of those times I went with Sophia, and in that instance I did go inside, sit down and even have normal amicable conversation with the owners, an elderly lady and her much younger man. Go Mama Bear with her fine, blue-eyed stud! Estelle is sixty if she’s a day, and Tal can’t be more than early thirties, in the prime of his life.

  I recall all the names of people I’ve met through Sophia. I can’t think of other names of people I know apart from her, but I’m sure they’re out there. Surely they’re out there…

  My point is: I am not some strange recluse. You know the type—lives in a windowless basement (hmm, I live in one), the place a mess of obscure artifacts, the likes of which only an obsessive compulsive fanatic might collect (I have those), and lures unsuspecting strangers into their lair with a seductive smile and questionable intentions (I’ve done that).

  All right. Perhaps I am slightly unusual.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m abnormal. I’m as average a human as they come. I am certain of it!

  “Ere, why are you scowling so ferociously at the wall?”

  Sophia stands politely just beyond the threshold of my chamber, as if awaiting permission to enter, cocking her head at me in question.

  “Lost in the maze of my own mind, I suppose,” I answer distractedly.

  It is always so good to see her. To bask in her lovely, light-filled presence. She soothes me.

  “Maybe you’ll take me through it one day,” she says wryly. “I like mazes.”

  I curl my lips in an almost-smile, not answering one way or the other. My head is not a place in which I like to spend too much time, never mind bringing a guest for a rambling stroll. Like taking an innocent child who expects a carefree trick-or-treating to a real haunted house with blood-splattered walls, soaking up the floorboards, and dead, rotting bodies in every closet.

  “May I come in, Ere?” Sophia asks solemnly.

  I pause ever so slightly before replying, “But of course, lovely Sophia.”

  She closes the double doors but does not lock them, I notice. Am I now to be trusted unshackled and with unlocked doors? I wonder what changed over the past…however long I have been here.

  “How long have I been here?” I decide to just ask.

  “Three weeks,” she answers immediately, her eyes unblinkingly intense on my face, as if she doesn’t want to miss my reaction.

  I nod as I take this in, relatively certain my expression gives nothing away. Three weeks! But I only recall a couple of days. Only those in which Sophia visited me.

  “You don’t remember, do you?” she murmured, watching me closely.

  I guess my expression gave me away after all. I stumble to the nearest seat and collapse onto it, holding my head in my hands.

  Sophia comes to sit next to me on the chaise lounge, laying a hand soothingly on my upper back.

  “Ere,” she says quietly, as if afraid to startle me.

  Am I a wounded wild animal, then, to be treated so gingerly?

  “Have you always had memory lapses? Is that why you never answer me directly when I try to get to know you better?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know. I’ve never thought in depth about it. When I am aware, I am fully aware, and I recall my interactions with the people that are somehow important to me. But the rest of the time… I don’t know how I live. I must live well enough to maintain two professorships and apartments in two cities, at least.

  I take a deep breath to calm down. I can feel myself growing increasingly agitated.

  “I have the sense you are trying to imply something about me, Sophia,” I say with only a slight edge of bitterness. “Do you think me mentally unstable?”

  She hesitates for the briefest moment, but I catch the hitch nevertheless.

  “No, not really.”

  Not the staunchest denial I’ve ever heard.

  “Do you think I’m mentally incompetent?”

  “Obviously not,” she replies this time much more quickly. “Yours is one of the most brilliant and capable minds I’ve ever encountered, Ere.”

  “Then what?” I bite out. “You obviously have some sort of theory about my strange behavior.”

  The comforting hand on my back moves in a slow, methodical circle, the way a mother might soothe a sick child. I am both resentful of her touch and hungry for more of the same.

  It takes her a while to speak; I am not uncomfortable with the silence. I feel like most of my existence is lived in silence. At least, the moments that I can recall.

  “You’ve heard of dissociative identity disorder, Ere?” she begins in the same soft voice, almost hypnotic in its low, quiet tones.

  Of course I know what it is. It’s a mental illness that typically results from childhood abuse or trauma, and some people are more disposed to it genetically than others.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mutter, my mood growing blacker by the minute.

  I don’t remember any childhood. As far as I know, I’ve been an adult all my life, and my life only began when I met Sophia for the first time on Harvard campus when she started university as a Freshman. It’s like I’m Athena (well, the male version anyway), born fully grown from Zeus’ head. Although, I don’t have any inkling who my progenitors really are.

  I don’t care to know. There must be a reason I don’t have memories. If I’ve split myself into multiples people to avoid those memories, then it’s best to leave a sleeping dog lie.

  “Ere…” she says my name worriedly, and then trails off, as if she doesn’t know what to do with me.

  I say nothing and shrug subtly but forcefully enough to dislodge her hand from my back. I don’t want to be touched right now. Not even by her.

  “Ere, it’s best to talk about this. There is no real treatment for it except talking, Rain tells me. She’s our resident healer, by the way. Have I mentioned that?”

  I don’t give a shit who Rain is.

  Fuck. I’m starting to unravel. My mood is crashing like a rocket from the sky. I want to be alone. I need to be alone.

  “If you think I’m deranged and apparently a danger to others and myself, at least at some point during my…stay…here, you should leave, Sophia. I’m not fit for company.”

  “I care about you, Ere,” she says stubbornly, her hand lifting in the corner of my eye as if she wants to touch me again, but thinks better of it, letting it drop back in her lap.

  “I want to help you.”

  “For whom?”

  She frowns in confusion.

  “What?”

  “For whom are you doing this?” I clarify. “Are you helping me for you, or are you helping me for me? Because If I really have what you assume, you’re not helping me for me.”

  She starts to look a little pained.

  “I just—”

  “What makes you think I want to be ‘cured’? If that’s what you want to help make happen,” I push on, interrupting her. “I function just fine without my memories, most of which likely troubling. What do you hope to accomplish by making me ‘well’? All you will do is make me more broken than ever before.”

  “Ere…”

  Her big brown eyes stare at me with great sadness. And guilt. For some reason, she feels guilty about my predicament.

  “Let me have my fairytales and dreams, Sophia,” I whisper, rising to my feet and backing away from her.

  “Ignorance is bliss. Let me enjoy the fiction.”

  I turn away from her with my hands fisted at my sides, trying my damnest to hold the blackness within me at bay.

  She finally takes the hint and gets up to leave, quietly closing the doors behind her.

  I stand before another wall and stare entranced at the mural just as I did before. Such a beautiful, fantastical, lifelike world. It’s like stari
ng out of a window.

  But when I reach out to touch the shifting images, there is only solid, impenetrable wall.

  Chapter Eight: Sacrifice

  The thing about demons, especially the ones inside you, is that you can’t really outrun them, and you can never hide. They always find you in the end.

  And then they gobble you up…

  Third millennium BC. Silver Mountains Colony, hinterlands of the Akkadian Empire.

  I was in the village picking up herbs and spices for the castle kitchen when it happened. The Pure Ones’ stronghold was under attack!

  The event we’d all dreaded—Dark Queen Ashlu tired of this cat and mouse game that had perpetuated the Great War for a quarter of a century. Despite the General and the Pure Queen Ninti’s ingenious plans to keep our base a secret, to keep the Dark Queen’s forces away from our vulnerable underbelly that had become a place of refuge and hope for thousands of Pure Ones, we had been discovered at last.

  Or perhaps Queen Ashlu had always known our location, but had merely toyed with us, building our hopes, waiting for the best (or worst) possible moment to crush us like insects beneath her feet.

  When the General was captured before my time, made into a Blood Slave for one of the Dark Princesses, I heard that the Dark Queen instated a tentative truce for a while. Even when the General escaped, she did not retaliate as many had feared. Now, suddenly, two decades later, she unleashed the might of her armies upon us all at once, surrounding us on all sides. She was bent on obliteration. She was after blood and revenge.

  There would be no prisoners.

  My senses were overwhelmed by the chaos and destruction around me—

  The acrid smell of wheat and barley fields burning. The blood curdling cries of animals and people alike being butchered as Dark soldiers rampaged through the villages that surrounded the base of the fortress on gigantic warhorses, brandishing maces, swords, spiked chains, bow and arrow and spears. Of foot soldiers gutting everything in their path, no matter man, woman or child.