Tumgik
#‘old man sits down and imparts wisdom or story on younger generation’
rexlapi · 3 years
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i know no one who follows me is into genshin bUT im so proud of this au so i’ll post it anyways
moongod!zhonglixmotal!childe, chang’e/hou’yi au (no previous knowledge of the mid autumn festival is needed, hopefully i explained it well enough in the fic)
am i yours?
rating: teen for inexplicit self harm  wc: 2k
ao3
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It had only been a century since the god of the moon, known to the people as Morax, had first come to the barren rock he would soon have to call home. He had no emotional attachment to the place, however he had no other place to call home. Too many years since the man who had once been Zhongli had last seen his love, too long since he had known happiness. 
The earth was rising into view from his palace on the moon, the blue waters always reminding him of his lover’s bright eyes. Zhongli stood on the cold stone floor, staring out into the distance. It was the anniversary of the day when Zhongli had first ascended to yue, a day many mortals celebrated, offering him yuebing, or mooncakes, in hopes that he would bless their families. Every year, he found it in himself to smile upon those who still remembered his story, hoping that one day, his good would come back to him in the form of the one he loved. But of course, the world was a cruel place, leaving the immortal nothing but a barren rock to live his sad eternity on. 
Despite the people’s celebratory gifts, this day was always one of sorrow for Morax. He had only experienced a few decades of imprisonment on this rock, yet somehow Zhongli felt so, so very old. This day only ever reminded him of what he’s lost, of what he will never have again. To be fair, almost everything reminded him of his Tartaglia, from the waters of earth to the orange of the sun. More than anything, these things reminded him of his biggest mistake.
There was nothing in this that the moon god regretted more than his reckless action that got him stuck on this barren rock, never to see the face of the one he loved again. 
The day that ruined Zhongli’s life had been a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days he had ever seen. The skies were a vibrant blue, streaks of puffy white clouds dotted throughout the sea of blue, the sunlight warm and bright. He had planned on proposing to Tartaglia that day He had everything prepared, an elaborate basket of luxurious gifts for the other man’s family, as well as a lovingly self-crafted pair of matching dangly earrings, for each of them. Zhongli unconsciously brushed his hand over his ear, toying with the rare orange jade bead at the end of his. 
He had been waiting for Tartaglia to return home from an assignment when one of his own students had broken into his house, looking for the small potion of immortality Tartaglia had received for shooting the excess suns out of the sky. His Tartaglia had always been an adept warrior, being proficient in nearly every weapon. Zhongli smiled to himself, wishing he could see the way Tartaglia bounced on his toes before every right, his face stretched into a broad grin, ready for the rush of adrenaline that every fight gave him. 
Zhongli had always loved teaching, wanting to impart his knowledge and wisdom on the next generation of bright minds. He would never forget the look of horror his student wore when Zhongli angrily shoved a spear through their stomach, snatching the elixir out of weakening hands and downing it in one gulp. It wasn’t until Tartaglia returned home shortly after the incident when Zhongli realized what he had done. He remembered how Tartaglia’s eyes had widened, his voice calling out for him, but Zhongli could already feel himself floating away, becoming weightless, as if he had become a spirit. The distraught cries from his love that morphed into sobs, calling his name, begging him to stay, telling him he loved him These cries would forever ingrain themselves into his memory. The elixir would have let them be happy and together forever. Instead, it separated the two of them for the rest of time.
Every year on this day, he would talk into the sky, hoping that maybe, one day, Tartaglia would hear him. Hoping that maybe one day he could see him smile, hear him laugh again. This year was no different. Zhongli busied himself in the kitchen, preparing some of Tartaglia’s favorite foods. He would eat a bite of each dish before leaving the rest as offerings to whatever greater powers lay above him, asking them for mercy, for freedom for this barren rock. Though, behind all of these, he would always ask to see his love, one last time. 
Please, Celestia. This is all I can offer for you. Please, I’d like a way off this rock, freedom from my past mistakes. He looked off into the distance, at the painting he had done of Tartaglia. Please, I’d like to see Tartaglia again. Please.
Years like this one passed. Years became decades, and decades became centuries. Time passed quickly for the immortal, and though it may pass fast, it had no end. Every year, Morax asked the same things of Celestia. Every year, he received no response. He had grown so very tired. 
On his 8880th mid-autumn festival, he awoke to see a sharp periwinkle dagger wrapped in silver silks sitting on the edge of his bed. He carefully unwrapped the fabric to reveal a beautifully carved glaze lily embedded on the handle. A small piece of paper fell out of the wraps, peaking Zhongli’s interest. He carefully set the dagger down onto his bed, picking up the small slip. 
A note, written in elegant, looping, traditional Liyuen. It read: Morax, your prayers have been heard. Celestia sends its regards as well as apologies for taking so long to process your request. Take this dagger as the key to the next journey in your life, where the one you love is waiting. It has been enchanted so there will be no pain. However, if you decide to take this chance, do know that it is irreversible. Do as you wish with it, take the chance or do not. 
I hope you find your peace, Zhongli.
The note was not signed, but somehow Zhongli felt as though he knew the person who had written the note. “Thank you.” he croaked out, his voice rough from lack of use. His hands shaking, he picked up the dagger once more. It was the perfect weight, a perfect balance of light yet solid. It had been, well, ever since he had come onto this rock since he had held a weapon. Not a weapon, a key. A chance. Hope. 
He took a walk around the empty palace where he had lived in solitude for thousands of years, as if saying goodbye. It was a goodbye he was happy to say. He retrieved the hand carved wooden box containing his most prized possession from it’s secret location, securing it in his pocket. He carefully rolled up the scroll containing the image of a smiling Tartaglia and slipping that into another pocket, scared that if he did see Tartaglia again, that Zhongli wouldn’t be able to recognize him. 
He stared down at the dagger in his hands, his fingers curling around the elegant glaze lily. He felt his grip grow tighter, then he felt his hands start to shake. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He was ready to leave this barren place behind. I will see you again, Tartaglia.
As promised, the blade brought him no pain. 
... 
Zhongli opened his eyes to see an ethereal forest, the trees not quite opaque, as if they weren’t quite there. He looked down to see the beautiful blade that had been gifted to him stained with golden blood. He wasn’t bothered by the golden blood, for it was the blood of immortals after all. He was however, awed by the trees he saw. He hadn’t seen vegetation in what felt like years, not having to eat food in order to sustain himself after ascending to godhood, saving human food for very special occasions. 
He looked around, though he didn’t see anyone. Where the one you love is waiting, the note had said. Zhongli wandered around the forest for what felt like days, looking for a head of bright orange hair or a pair of deep ocean eyes. He saw neither. Had the sender lied? He couldn’t help but lose a little bit of hope, though wherever he was now was still certainly better than the hellhole of a rock he had resided on for millennia. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, feeling more and more energetic by the moment. 
Say something. His brain told him. He was running out of options, so he did as his inner monologue asked. Clearing his throat, he recalled the song he would sing to his Tartaglia. Humming the first few lines to get warmed up, his hope growing with every beat. 
“Xu ni sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai,” His voice shook as he switched from his native Liyuen to lover’s Snezhnayan. “Always and forever, in this heart of mine…” The forest was silent. Zhongli felt his heart shatter, not wanting to accept that he really would never see his Tartaglia again. He knelt on the ground, his hand clutching the blade of the dagger, a cascade of golden blood dripping onto his spotless black-gold hanfu. He wished he could feel the sharp pain of the cold blade biting into his skin. 
“Xu ni sheng sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai,” 
Zhongli had never stood faster in his entire life, the dagger falling to the ground, forgotten. His eyes widened as the familiar face of his beloved appeared from behind a tree. He stood stunned. The sender didn’t lie.
The sun seemed to illuminate the younger boy, his orange hair glowing golden, his typical gray ensemble billowing in the breeze. Zhongli had never seen such a beautiful sight in his thousands of years of existence. “Always and forever, in this heart of mine… longer than the heavens, and the stars that shine…”
Zhongli and Tartaglia both rushed forward at the same time, the orange haired boy taking the other’s bleeding hand in his, while Zhongli gently placed his uninjured hand on his lover’s face. “Xiang si qing nan nai, yuan yu ni tong zai,”
They both broke out into smiles filled with grief and disbelief, their voices shaking as they finished the verse together. “I am yours, I am yours, forever”
Collapsing into the other man, Zhongli let himself cry. “Tartaglia I-”
He felt strong arms hug him tighter, only making Zhongli sob harder. “Shh it’s okay, I’m here now. You’re here now.” Tartaglia had begun to cry too, having fallen to the ground with Zhongli, the two a tangle of limbs and tears. 
“I love you so much.” Zhongli choked out, letting more and more of his years and years of pain and loneliness fade away with every moment in the other boy’s arms. 
Tartaglia kissed Zhongli through teary eyes, trying to convey the words he couldn’t say in the action. “I’ve never stopped loving you, even after all these years. I love you, Zhongli. So much. Please, don’t be an idiot again and cause us another eight-thousand years of separation. I don’t think I can go through that again.”
Zhongli laughed through a sob, placing a kiss on Tartaglia’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He pulled out the box he had carried around with him since he had been banished to the moon. Carefully, he pulled out the other earring he had crafted all those years ago, the same shape and pattern as the singular one Zhongli himself wore. “Tartaglia, would you be mine forever?”
“Only if you’re mine forever" He responded, the biggest shit-eatting grin on his face. 
Zhongli nodded solemnly, completely serious in his consideration of the agreement. “That is a fair contract.”
Tartaglia laughed before kissing Zhongli again. “It was a joke, of course I’ll be yours.”
He dipped his head down, allowing Zhongli to attach the earring to his ear. Perfect. Zhongli couldn’t help but think. The blue jade matched his eyes perfectly, just as Zhongli’s earring matched his own amber eyes. “Forever?”
“Forever."
~~~~~~~~~~
Xu ni sheng shi shi, wu jue qu de ai -> Let your love live forever,
Xiang si qing nan nai, yuan yu ni tong zai -> Love-sickness is unbearable, I wish I were with you
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sending-the-message · 6 years
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My Mother Kept Everything by TheTrueRory
As a kid, you never really realize when your parents tend to be different. To you, they’re just you’re parents. But eventually, the whispers start, the ongoing murmurs, and you can’t help but think about your parents in a different light. That moment tends to be unforgettable, even if regrettable.
I was seven when the whispers got to me. I’m from a small town, very small, very closed off, very religious. The type of town that seems ten years behind the rest of the world around it. The kind of town where you call everyone by their first name, even at seven.
We lived outside of town, on a small farmstead that had been in my family for a few generations. Though we had sold most of the land and no longer farmed, we kept enough for ourselves to live off of. A few cows for milk, a few chickens for meat, nothing special. Just small time country life.
You’d think that we would have this grand sense of space, being out in the country, no other home for two miles in any direction. The Great Big Empty, as my now-fiance refers to it. But it wasn’t empty to me, nor my family. No, my family’s property was filled with everything, scrap and junk and garbage, because my mother kept everything.
Back then, “hoarding” wasn’t a known compulsion by any metric. But a medical diagnosis wasn’t really a necessity when it came to Coffee Row, the rumour mill every small town is at least familiar with.
“I’ve heard she goes to the dump and steals all the old mattresses.”
“It’s such an eyesore.”
“I’m surprised none of her kids have caught some sort of disease from playing in that yard.”
“Well, they aren’t the brightest of kids. Probably get that from her.”
“Bruce isn’t the brightest man in the world either. Look who he married.”
These phrases, repeatedly spoken by the crotchety retirees at the local coffee house, would then trickle down to mouths of their kids, and their kids, until a punch of third graders couldn’t help but think of me and my family as dirty. And, well, you tend to internalize those things after awhile. I didn’t think too highly of myself in my childhood.
And, I mean, they weren’t necessarily wrong. No, my mom never went to the town dump to steal old mattresses or broken down equipment. Actually, I don’t think she ever went to the dump once in her life. To her, everything would eventually have it’s purpose. “It’s better to have something and not need it then to need something and not have it” was a common wisdom she imparted on us kids. Though after a few years, I can’t help but see it as a defensive posturing than anything else.
By the time I became aware that my mother’s “collection” wasn’t as common as I suspected, my father had given up on trying to curb her ways. The strong and silent type, barrel-chested and heavy-hearted, he thought it best just to let things be. He didn’t care of the whispers and the murmurs and of Coffee Row. He just wanted a simple life with his family. And if having to live in what others considered a condemned area was what stood in the way of his loving happiness, then that’s what he would do.
My mother seemed normal, to me at least. I know I was just a kid, but you’d think any sort of compulsion would have more signs, more symptoms. But no, not really. My mom was just…a mom. She made me packed lunches. She baked things for the school bake sale. She made me Halloween costumes. From the inside, everything was normal, everyday, life.
But that was until the rumours got to me.
I didn’t confront my mom. I mean, what’s a seven year old going to say? Stop being weird? Throw some of this shit out? No, I never told her how I felt. But my resentment was something that became obvious to the rest of the family.
“Never you mind what the other kids say,” my father told me, sitting in the near darkness of my room one night after a bedside story. “They’re just bitter people with nothing more to talk about then that they don’t understand.”
“But I don’t understand it, Dad!”
In that near dark, only half illuminated by my bedside lamp and the nightlight plugged in beside the door (used as a guide when midnight nature called) my father took a moment before saying, “I don’t either. But I don’t think it’s our place to understand.”
After that, I tried my best to push it all away. But parents tend to forget to pressures of the classroom, and the resentment still tended to boil up from time to time. It was the approach of my eighth birthday that really made things clear to me that I wasn’t dealing with the family farm situation properly.
“How did it go today, hunny?” my mother asked with her usual brightness. She was almost always cheery when me and my little brother got of the bus, espicially on days she didn’t work a shift at the county hospital.
I didn’t reply, choosing instead to have some classic childhood seething. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily.
“Did you remember to hand out the invites?”
“Nobody wants to come, Mom!”
I was louder than I had wanted to be, on the verge of tears, but not backing down.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I handed out all the invites to everyone in the class, but nobody wants to come to a birthday party in a junkyard, Mom!” I turned to storm off to my room in an overly dramatic way that would have been suited in a melodrama than from an almost eight year old. My mom didn’t stop me. I glanced back and she was just standing at the other end of the hall, watching me walk away.
After that outburst, my mother wasn’t as cheery when I came home, but she didn’t throw anything out. She didn’t clean the yard or the barn or the three abandoned sheds that dotted our grazing field like rat infested infections. Those sheds, which me and Shaun, my younger brother, called the Junks, was the worst of it. We rarely ventured out to them ourselves. To me at least, the insides of the Junks were what I imagined my mother’s mind to be like. Decades old newspapers piled high, broken equipment, rusted tools, all of our school projects and hand drawings and childhood activities, labelled and stored and stacked and stacked and stacked. Organized is a polite word to use when describing having to actually carve a pathway from one side of the room to the other.
Every once in a blue moon something would come up and my mother would need something from on of the Junks. An old certificate. A decoration for a rare occasion. A newspaper article about a study from years gone by (this was before the advent of Google made such discoveries simpler). And off to the Junks she would go to find her well kept gold. “It’s better to have something and not need it” as her saying goes. Sometimes she’d come back, item well in hand. Many times she didn’t.
I never liked going to the Junks myself. I didn’t like the idea of lifting up some boxes to find a rats nest, or something long ago dead. It never happened, but imagination is a powerful thing. And after a few years of quiet resentment following my eighth birthday outburst, and the growing distance between myself and my mother, I was never sent out to get anything anyways.
School life, of course, never helped either. The birthday shut out was one of many that I would experience in my small school. The friendship pool tends to be small when you have less people in your entire school then most city classes. And every class needs an outcast. That’s tradition at this point, right?
It wasn’t until grade ten that I made a friend. A girlfriend, in fact. She moved to our small town after her dad became the doctor at the county hospital. She wasn’t a big fan of country life, I could tell, but the pay for being the only doctor for miles around was too much to pass up, and the man himself came from a neighbouring community. So I started dating my mom’s boss’ daughter. Some might think that might make things complicated, but much like the friendship pool, The dating pool isn’t something small towns are known for. Not to disparage those who end up marrying their high school sweethearts, but in these situations it’s more beggars can’t be choosers than anything else.
I was worried when I first started dating her. The other kids teased relentlessly.
“You’re gonna catch something from him. The plague is somewhere in his yard.”
“His mom’s fucking crazy. You must be too if you’re dating him.”
“Don’t go to his place unless you have your tetanus shot.”
She didn’t really give them mind, but after awhile (in teenage days, “awhile” is a month at most) it did start bothering her. I never invited her over to my place either. I was embarrassed, and I think that bothered her too. She thought we were sneaking around, that I didn’t want her to meet my family. Again, she was only half correct.
Three months into the relationship, though, a situation arose where avoiding having her over was really not going to work: a long weekend with the house all to myself. Every horny teenager’s dream, and it was happening to me. Mom, Dad, and Shaun were all going to the Grand Canyon for a fun family vacation. Me, being the brooding teenager that all fifteen year olds aspire for, asked to be left home. While my Mom protested, my father talked her into letting me get my way.
“He’s becoming a man, and if he wants to stay home and work, I don’t see a reason to stop him,” I overheard him saying to her one night, long after I was meant to be sleeping, sneaking out for a cold glass of water.
“You know that’s not why he’s wanting to stay home as much as I know it,” she retorted.
“He’s a teenager, Maggie. I know you two have had your problems, and you think that this is just another step of distance, but he’ll come around. Trust me on that. In the mean time, let’s just give him some space.”
She didn’t reply, and I snuck off without making a sound. The next morning, it was settled. I was a man, as my father said, and could make this decision myself. Though, as he reminded me thoroughly, this meant I wasn’t get a vacation, period. My chores would still be well in affect throughout the weekend, he said, but the smirk told me that if things slid, the punishment wouldn’t be the harshest.
They left early in the morning on the Saturday. I was planning on sleeping in myself, as every fifteen year old plans, but was groggily, gently shaken awake early, by my mother, sitting beside my bed (something of a rare site, her being in my room).
“Mom? What’s going on?”
“Just wanted to talk to you before we left.”
She looked around my room,, as if seeing it for the first time. I was groggy and annoyed at being disturbed, but I noticed the sadness that seemed to blend into her usually sturdy eyes.
“Everything okay, mom?”
She looked back at me, that sadness even sharper, “Yes, yes, everything is…fine,” she sighed, “you know I wasn’t a fan of having you stay home alone this weekend, but here we are. You’re father can be rather convincing, as you know. I just wanted to say…you’re a man almost, but not yet. But almost. And I guess that’s harder to accept than I would like to admit.”
The grogginess abandoned me. A sobering conversation like this was a rarity from my mother, and it deserved my full attention. Yet, she just sighed, this sigh seeming to be an apology of sorts as she slipped off my bed to stand.
“I didn’t want to leave while we were both angry at each other. I guess we’ve been angry for a long time, longer than we should be,” I could see it, that sadness was not a new thing but something that was always there, just deeper, maybe smaller, but always, always, “I hope that when we get back, we could maybe try not to be. How does that sound?”
“That sounds…that sounds good, ma.”
She smiled at that. She always enjoyed being called “ma”. But the smile seemed to curdle, turn in a second, as another thought drifted into view. The true purpose of this early morning reconciliation.
“I know that you’re planning on having the Somner girl over while we’re away. Don’t, don’t get upset or indignant. I don’t much care to argue about teenage love at the moment. I only have one request from you.”
She looked at me, the sadness gone, replaced by an affirmation, a forcefulness which surprised me after such tenderness.
“Don’t take her out to the sheds. I know that it wasn’t on your mind, and that you’d probably be preoccupied otherwise, but it needs to be said. Don’t take her out there.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was just confused, very confused. I would almost have laughed if not for that harshness in her eyes, and that tone, that don’t-mess-with-it tone. I just nodded, which was enough for her. Her features softened once more, and left my room without another word.
Saturday afternoon, Morgan came over, and that’s when things changed for me.
I had tried to make it as perfect as a fifteen year-old could. I cleaned the house as much as I figured I should and then some, I washed up nice and clean, I made a true presentation of what we were all taught romance was. Even with the scrapyard front yard and the closets burdened with random assortments of just stuff, I thought the day would go off without a hitch.
Morgan was a year older than me and got a car for her sweet sixteen. Nothing to flashy, but enough to make her squeal with delight when it first arrived, and enough to get her to pull into my yard early that afternoon. I had wanted her to come early, make a day of it, you know? Go for a hike, take her through the garden, show her the points of my family life that didn’t embarrass me to no end. Hopefully offset her initial reactions from pulling into the yard.
That all changed the moment she arrived.
“Imagine seeing you here,” she said playfully as she stepped out of her car.
“Yeah, imagine that,” I walked up and kissed her, quick deep and all too excited. She laughed at this see-through nervousness and looked around.
“So, I guess this is why you never invited me out before.”
I looked around, ashamed of it all, “Yeah…yeah I guess.”
She looked at me, saw it all, all that guilt I apparently had, and couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Come on, it’s not that bad. So you’ve got a few junkers and clunkers and stuff. What’s the big deal?”
I looked at her, and smiled, “Wish I knew.”
She rolled her eyes and started towards the house, “Don’t be so dramatic. Come on, you going to show me around or what?”
“Depends what ‘or what’ might mean?”
(I always thought I was more creative with words than I actually am)
She looked back at me, smiling, God what a smile, “Don’t be an idiot, please. I don’t like idiots.”
I smiled, too. Until…until I saw her eyes wander from me, and her smile fade, as those eyes locked onto something off in the distance.
“What are those over there?”
She pointed off behind me, and I turned to see she was pointing out, across the field, through the junkers and the clunkers, straight across to The Junks.
“Oh, those? Those are just The Junks. That’s what me and Shaun call them, at least. They’re just…just more of all this, I guess.”
(There’s that shame again)
“Can we go out there?” she asked as she already turned and took steps away from the house.
“What? Why?”
“I...I just want to, I guess? Can we go out there now?” She was now walking for them, seemingly not caring what I had to say on the matter.
“Morgan, you don’t want to go out there, they’re just full of garbage. Come on, let’s go inside.”
She just continued. She didn’t look back.
“Morgan, come on!”
Nothing. I went after her and grabbed her wrist.
“Morgan, stop!”
She did, and looked back at me, but not like she ever had before. There was a moment, just a moment, a flash, of hate on her face as she pulled free of my grip. If she hadn’t pulled free, I would have dropped it out of shock.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing! I just…I want to go out there, okay? Why the hell can’t we? Why are you being a jerk about it?”
“I’m not being a jerk, I just don’t want to take my girlfriend out to the shitty junk buildings where my mom stores all her useless shit! Okay?”
She looked at me, just looked and nothing more, for a few seconds before turning and continuing towards The Junks. I didn’t run up and grab her wrist this time. I just followed behind, confusion clouding my mind, anger choking my throat, and a chill, a coldness, crossing my body.
She stalked her way through the field, stomping down the long wild grass which prevailed throughout the field, weaving her way around the destitute machinery and piles of rubbish which littered the field. I simply followed, nothing else I could seem to do, no protests to be made.
She stopped dead centre of the three leaning and over-sunned buildings. Any paint that had once existed on their rotting exteriors had since given way to the unforgiving gift of time. The windows were empty, gaping holes, robbed of their glass by wailing winds and weak installations. The doors barely existed, a courtesy extended to the interiors more than actual protection from the elements. Standing there, actually taking them in instead of taking them for granted, they didn’t really seem like buildings as much as memories long since abandoned.
I walked up behind Morgan, almost tentative, worried I’d send her off on another rage tangent. She didn’t react to me, simply staring up across the buildings which fascinated her so much.
“There you go. Three eyesores, just like I said. Happy?”
“What’s in them?”
I shrugged. “Junk, like I said. Newspapers, old toys, family projects that never took off, antiques that aren’t worth shit, I don’t know. Nothing worth salt, really.”
“But, what’s really in them?”
This question sent chills down my back. The way she said it, eyes wide and body slack, like a child, it was unnerving. Her voice no longer sounded like her own, like the voice that liked to whisper things privately into my ears. She sounded and looked like a complete stranger in that moment.
She was moving again, cascading forward towards the door which only ever held back layers of old, forgotten junk and the shame I felt for it all. A door that, to me, was nothing but rotting boards and rusty nails. A door to nothing. But to her, to my teenage heart-breaker, it was a door to all she seemed to want and more.
I wanted to not move, not from my place in front of the three Junks, but my mind was gone, blank, as those chills that shot throughout me went from creeps to fear to terror in giant leaps and bounds. I marched, steps behind her, but I watched it all like I wasn’t there at all. Like a security camera watches the murder of a late-night service attendant.
She reached out and pulled the door open. The hinges screeched, cried out, not from rust, but from some sort of…of satistaction. A moan of disgusting approval. And those doors revealed...nothing.
Pure nothing.
A blackness that is unknowable, unexplainable, stood in that doorway. Inky , thick, tangible blackness. This was not simply the absence of light, this was the death of it. Light touched this and simply stopped existing. In fact, the blackness seemed to feed off the light, to grow and pulse with each moment of exposure to life outside it.
Morgan stood outside the throbbing, living blackness, not taken aback, not shocked or confused or even afraid. She stood there and breathed it in, watched it with a fascination, a love that was almost as dreadful as the blackness itself.
I wanted to scream, to do anything. And I almost did it, almost pulled myself together enough to run over and grab Morgan and slam that door shut and never, ever come back to these horrible ruins again in my life. I almost did it. But then the sounds reached me, and overpowered every ounce of will I had gathered to that point.
The screams. The blackness was screaming, wailing, rasping. It was like listening to a thousand deaths. It was the sound a soul makes when it is wrenched unceremoniously from it’s unwilling host. It was a sound that came with a stench. It made my blood curdle in my veins. It made my heart stop beating.
But Morgan…that smile, that whimsy simply grew on her face as the orchestra of hell reached her. In the ecstasy of evil, she seemed to love the song it sung. For her, it wasn’t horror she heard, but a siren call, a lullaby. An acceptance.
She didn’t look back. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a noise. She simply took a step forward, and was gone. And worth her, in a blip, in the blink of an eye, the nothing was gone. In a blink of an eye, I stood there, alone, looking at a rotten building filled with rotting things, but things nonetheless. The blackness, the horror, the screaming, was gone. And with it went Morgan, forever.
I was found by a neighbour, crying, screaming, running but almost collapsing. I don’t know how long had passed, I don’t remember anything else from that weekend, from the rest of that year really. Everything I’ve heard about it is second hand, whispered amongst the townsfolk and told to me by my brother on his less than sober nights.
The police. The investigation. The allegations. None of them I can recall. Any time I think of that day, the sucking, feeding screams return, and I just start to shake all over. Therapy doesn’t help. They want you to talk through it, to write it out in a private journal, to make it real, and I refuse to do that. Drugs don’t help either. If I slip into something less, something relaxed, something even one step away from this heightened fear that I have forever resting in my heart, then it returns. That hunger. That screaming black hunger.
My family, already burdened with the strange looks my mother had always gathered, were now outcasts. We weren’t formally dejected, but we were never welcome anywhere again. Both my mom and dad lost their jobs, my brother and I were basically ostricisized at school. We weren’t welcome here, not in this small town, or any of the neighbouring ones. Wouldn’t be surprised if the whispers of our names reached coast to coast. I know that’s the paranoia talking, but I still wouldn’t be surprised.
But we never moved. It wasn’t even discussed, wasn’t even a consideration within the family. It wasn’t an option.
Years later, after both my brother and I had gotten as far away from that middle of nowhere, middle of nothing town, I went home to visit. I didn’t do it very often. Though I had grown up to both look more and act more like my father than my younger years would have initially suggested, the buzz that my visits generated at Coffee Row still caused my skin to crawl.
It was my final night of a four day visit. My father had gone to bed at that premature time that older men who have known little else besides work seem to need. It was me and my mother sitting in their living room, both reading quietly, enjoying just being together but not needing to say it. The sitting area was towered over by books, wall to wall, books stacked to the ceiling, and doubled-up in other areas. It made the room both comfortable and suffocating, with a sudden jolt of Earth undoubtedly ending our lives under the hard covers of Holmes and Hemingway.
I sat reading only to stop and look up. My mother, hair tinged grey, face lined with years of secrets.
“What’s up?” I asked. She just continued looking at me for a moment more, seeming to decide something.
“I know what happened to her.”
“What happened to who, ma?”
“The girl. That Somner girl from years ago. The one that you try and pretend you’ve forgotten about, and that you’ve gotten over. I know what happened.”
My mouth immediately went dry, my heart raced. Simply hearing that name, remembering, remembering all that darkness. That empty.
“Mom, I never told you what happened.”
“You never said what happened because you couldn’t. No man could.”
Her face, her lines, they seemed to age before me, to by weighed down, tortured by what she was thinking about. She took her time, but I waited.
“You don’t see what I see. Neither does your brother, or your father, or any man. You can’t see what we can. I don’t know why, so don’t bother asking. All I know is that this land, our family’s land, my family’s land, has belonged to us, has been our burden for much longer than I think we can really know. This land has been our responsibly. The men are to protect the women, and the women are to…to stop it.”
She looks at me, deep and hard and knowing, and that’s all she feels she needs to say to describe everything in that nothing.
“There’s no need to ask me questions about what it is or what it does. You saw it. You know that no matter what, it’s not a good thing. No, no, it’s where goodness goes to die, that’s for certain. And it’s our family job to keep it back. To keep it contained. To keep it hidden.”
She stops now. Getting this little bit of information out seems to have drained her from any remaining energy she had. Much more and she would simply fall asleep where she sat.
“Mom, why are you telling me this? Why now?”
Her eyes became harder, her mouth set in place.
“Don’t you understand? It’s our family’s duty to keep the darkness at bay.”
My heart beat so hard, but my blood ran cold, sluggish, as what she was saying was dawning on me.
“It’s our duty…but I can’t see it. And dad can’t see it. And Shaun can’t see it.”
She nodded. That was it. That was the end of the conversation.
It was our duty to keep it out, to keep it locked up in the Junks or whatever the fuck those buildings actually were. It was our job…and I can’t even see it.
The Great Big Empty. That’s what my fiance calls it. That’s what most anyone would call it. Any man, at least.
I wish it was empty. I wish it was that simple. I wish that it was the empty we actually know, a quantifiable empty. But it’s not. It’s a hungry empty. An empty that will rob you of everything you are.
An empty that is now my fiances’ responsibility.
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