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 Posted: Tue Apr 18, 2017 8:33 am
T̴̘̟̪͉͕̯͗͆̅̆́̎͂̀̆͐̓͝͠ẖ̶̎͆͜ȅ̵̢̠̲̳͓̙͔̰̼̭̅̈́̈́̇͊̈͌̈́̑̓̄̌̚ͅ ̴̱͑͒͊̊̀̃̇́C̷̯͒̈́̾͒̋́̊́͂͗̚o̴̡̨̡̳͖̩͔͚͎̬̰̭̘̾̇ň̵̬̜͎̬͍̌̅̋̃́̄̓͝ș̶̢͚̀͐̇͒̽̿̈̌͐̊̍̀̌͜͝e̶̼͖͇͈̣̳̗̘̮͔̤͆̉̾̽́̾͛̾̆̉͛̇̚͘̚r̴̢̜̘̩̬̞̰̥͇̤̉̃̀͘͜͝͝v̸̻͕̾̈́̇͋̓̀̔́̐̀̕͝a̸̜̗͔̻̺̩̳̝̪̮̻̼̒̕t̵͉̬̥͔́̔̀͒̍̔̀̅̉ǫ̶̳̤̗͛͑̋̔͆̉̍̉̐̐̍̑̑̐͘r̵̼̐͊̀̋͐̅̈́̚y̶͓̩̺͛̿ ̷̢̧̨̯̮͎͕̗̭̱͈̲̻͛̓f̵̡̨̨̹͇͍͉̩͙̘̹̥̗̚ǫ̶̢̯͕̟͇̟̊͆͠r̶̨̛̝̤͚͉͕͇̩̖̻̟̭̍̏̐̄̄͊͑̋̐̊͝͝ ̷̯̩̙̪̫̱̉̈̌͒̈́̾̅̾̿Ȕ̷̼̝͎̪̬̦̺͈͔͕̻͔̖̾̂͗̄n̸̡͆̉͌͆̑w̷̹̥̫̻̻͎̋̓͌͜ͅa̷͍̻̹̠̦̘̻͖̘͕̫̝̾̊̑̉̎́̋͝ṅ̶̨̤̘̦̯̱̮̪̠̿͂̇̌́̀̕t̵̨̘̙͈̫̪̤̺̘̯͓̞͆̔͂̀̀̐̐͑̃̓͠ȩ̵̺̺͖̟̩̳̣̼͙͕̿̆̏̂̋̍̕͜ͅḓ̵̛͇̘͎͕̟̃͌̔̔͑̂͊͌̒̉̏͑͛̕ ̶̡̞̥̥́̋̍̽G̵͉̘͚̘̩͍͖͐̽͊͑̐͗̇̊͛̾̇̕͝i̷̢̟̯̐̎͗͒̓͑̽͑̉͒͐̚͝r̷̡̫̝͚̭̝̺̲̗͎̂̂́̄͌͜ļ̴̧̻̞̘͇͎̱̗̮̌ͅͅs̴̢̫̺̻͔̩̩͔̙̘̹̺̗̞̄͛̀̌̄̿̿͘̚͠ͅ
Word Count -- 1041
Gisela knew the mythos of the place long before she found herself standing there before it. She knew it’s name, though the thought came to her garbled and confused. She understood it somewhere in her mine the way she understood most things in this strange space. She knew that if this place ever had a purpose or a use at one time, it had been long since forgotten. A mansion in ramshackle condition whose former shades of glory existed only in myth and legend. The heaps of ruins which once formed the shapes of colossal giants of extravagant shows of wealth now lay crumbled and decaying. How many ways to say that this one-time-home-perhaps-torture-manor-might-be-a-gateway-to-hell was now nothing more than a crumbling fossil? If she were to ask the townspeople a mile and a half away, they would tell her every way in which they describe it.
Surrounded on all sides by a dense forest intended to cut it off from civilization, the only way to reach this place was an unpaved, unkempt, unsightly road. Or what people call a road. Really it is more a worn carriage track with two parallel grooves worn into the soft earth. Travel as far as you can, Gisela knew sitting in the back of a deserted school bus, and then travel more. Straight on until it feels like too far. She was about halfway there at that point. The manor stands, looming in the darkness of what used to be a world unto itself. Light filters down in dappled greens and golds, giving the resting behemoth the feeling of serenity, though no one stops to notice it. Occasionally the quiet was sliced by the frantic beating of wings in the surrounding trees, but for the most part, the house lays undisturbed. Animals give it a wide berth and those who live nearby know to let the sleeping giant lie.
When Gisela visited and ignored the uncanny silence of the place (if birds do land among the debris, they dare not sing) she made sure that she stood very still and very silent. The rotten wood and sagging frameworks settled and crack and pop, swaying in the wind almost as though breathing, though not quite. Breezes wheezed through the exposed ribs of the building, broken bones jutting skyward in a constant plea for the help of a God who has turned his face away. It lay in strange shapes, almost as though it had at one point been several different buildings which grew together.
Looking at the burnt and broken structure, a Gisela was often reminded of Hollywood tales of horror. Indeed the remains of what was might just be haunted, but the people who live in the nearby town held the ruins to a much darker standard. It was a widely held and largely accepted belief that the building stands as a portal to hell opened by one of the previous occupants. A silly notion to Gisela at first, but the townspeople would always cite the lack of animals who might otherwise roam the area. Tracks wound around the clearing but never cut through. Droppings littered the parameter but never crossed. The odd deer or rabbit might stand along the side and peer in, unmoving and unflinchingly stare at something only they can see, but they vanish into the darkness of the surrounding wood quickly enough. The telltale sign of unhallowed ground is the lack of life.
The second argument they would use, with trembling voices, is the door. The only thing left standing, somehow untouched by the passage of time, was the front door. A challenging thing, wickedly arched and hewn from wood and stone, the door stands still and proud, inky hinges of wrought iron still clinging to the raw wood despite the storms and sun that have otherwise destroyed the rest of the structure. It soared, impossibly huge, and stands a full three human heights above a fully grown man’s head. Beside it stood the remains of proud columns, flanking the doorway to hold up the roof that often got lost in the sky above it. Before the untouched door are the stone steps, cracked and broken like the rest of the building. But the door… the door remained. And what else could resist the natural will of the Almighty Himself if not for the unholy?
And what else would have claw marks along the inside of the wood?
Some say human nails remain embedded into the wood (but who can possibly know that if no one goes near the ruin? (Right?))
But why? And how? What reason would this building have to become a gateway to deepest darkest inferno? Legends and myths swirled, as they often did in areas like this, about unspeakable violence enacted by man upon his fellows. Others whispered of cult meetings and bloody sacrifices. Still more insist on specifics, stating that the internment of one of Shakespeare’s vertebrae was the cause of such tragedy. Curses, after all, carry with remains, and everyone knows of the Curse of Macbeth.
The door is not closed, they said in hurried whispers. Not really. It stood ajar, just open enough for someone to slip in if they turn just so and squeeze. Though even if it was closed, there were infinitely many ways to enter the building if someone so chose. But the front door was key here, and the townspeople would ask you to listen carefully. Gisela must enter through the front door for the visions to take place. That’s what they said. The front door triggers something, that unholy spirit moves when the threshold is crossed and throws shadows and lights, revealing tales of the past and unlocking the mysteries of that strange and awful place.
So Gisela stood, unmoving and silent, listening to the silence of the clearing broken only by the settling the breathing of the house. She knew the rooms inside. She knew the secrets that lay beyond. She knew what to expect. She had this nightmare countless times before, and while she wondered briefly when sleep had taken her, she refused to linger too long on the notion. Better to allow the illusion to unfold before her. Better to just… enjoy the show...
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Posted: Wed Dec 05, 2018 1:20 pm
Therapy Session #1
Word Count -- 1297
Gisela hated therapy. It seemed, to her, a colossal waste of time. Talking out her problems were not going to make her better. If modern chemical augmentation had failed her, then there was no further hope. It also didn’t help that every therapist she had since she was a little girl had dropped her like a sack of sand after a few years.
Refuses to work with the therapist.
Unable or unwilling to attempt therapeutic accommodations.
It’s almost like she wants to be sick.
Like she didn’t know what they wrote down. Like she wasn’t acutely aware of what they thought when they looked up at her over their notepads whenever she spoke. They were all the same -- they wanted her to be fixed, but the issue was that there was nothing in Gisela to be fixed. This was just who she was. A skin-and-bone, dead-tired wraith. And no one seemed to realize or even care about that.
Least of all her parents.
“This one came very highly recommended,” her father cooed while stroking the peach-fuzz on her skull soothingly. In truth, Gisela nearly fell asleep to the gentle, regular sensation of her father’s calloused hands on her head and her mother’s warm hand encased around hers.
Almost.
But the shadows leaped at the first sign of weakness and she could nearly feel the pain of sharp teeth against her ribcage. She stood up with such quickness that her mother gasped and her father visibly jumped. But they both settled down after a moment, very aware of and morosely used to their daughter’s nervous ticks as she clung to the waking world.
“What made her so recommended,” Gisela finally asked, pressing the fabric of the sheer window dressings between her pale fingertips.
“She works heavily with sleep disorders,” came her mother’s deep and accented voice. Gisela had to laugh at the notion. Sleep disorders. To her, it almost sounded like she slept too much, or slept in the wrong way. That wasn’t the case at all… or perhaps it was. Not sleeping at all was very much the wrong way to go about sleeping.
“It’s not the insomnia we’re worried about, Ella,” her father gruffed from his seat.
“It’s the nightmares,” Gisela finished, releasing the fabric from her fingers before turning her attention to the degrees affixed upon the wall behind the therapists’ desk. No, not therapist, Gisela suddenly realized. A doctor. A doctorate of psychology and medicine. Now that was new.
“Can doctor Stevens prescribe me a sleep aid,” Gisela asked vaguely as she traced the word “doctor” against the glass of the frame.
“I suppose,” her father began before being cut off with a sharp, “Bruno.”
“Well, the doctor can prescribe them, Aina. I didn’t say that Gisela needed them.” But Gisela could feel her mother bristling from behind her and knew, even without turning around, that her dark face was turned down into a severe frown.
Gisela had sleep aids before when she was very young and it was believed that her fits were due to anxiety. It wasn’t restful sleep, but it was dreamless and well… beggars can’t be choosers. If she were being totally honest with herself, Gisela knew that she’d take those little pills in a heartbeat. Too bad people were more concerned with the impossible task of healing her rather than making the life that she was currently living more bearable.
“Gisela,” Aina whispered, coming up behind Gisela and taking her hand back in her own, “do you remember what you were like on sedatives?”
“You were a zombie, honey,” Bruno finished.
“I was a zombie that didn’t have nightmares.”
The silence hung heavy between the three of them until the door opened and closed with a soft click.
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” the doctor gasped as she crossed the room over to Gisela and her mother. She was tall, taller than Gisela thought anyone had any right to be, and slender. Her blonde hair was swept up and back into a very proper-looking bun at the back of her head and she wore rimless glasses. She was what every television show had told Gisela a doctor was supposed to look like.
Gisela took Doctor Stevens’ outstretched hand and followed her mother back to the chairs on the other side of the desk. Doctor Stevens didn’t sit in her chair, however, and instead leaning on the desk in front of them. No doubt an attempt to appear less imposing.
“So I’m Doctor Joanna Stevens, I believe we spoke on the phone?” Doctor Stevens shook both of her parents’ hands in turn.
“Since Gisela is underage, you are welcome to read and review her records. However, she has the right to revoke those privileges at any time or ask that something she tells me stays between the two of us. My trust with Gisela is very important, and I want to let you two know that up front. I’m her doctor, not yours.” Something similar was said when she started with any therapist. Gisela’s wellbeing is my highest priority. Gisela is my number one concern. I’m sure we can all agree that Gisela is the most important factor in this equation.
Gisela never believed that sentiment. It wasn’t like Gisela was their only patient, and she couldn’t share the number one spot with someone else. Anyone only ever said it so that Gisela and her parents would trust them more. It worked the first two or three times when Gisela was still little but now… between the logical capabilities of her age and the fact that she had been dumped by three other therapists, she knew it was just a fallacy.
“What are your presenting concerns with Gisela?”
The nightmares, first and foremost. How vivid they are, how real they can be. The sleep paralysis is incumbent with that concern. And then there are the health concerns, her weight, her immune system, her mental health. Gisela could rattle off the concerns on her own by now. All the while, Doctor Stevens nodded grimly, her face set in a serious cast just like the other three therapists had been. The only difference between her and the others was the extra degree on her wall.
“Gisela?”
Gisela turned her attention to Doctor Stevens who smiled at her warmly, keenly aware that the doctor knew she hadn’t been listening.
“I asked you if you agree with what your parents say.”
Gisela only shrugged and turned away again, her attention wholly engrossed by the arm of the chair.
“She’s not really much of a talker,” Bruno apologized with a smile, squeezing Gisela against him with an arm around her shoulder. “But you learn to communicate with her without words.”
“We feel a deeper connection with her for the lack of verbalization,” her mother finished, a smile warm on her voice. Gisela smiled at the spot she was staring at and leaned her head into the safety of her father’s barrel-chest.
“Well, I supposed I’ll have to learn on the job, won’t I, Gisela?”
The smile fell from Gisela’s lips and she said nothing to answer. Again, silence stretched on between them before the adults continued their conversation and left Gisela alone for the remainder of the appointment. That’s what this meeting was about. Ironing out issues and clarifying concerns so that the doctor could “get down to business” with Gisela the next time.
“I feel good about this,” Bruno chimed in the car on the way home. Aina hummed in agreement, and Gisela wished that she could share her parents’ optimism.
Then again, they hadn’t been dropped three times by the people who were trying to help her, had they?
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Posted: Thu Feb 28, 2019 1:22 pm
T̴̥̞̼̟̪͉̣͉̜͇̰̟̹͉͚́̊̏̈́͠h̷̠̲̥̳̘̬͈̻̤͎͙͇̤͖̆́̈́̈́e̴̡̛͕̖͚̘͗͂̓̑̀́́̅͂̚͝͝ ̶͉͈̀C̴̗͕̟̺̭̝͈͖̟̗̰̰̈́̓͊̾͂͋̚͜ͅơ̸̡̛̤͖͚͓̲̼̠̮̪͔̟̤͉̒̈͑̊̉̾͐̽̄̚ņ̶̛̯͉̎͂͗̀̓̓̒͐̓͘̚͠s̷̭̞͓̰̙̪̖̪̈͌͑͗̾̓̋͌̅̆̚͜͝e̴͇͍̤̬̬̬͈̒̈̅̾́͊̌̂̀͌̇̑͘ͅr̸̡̧͎̳͇̤͇̳̘̓͒͋̌̋̄̚v̶̧̫̖̲̟͓̩͕̠̭̘͖͍̋̈́̈̄͠ͅͅạ̷͖̟̯̖̩̠̭̟̳̝͈̙̒͋̒̆͑͐̉̅̌͊͝t̵̻́̑̽̀̉̉ǒ̵͇̼̤͔̭̬͚̩̣̲͒́́̑̅͐͌́͐́̚̕͝r̵̦̟̳̜͙͖̼̬̓y̵̨͔̩̠̲͋̓̍̓ ̶̡̮͉̜̜̥̎f̵̧̧̤̭̥̲͈͖̣͔̗̔̈̉̊̉͘ͅo̴̻̙̼͍͇̹̙͍̯͚̓̔̆͜r̶̼̜̪͕̥̤̍̓̀́̐͛̀͋̔́͘͝ ̶̡̻̜͇̣̌Ų̶̦͝ṇ̴͈̩̠̞̣͕̦͍̰͌̅͊̉͒̎̚͜w̵̧̢̢͍̫͕̮͍̟̼̗̞̥̞̦͛̈́͘a̸̧̛̪͓͉̟͚̭̗͇͉͚̙̝̽̇̿́̐̓͒̂̉͊̀̉͜͝ņ̶̨̛̥͔̜̣͕̙̪͇̩̾̒̓̈́̀̇ţ̵̭̙͎̩̔͂̾̎͑͒̓͘ė̷̛̮̩̙̌̂͋̾͐̂̅̋͘͝͠d̶̨̨̧̳͉̱̣̣͕̯͎́̋̏̌̃͑͋͂̒͜ ̸͍̖̜̠̱͈̎̅͌͘G̶̢̧̢̦̠̲̗̥̱͍͔̝̩͉͑͑͐̏͆͒̄̄͋̽͒̔̚͘͝i̴̡̛͈̩͉̠̳̭̣͈̓̒̒̃̚͜͝r̷̡̧̮̟̟̱̦͛̅̚͜ͅl̴̲̏͆́̌ŝ̷̨̝̱̤̝͖̺̘̘̺̖̫̜̽́̌̃:̴̡͉͖̘̝̙̙̉͛̇́́͗̈́͂́͗́͒͆͜͝ ̵̧̡̼̞̼̞̲̰͎̖͒͌͗̐̈́̋̌͑͛̒̓̀̀́͠ ̶͎̥̭̲̾̈́͂̔͝T̷̢̨̛̛̘̘̥̪̭̘͓̜͕̳̏̈́̎̈́̅̓͘̕̚͜͝͝h̶̨̜̠̝̭͚͎̪̱͂̑̑̿̍̑͛̾̾̒̍͑͋̐̀e̵̛̻͇̙͎̻͋̓̂̄̑̔̈́͛ ̸̢̩͖͓̥̝́̊̾̋͆̑̑̈́͂̍͝ͅͅB̵̥͎̦̯̻̞̀͂͐̈́̔̏̇͊͠ȧ̶͇͖̲̇̓̀̇́̀̈l̸̢̥̱͈̩̦̅ļ̷̛̦̹̹̬̙̠͍̤͓͉̤̗̬̈́͒͂͜r̶͖̱̦͕̣̦͔̱̙̮̣̜̭̦͒̌̈͑̋̀̿͑̏̎o̵̹̖͊̎́͛o̵̢͎͊̒̏̿̏̎̋̚ͅm̴̛̲̝͚̹̭̠̍̐͆̍̇̉̐
Word Count -- 1407
Somewhere between 1896 and 1903, the man who lived in this house murdered between 12 and 16 musicians, artisans, dancers, and entertainers. The reasons why each murder occurred remains as much a mystery as the means by which he escaped justice. His rationale changed each time he did so, citing untuned instruments, rude gestures, and unflattering lyrics among any others. Those in attendance to this spectacle knew, in short, that he slaughtered these people simply because the fancy had passed through him, and what he wanted, he got.
One such incident was recorded in 1901 by a woman named Claudette Reynolds, and unwilling attendant of one of his many dinner parties. Guests were admitted through the imposing front door, a monstrosity of wrot iron and mottled wood. Gisella passed through the entrance with the rest of the guests who were by equal turns horrified at the prospect of what the night may have held and wonder at the opolance with which the owner of the home surrounded himself.
What was his name?
Gisela couldn’t put a finger on it.
Still, he was as imposing as his front door. A tall, broad man with a face set in a permanent smirk. Like he knew something you didn't. In all honesty, he probably did. He greeted the guests on the steps of the grand foyer staircase clad in the trappings of the Red Death, an ill omen for all in attendance. A strange hush fell over the crowd and he smiled, seeming to revel in the awe and horror that he inspired. And then, wordless, he swept his arm out to his left, leading the crowd of nearly a dozen around the steps to the ballroom where a great table had been set.
The scent of the food never did reach Gisela, though she bent heavily over a roasted meat and inhaled with all of her might. But then, could Gisela ever remember smelling anything in a dream?
The room was given a red cast so deep that the Master nearly blended into the background. This glow was given by the crimson chiffon that hung from the impossibly high windows to the left side of the room as well as the same chiffon that had been tied to each chandelier. At that far end of the room, behind the Master, was a stage with three long bolts of yet more crimson chiffon dividing the area into three distinct sections.
This was where the violinists were to stand.
She took her seat beside a rotund woman bedazzled in diamonds and feathers who twisted her gloved hands endlessly and Gisela knew her name in an instant. This was Claudette Reynolds. She would dine with the Master of the house, claim to win him over with her charm and her wit, and get out alive by some miracle or twist of fate. That was how the story went. But as Gisela choked on Claudette’s perfume and nearly went deaf form the way she laughed too hard at the Master’s jokes, she knew that account to be a fabrication of pride.
Politely, Gisela excused herself, though no one seemed to notice her at all. She hadn’t touched her food and neither had anyone else? Afraid of poison, perhaps? Or, like scent, had Gisela ever seen anyone ever consume anything in a dream? The thought passed through Gisela’s mind and left her without vestige and she continued on her journey around the ball room, the indistinct din of conversation behind her.
Behind the crimson chiffon were windows of stained glass, though she was hard pressed to discern the exact design that they held. Like smoke, the shapes shifted and changed almost as quickly as she could grasp them -- sometimes quicker. Outside the windows she could see the barest hint of trees beyond the clearing of the house, blurred by heavy, soundless rain.
Somewhere behind Gisela, Claudette laughed too loud and at a pitch high enough to split ear drums. She didn’t turn to see the woman and instead followed the parameter of the room towards the stage. Behind the backdrop, violinists prepared their instruments, sweating profusely as they did so. But then, Gisela surmised, they had good reason to be.
One… two… where was the third? Gisela cast her gaze around and found nothing in the backstage area save for the two violinists and their things.
Well… this certainly made things interesting.
There came two sharp claps and the sound from behind the curtains died out suddenly. Gisela sunk into the darkness of backstage and watched as the two violinists glanced at each other, as though asking the other what to do. In the end, the action of moving forward seemed to be the lesser of two evils and they stepped through the chiffon curtain to play.
Like the scent of food, the shapes in the windows, and the sounds of conversation around her, she was unable to grasp the exact tune and cadence of the sound, but she knew that it was beautiful. The Master of the house always employed the most prominent of entertainers though how he managed this despite his reputation was yet another mystery attributed to the man.
From only feet behind, Gisela could see the violent shaking of the two musicians who had been left to play. Beyond them, dinner guests twitched nervously and glanced at the Master. They were unable to see his face, as he had turned his chair fully around to see the violinists play. And perhaps this was as much to torment the guests as it was to torment the musicians for Gisela, suddenly recalling a memory as though she had buried it, the Master was not unknown to slaughter whole dinner parties should he be displeased.
But Gisela could see his face.
A smile wasn’t the right word for his expression, but it was the closest approximation that Gisela had for it. It was just… too wide. With perhaps too many teeth. And it didn’t reach his eyes, which only stared blankly ahead. His smile never dropped. Not once.
Gisela felt that if the dinner guests knew that then they would certainly panic.
His eyes flitted over to her for a moment, almost by accident. But then he held her gaze, still smiling. He winked at her after a moment and then turned his attention back to the concert until the music dwindled off and faded away into terrible, hanging silence.
Everyone and every thing stood still. Waiting, breath held, for the Master to do something. Anything. Even lashing out would have been better than sitting there as though the concert was still going. Gisela melted further back into the shadows and passed from backstage out into the dining room proper.
Everything really had stopped. Even the flicker of the candles held still. The only thing betraying that time hadn’t actually stopped was the steady rise and fall of the Master’s chest. The cadence of his breathing, deafening in the cavernous and silent ball room. Gisela’s softly slippered feet didn’t make a sound as she left the ballroom, though she could feel the Master’s eyes burning into the back of her skull. She knew that, even as she watched her leave, he was still smiling that terrible toothy smile.
The doors to the ballroom didn’t make a sound as she pushed them open. It took a moment for Gisela’s eyes the adjust to the sudden light, but when she did she froze. Hanging above the grand staircase, gently swinging in an unknown breeze, was the third violinist. His abdomen has been sliced from pubis to clavicle, spilling out his innards in a sloppy, greasy mess on the marble steps.
Behind her, someone screamed. And then another. And another. Soon a cacophony of terror rose a fever pitch. Guests spilled out of the dining room, the first of which being one Miss Claudette Reynolds who shoved, stomped, and otherwise bulldozed anyone who bothered to get in her way.
She got out alive by some miracle or twist of fate.
They shoved their way around Gisela who merely stood, a stone in the middle of the rush of people, staring at the man who hung from the lofty ceiling. It was only when everyone had finally fallen out of the building that she turned around to see the Master.
He had not moved, but his head had turned to fully face her. Still smiling that awful smile.
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Posted: Fri Mar 01, 2019 6:36 am
Therapy Session #4
Word Count -- 1136
“Do you have any recurring nightmares?”
Gisela shrugged, refusing to look Doctor Steven’s in the eyes. She hadn’t done so since she walked into the room, and she wasn’t about to start now. And she certainly wasn’t about to start speaking to her. Why bother? What was the point of spilling her guts to someone who was just going to leave her, right?
“You’re hesitant.”
Gisela remained silent and unmoving.
“Is it because you were left by your other therapists?”
Suddenly, as if without her permission, Gisela’s eyes shifted to meet Doctor Stevens. She was leaning forward, eyes intently upon the younger girl before her. Her lips were in a thin, concerned line as she watched Gisela, but the second Gisela looked at the Doctor, those thin, worried lips curled up into a small smile. Gisela must have worn her surprise clearly on her face, because next Doctor Stevens asked, “No one’s never mentioned that to you before, have they?”
Slowly, Gisela shook her head.
“And how did being dropped by your other therapists feel, Gisela?”
Gisela dropped her gaze and shifted in her seat, hands twisting in her lap nervously.
“Okay, let’s try something else.”
Great.
“I treat a lot of nonverbal patients. Sometimes, the lack of sleep from which they suffer leaves them no energy for speaking. And I know communicating is taxing for everyone. So, I’m putting a box of art supplies in front of you, and a stack of papers.” Gisela heard the objects hit the table between her and the Doctor and she looked up at them.
“Draw me something.”
Gisela was silent for a long time before she asked in a thin, weak, little voice, “what?”
“Whatever you want.”
Gisela was still for a moment, staring at the supplies, before she slid from her chair to kneel on the floor. While she worked, Doctor Stevens was silent save only for the scratching of her pen as she took notes and the steady ebb and flow of her breath.
In truth, Gisela didn’t have a plan when she began. She picked up a blue colored pencil and swatched it carefully on the corner of the page. Upon deciding that she liked it, Gisela took a few moments to select a color pallet based on that one color, laying them all out in chromatic order from warmest to coolest, ending in black. Once that was done, she began swatching the colors along the top of the page before flipping it over and beginning.
Shapes began to flicker across her vision as she worked. A bright, almost sickly yellow at the center of the page. A swirled nexus at the center of a bruise-colored page. She learned in art class years ago that a tissue-wrapped finger could blend colors, so she did that now, trying to eliminate the seams between blues and purples and greens. When she was finished, Gisela handed the page to Doctor Stevens without looking at her and hoisted herself back into her chair, quickly busying herself by picking at the weave of the armrest.
Doctor Stevens was quiet for a moment, probably inspecting the page, before she slipped it into Gisela’s file and asked, “did you know that color often times has deep psychological meaning, Gisela?”
Gisela shrugged.
“Fittingly enough, it’s called color psychology. We doctors are a very creative bunch.” Gisela huffed a small laugh through her nose, the corners of her mouth turning up in a small smile. “Red, for instance, is a very active color. When one of my patients colors using predominantly red, I know that they are feeling passionate about something. Now, that can be good or bad, and I’d have to look at the other colors. If they used green as well, I might guess that they were feeling extremely possessive of someone or something.”
“Or maybe they like christmas.”
“Yes… Or maybe they like christmas. Which is why I use these pictures as a starting point for discussions. Do you want to know what your picture tells me?”
“It’s just a bunch of colors…”
“Maybe…”
Gisela was silent again before she finally turned her gaze towards Doctor Stevens, who smiled slightly at her and took the eye contact as consent.
“At the center of your drawing there is this… bright orb of light. Sort of. It’s yellow, but has very green hues. So it’s not quite sunny or buttery, but rather… jaundice. I wonder if you aren’t referencing some kind of sickness with this color.”
Gisela said nothing, but didn’t look away.
“You ringed this jaundice color with magenta. I heard someone once say that magenta was a color that was kind of… between emotions. Sad, but not blue. Jealous but not green. Angry but not red. So that tells me that whatever sickness you’re referencing makes you feel a mixture of anger, sadness, and jealousy. Sad and angry that you’re sick, and envious of people who aren’t maybe?”
Doctor Stevens studied Gisela in their joined silence, but Gisela didn’t feel any of the tension that she had felt before when quiet settled over them.
“But then… you do have green, don’t you. A forest green, mixed with what looks like very royal blue and deep purple -- ”
“Indigo.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The pencil. It said indigo.”
“Oh. Well, indigo then. I’m sorry, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Can’t be very good at color psychology if you can’t tell the difference between color.” Gisela couldn’t make the statement sound mean, nor could she stop the smile from curling at the edge of her lips. Doctor Stevens grinned back, nodding gently.
“Well, I suppose not. That’s why I use it as a kind of a… first step. Indigo then. Indigo might suggest idealism or addiction, blue sadness or loyalty, and green envy or growth. However, you’ve covered it all with a thin veil of black, Gisela. Black has one meaning.”
“And that meaning is?”
“Secrecy.”
Now Gisela looked away.
“The three other colors have very contradicting meanings, yes, but… this whole page looks extremely… bruised. So I’m inclined to go with the negative meanings. You’re feeling envy and sadness… and an addiction to something. Maybe those previous feelings. But looking at the parts together as a whole… I’d say…”
Gisela watched as the Doctor thought, suddenly dreading that her absent doodles revealed too much.
“You feel that you’re very sick. And you hate it. This sickness takes up a central position in your life, and that sickness ripples out into your life, the way this bruised color ripples out to the whole page. You can hide the effects of that sickness very well but… the sickness that you feel you suffer and the discontent around that sickness, you feel, is very plain to see.
“How did I do?”
“I think our hour is up.”
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Posted: Fri Mar 01, 2019 6:37 am
Abandoned
Word Count -- 724
Noctua left Cinnabar’s office mechanically. Her joints clicked with each manipulation, sticking from some unknown friction that she was unable to lubricate. She had heard Cinnabar’s every word -- of course she had. It was simply that the words she had spoken passed through Noctua like she was a sive.
I am no longer capable of commanding anyone.
What the hell did that even mean? Of course Noctua had seen a change in Cinnabar’s disposition. She was shorter now, quicker to lash out and punish. She was more constantly on edge as well, as though awaiting an attack that only she could see coming. And while Noctua knew that it was for her own good -- she had seen how Cinnabar eyed all of the corrupted senshi under her as though plagued by impossible hunger -- she refused to accept it. For a long moment, the senshi stood outside of the closed door and watched the woodgrain. Cinnabar would open it. She would. She had to. She would open the door and gather Noctua in her arms and take it all back. She would call them all back and wipe clean everything that she had said.
They could help her. They could all work together to fix her. With the support of her subordinates, Cinnabar would recover. They could find a way to remove the creature that was attached to Cinnabar and free her. They would all go to a general sovereign first -- they were powerful for a reason. And then to Laurelite if they had no answers. Surely the queen would know what to do, right? With the whole negaverse at her back, Cinnabar wouldn’t have cause nor chance to fail. And she would get better. And then she would take them back. She would have to…
She would have to…
Noctua began to shake. Soft tremors at first, but sook her body was wracked by a horrible quaking that weakened her, and yet her locked joints refused to allow her to fall. Fear ripped through her like a terrible monster, rending her nerves like quivering flesh between its teeth to leave Noctua raw and unguarded. Her nails, brittle and weak from her deplorable sleeping habits, bit into the tough flesh of her palm and broke off beneath the pressure. Her face twisted in her despair and she continued to watch the door.
Waiting for it to open.
Hoping it would open.
Knowing that it would never open.
Not ever again.
Who knew how long Noctua stood at that door shaking. Passersby would tap her shoulder or ask her why she stood, but she neither moved now answered. Was she even able to? Did she remember speech? Noctua wasn’t so certain that she did…
Eventually, someone took her by the shoulders and led her away her away only to deposit her in another part of the citadel where she against stood motionless. Here, curious agents were fewer and farther between, and Noctua was left largely by herself save for a tragic young lieutenant who asked after Noctua only to be frightened off by the unholy howl that the action drew from Noctua’s throat. And once that dam was broken there was no stopping the flood that erupted from her lips. A cry so long and hard and wild that it frightened Noctua. She danced back from the lieutenant, as though trying to escape the sound that was crawling out of her throat, and tossed herself against the wall opposite her. The sound followed her, pinning her by the neck against the wall and continuing to draw itself out of her. An ink-black snake slithering out from between her teeth and over her lips. It hurt. The sound physically hurt her, but she could not stop it. Surely Cinnabar had heard it too, even all the way across the compound. Heard it and the agony twisting in the sound and would emerge to comfort Noctua. The door would open now, right? It had to.
My little shadow…
Your little shadow…
Noctua’s voice finally died from use and once the sound faded away her bones finally gave up, leaving her to collapse on the floor and against the wall, a sobbing and hysterical mess waiting for the door to open but knowing full well that if her fit didn’t draw Cinnabar out… nothing would.
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Posted: Fri Mar 15, 2019 11:18 am
Therapy Session #10
Word Count -- 963
Gisela walked into the office like a hurricane, before even the last patient had a chance to leave. She didn’t care. Her parents were behind her, apologizing for her sudden outburst, explaining that this was very unlike her and that usually she was a very patient girl. Doctor Stevens was quieting them both with kind words and of course she understood, it was alright. She thanked the previous patient for his work that day, trying to be the center of that poor souls world instead of Gisela’s current rampage. Gisela only vaguely heard it all happen behind her.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
Instead, she could feel the barely contained pain in ehr chest suddenly blossoming to life. A deep crimson poppy that she copied down onto the page that she nearly ripped in to in her haste to find it. Large fans of red edged in the center with yellow and lined in black. A center of black and yellow. Red and yellow and black.
Doctor Stevens had been right when she said that a few weeks ago. Color was important.
“Thank you, no I can handle it. I understand, of course.”
“She’s just -- ”
“She’s in crisis. And that’s fine. I’ll talk her down.”
“Thank you doctor.”
By now Gisela was loudly sobbing, tossing one poppy aside to begin another. No difference. The same poppy. Perhaps a little sloppier, but, in essence, the same.
Doctor Stevens came over and retrieved the first picture from the floor and regarded it for a moment before she turned her watchful gaze to Gisela.
“Take a breath Gisela.”
How? When Gisela tried to breath normally the feeling got caught in her throat like a lump, and that was just plain old breathing. How the hell did Doctor Stevens expect her to take in a long breath when she choked on the simple shallow breathing.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
“Gisela.”
She couldn’t even speak. Gisela’s teeth were clenched so hard that she was certain that her teeth would break. Anything that she wanted to say go caught behind the breath that refused to dislodge itself from her throat.
The poppies were slowly looking less and less like actual poppies as Gisela gradually lost control of her gross motor functions. Petals bled into one another as her movements became more and more erratic. Page after page fluttered to the ground as Gisela crashed through her drawings. Soon the petals were only wide swatches of red pictuated with yellow and black at seemingly random places and it was all Gisela could do not to completely lose herself into the hurricane within her.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
Cinnabar’s words echoed in the cavern of her skull, forever tumbling over one another until all she could hear was that deep, rich growl of her General’s voice purring sadly, the only sound over the din of Gisela’s own panic.
The sound of tearing paper cut through everything, freezing Gisela in place as she stared down at her most recent page. It took a moment to understand what had happened, but when she finally realized that the force of her own drawing had caused the page to rip.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
“Gisela.”
She left me. She left me. She left me.
Gisela was still for one heart beat more and then her carefully constructed dam shattered. Before she could chose to make any movements, her body lashed out, hurling art supplies across the room with all of the violence and ferocity that her frail body could manage.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
Was it a thought that repeated itself in her mind or was it a living thing that she had spoken life in to? There was no way to know what was in her head and what was real anymore, as shadows across the room took advantage of her weakness and twisted from the darkness to claim her. One thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t going to survive this. There was no way. Her heart was going to explode from grief or the nightmares that screamed awake would drag her into their horrible dominions, or she would twist herself into an early grave. This rage, this sadness, this impenetrable sorrow would take her with it. Without the power of the negaverse, however, her wildfire roared to life in one instant and sputtered out the next.
When had she ended up across the room? She had begun by the window, where Doctor Steven kept the art supplies, and now she was by her bookshelves, nearly twenty paces away. Gisela panted in her exertion, cast her frantic gaze at Doctor Stevens, and was silent for an instant, mouth wrapping around her terrible mantra.
She left me. She left me. She left me.
“Who left you, Gisela?”
So she had been speaking?
“Cinnabar.”
Gisela could live a thousand years and never once understand why she told Doctor Stevens the name that she had. Gisela could live a thousand years and never forget the look of understanding that settled over Doctor Stevens’ face after a moment of surprise.
“I had… heard… that she was reassigning her subordinates, yes.”
The panic melted from Gisela’s bones as the situation settled over her like warm calm, and under it she folded. Sob wracked her body as she crumpled to the floor, relief flooding through her as she realized what this meant, exactly.
Doctor Stevens’ crossed the office and gathered Gisela up in her arms, whispering her title into Gisela’s ear. And Gisela responded, “Noctua.”
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Posted: Mon Jan 20, 2020 8:01 am
Bitter Warmth
Word Count -- 600
Gisela hated the cold. It was already hard enough to keep her body at normal temperatures, and heat-leeching snow didn’t help at all. She lay under a mountain of seven blankets at night, two of which were electric. She wore a minimum of five layers at all times just to keep what precious body heat she had close to her skin. More often than not she was shivering, teeth chattering painfully in her skull. Her parents didn’t often let her out of the house when the weather was this bitter.
So when school was canceled due to the absolute and insidious blanket of snow that had been plopped on top of the city, Gisela was more than happy to lay under her blankets and watch the sunrise through her window.
Hell, it almost looked warm.
The scent of hot maple syrup pulled her from her den after a long and lazy morning. Downstairs, her mother was making pancakes, no doubt requested by her father. She smiled softly at the Gisela who slumped into the room, exhausted but unable to sleep regardless.
“How was your night, sweetheart,” her father asked, kissing the top of her head. Not how did you sleep. How was your night? She loved her parents always but in those little details, she truly felt blessed to have them.
“It was okay,” Gisela rasped, leaning into her father’s affections. He grunted in response and ruffled what might have been hair had she not shaved it the night before.
“No nightmares,” her mother questioned gently, setting the plate down before her.
“No sleep.”
“Not better.”
Gisela didn’t argue with her mother on that point.
“It seems like your sleep is getting worse, Ella,” her father gruffed around a mouthful of food. Gisela only shrugged and nibbled on a forkful of breakfast.
“Maybe you should talk to Dr. Stevens about that?”
Gisela only shrugged. Granted it would be easier to talk to her than her parents. Given certain… aspects of the good Doctor’s personal life.
“When is your next appointment,” her father questioned gently, not knowing that his previous statement had been about all Gisela could handle.
“I’m going to check the mail.”
She left before either parent could stop her. And even though he cold was deeply oppressive, it was better than being interrogated about her insomnia.
But she wasn’t met with cold. When she opened the door and stepped out, her bare feet were met with blood-warm air. The snow beneath her toes felt… warm. Almost hot. Gisela bent down to see if it wasn’t some trick of sensation but… her fingers confirmed the truth. Even though the snow retained it glistening white, and even though it melted in her hands, it still felt like sun-warmed sand.
Further along, the driveway yielded no more answers. The temperature didn’t dip down. The snow didn’t lose its heat. Gisela went back inside with a questioning on her face that her parents asked after but did not pursue. And for the rest of the day, Gisela looked for reasons to go outside, where she could check and see if the weather had changed. She even asked her parents to go outside and fetch things for her, asking after the cold when they got inside. They remarked on the bitterness of the chill and snow, which only left Gisela all the more puzzled.
The next day, however, all was back to normal, and when she left for school she cursed the cold and the snow anew. Perhaps more now for the taste of that magical warmth in the middle of winter.
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Posted: Wed Jul 12, 2023 11:02 pm
Ţ̵̡̥̞̼̜͇̲̟̗̍̅̄̈́́̐̾̃́͝h̵̡̟͖̪͚̫̩͓̯̰̔͗̈̿̀͐͛̋͌̈́ë̶̳̳͎̠̰̜̯͉͖̘̭̓̃̊̀͘̚ ̷͉͕̤͚͍̜͖͕̟̬̟̬͔̝͛̈́̅̇͌̄͋͋̄͌̾̽̕C̵̮̫͓̦̥͚̩̟͒́̒́͒͐͋ͅö̴̢̮̫͚̖͔̱̪̘̖͖̣̥̥̯́́̽̔̈̌̎̂́͘͝n̴͈̤͚̹̦͉̜̪̩͓̖̬̤̞̣̊̄́̀̂̀͐͆͘͘s̵̢̛̝̭̗̮͍̰̭̗̪̖͑͗̂͛̂̐̍̾͜͝͝ě̵̠͉̭͙͕̬̦͔̑̓̎̎̔̈͌̊̎̕r̶̳̪͈̼̲̂̎̔̈́̈́̃̓͋̀̏̓v̵̰͊̈́̉̃͋̀̋͌͒̽̃͘͝a̵͕͓̣̔̀ṱ̷̡̡̺̼͙͔̯͉̱̦̬̪͍̊̈́̀̕o̵̡͈̥͍͕̣͎̼̻͕̤͒͋́͜͜͠r̴̜͉̦̐̂̔̊͐̑́͗͝y̸̖̱͕̺̝͎͖̥̻̖͍̣̆͑ ̵̜͕̼̘͓̰̺͂̊̆͛́̑̍͘͜͝ͅf̶̛̭̖̝̩͙̦͖̫̝̆̽̀͋̂̇̆͒̋̈̈́̀̎ó̴͇̰̼̯̠͓̲̥̲͉̯̮̤̎̓̏̅͗̅̒̔̅́̚̚r̸͓̟̜̺͉̻͍̯̳̭̅̊̊̋̚ ̴̛̛̳̋̋̉̍̈͋̀̈́̉̓̚͝U̸͇̪̗̙̬̟͉͌͆́͐̀̆͘n̷̨̨̥̠͖͈̯̜̻̻͎͉͈̹̰̽͋̇̀̾̀̍̈́͂̀͛͝w̴̧̦̣̭̺̬̥̲̝̩̞͕̎͌͂̾̃̕a̴̡̢̱͙̦͇̳̜͎̱̼͇̳̝͂̽̊ń̴͚͚͂͐͝ͅt̸͚̖̣̙̬̻̳͙̖̆́̇̈́̃͂̓̋̚͜͝ͅe̶͖̝͈̻̭̹͔̠̳̅͐̏́̍͌́̆̑ḑ̶̧̮̤̼̮̙̩̹́ ̴̡̮̱͉̽̂̃͗̔͗̇̔̇͛͝͠G̶̢̡̺̜̹̳͓̥̩̞͈͚̖̔̄̈̏i̴̡̢̺͖͙͉̮̳̣̠̖̮̠̯̙͐͝r̸̺̝̠̭̺̩͕̤̖̭͆̀̓͝ḷ̸̭̗̠͖͖̫̆̎͌̂̽̓̋̍̽̇̈́̋̚͘͜͠ş̸̪͎̱̻̘̖̲̯̖̦͋͂͊̉̌͑̈̐̓͑͆̀̕͠͝ͅͅ ̷̨̢̪͉̟̩̗̘̪̦̬̥̥̇̔͗̇͗̾̑̀͑͂͆̓͂̕͜-̵̳͉̾̍̈͑̈͑͗̌͐̇͌͝͝-̵̺̽͌̉͊̐́̂̂̈́ ̴̭̼̭̣͇̳̌̇̃̏̈́͂̆̀͘͜͝T̴̢͍̖͚̜͔̜̥̪̗̤̲͊̈̓̆̓͐͂̏͊̔̆̒̒ḩ̴̪͚̰̳̝̾̓̏̽́̊̈́̆̽ͅë̴̡̧̧̬͓̟̠̜̻̭̫́̋̾̂͒̀͛̅ͅ ̵̡̰̜̦͈̟̜̩͍͚̈́̒͆̓̆̓͘Ą̶̭͖̪͛̆͗̀̍̏̄b̸̛̬̼̻̹͉̥̳̲͕̝̻̲͗͋͂́͐̉̅͜y̵̡͎̗̱̹̳͇̼̬͍͔̫̟͒̂͆͂̎̏̒͛̍̈̿̊̋͜ͅs̴̗̿̔ş̷̛̣͕̱̮̈̌̈́̈̆̓̑̏̕
Word Count -- 643
Somewhere beneath the house... deep beneath the house... there yawned a pit of unfathomable depth. It had been deemed The Abyss by some unnamed and deeply uncreative soul. Gisela was unsure how and when she had arrived at this place, and yet she knew that it had been a conscious decision nonetheless. Travel was a curious thing in dreams, she supposed. One didn't ever really journey somewhere. They simply... happened there. They may walk or drive or ride, but the passage of the world around them was blurred and hazy in a way that they only were in dreams. but dream-logic aside, she hadn't appeared there. She had arrived. Arrived in a cavern so deep that it should have been black as pitch, and yet was cast in an unnervingly blue haze. When Gisela looked up, she could not see the ceiling of the cavern. Below her feet, polished hardwood slats intermixed with rough stone, almost as though this cavern evolved from an actual room in the house. And for all Gisela or anyone else knew, it had. She could not see the walls around her and yet she could feel them press against her like a physical restraint.
She walked through the blue haze for an indeterminate amount of time, her footfalls echoing through the emptiness like an ill omen. She knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she should be cold, this far underground and clad only in her sleep clothes, and yet she was not. Another curious mechanic of dreams. Fear and anger was felt as acutely as their waking cousins, and yet physical sensations remained out of reach. But it was for the best. Gisela had been in caves, and was not a fan of the damp chill that permeated the whole complex of tunnels. Somewhere around her she could hear a breeze whistle through the cave, curious for how far underground she was supposed to be (or was that a breath?), and while the small gust lifted the hem of her tee shirt every so slightly, she didn’t feel it ghost across her abdomen.
Another trick of dreaming, her walk did not so much culminate as it did simply end. One moment she was staring at an endless path of wood and stone, and the next she had stopped at the lip of the abyss before her.
As uncreative as the moniker was, she supposed that it was at least fitting. About the size of her high school gym, it gaped before her. The opening was ragged, but vaguely round, and dropped off into a sheer cliff into true darkness. So dark, in fact, that there was no sign of the walls of the pit, even near the lip of the opening. It was like the earth opened up and swallowed all light, leaving only a pool of tar-deep blackness in its wake. The Abyss appeared, to those unaware of it’s nature, as a simple black puddle. She peered over the edge, her perception tilting and pitching with vertigo, and tried as she had so many times before to see the bottom of the pit. She had yet to find it.
From deep within the pit there came a strange sound. Something that sounded like the groan of the earth itself shifting, heaving like sobs as it did so. Something dry and brittle scrapped against the walls and floor of The Abyss, seeming to drag itself along the rough terrain around it. Gisela kicked a pebble into the dark below her, trying to listen for it when it struck the bottom of the pit. The sound never came, but the groan petered off into a whine and then fell silent. And in that silence Gisela was able to appreciate how horribly loud that groan had been.
The strange scraping continued.
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Posted: Thu Jul 13, 2023 1:03 am
Too Good to Be True
Word Count -- 770
Noctua had retired to one of the many training rooms in the castle to mull over the proposal her General had made. It seemed fitting, to remain powered as she weighed her options. While this possibility would primarily be rectifying a civilian weakness, it would still be a Negaverse operation. And so, because Noctua would be the one sitting through the procedure, Noctua should be the one to decide what was best. Noctua would be the one to sit in the training room, shed her fuku’s robe, boots, and stockings so that she stood only in her black leotard, and began a slow sequence of positions on a mat that she kept in a corner.
The offer Benitoite had made seemed, in a phrase, too good to be true. The negaverse had this creature… this… thing… that Noctua could simply allow to attach to her brain and everything would be solved for her. It would work within the very center of who she was, continuously, and flip whatever switches were necessary to make her sleep and hold down food. It would, in a word, cure her. In so far as she could be cured, she supposed.
Or rather, that was what they anticipated happening.
In reality, all they truly knew was that the youmaglia would make her a “better soldier for Metallia.” Whatever that meant. And, if Noctua was being honest, she wasn’t totally in love with how open for interpretation that was. What if the creature inside her brain started rewiring other things. What if it shut down parts of her and turned on others. What if it made her some kind of… mindless machine? What if it didn’t even happen all at once? What if Noctua lost parts of herself without even knowing it? What if it did more than help her sleep? What if it sent her into a coma?
Noctua shifted on her yoga mat, holding her downward dog as she attempted to stop the spiral in its tracks. Remember what Doctor Stevens had said. What if it works? Think about that. List the things that you have to gain from this gamble.
Obviously, Noctua would be sleeping again. She smoothly passed through her chaturanga and moved into upward facing dog before stepping up into warrior. She’d be stronger if she slept. Healthier. Might even put on some weight. Maybe even muscle. She’d be smarter too. Her brain would be rested and ready to tackle whatever puzzle she threw at it. Her temper would be more even, which would make her more effective in the field. She wouldn’t be frantic and erratic.
She’d be happier.
Now move into plans if things go wrong, she reminded herself in her Doctor’s voice. What can be done to protect her?
Well, obviously, Benitoite wouldn’t have even suggested it if it wasn’t as safe as possible. So she could rely on him. And, as he had said, the youmaglia could be drawn out and dusted if it didn’t help. So if she did begin behaving strangely, he would rescue her. This wasn’t a trap, she wasn’t being led down a path where she would not be able to escape. If the medicine didn’t work, she simply wouldn’t take it, just like her normal meds.
She slipped through the warrior poses and then fell back into downward dog.
Would it hurt? Did that matter? If it did hurt, then it would only be for a moment, and she stood to gain so much from the momentary pain. Would they give her an anesthetic? Did one exist? If it went into her brain, then how did it get there? Was it a magical osmosis, or something more barbaric? Would they open her skull up? Drill a hole between her eyes and drop it in?
Back into the warrior sequence, this time on the other side of her body.
Don’t be silly, Gisela, she chided herself silently. She could reach into her chest right this second and draw out her own literal soul. What reason did she have to believe that this wouldn’t be something similar? And yes, the idea did conjure memories of that scene from The Matrix, where that horrible cyborg centipede burrowed into Neo’s navel but… that was just cinema. Besides that, Benitoite wouldn’t allow her to suffer unduly. And any pain that there would be would be well worth the gain.
Downward dog, chaturanga through to upward dog, and then release into savasana.
She’d talk to Doctor Steven’s about it at her session that week but… Noctua already knew her answer.
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