My surreal immersion - my deeply entrenched concentration is interrupted as my psyche is extracted from the book of memories. My precious time of investment has been disturbed – aborted. It's over. The volume bends until its spine snaps and flinders. The front and back of the hardcover tear themselves to shreds, then scatter its blood-written pages of skin aloft the ocean's surface. Submerging them in the blackened crimson waters, causing them to break apart and dissolve.
Why did the book destroy itself?
Was it to ensure the memories can never be revisited? Or is it a visual metaphor for the Sincistic Mal's voluntary self-destruction? For the sole aim of ensuring V-syvious's birth, he resorted to self-harm and faked his death. And I am foreordained to become him in my next life. If Vonplex was indeed telling the truth, then he knows how my story will end – my fate.
No doubt he already knows V-syvious's as well.
He has orchestrated everything right down to the minor details. Methodically using himself as a guarantor – like a chess piece. I can understand why the Wa-omme were so hell-bent on opposing his controversial strategies; as well as harboring a personal, yet obsessive vendetta against him – against me. There is no use in trying to deny or make any more excuses, because the truth of my reality has become too obvious. I can't reject it nor play ignorant to it anymore.
I am V-syvious, Vonplex, and Alex.
And we all share the same soul.
I am the one who committed atrocities against countless others – innocent or not. I am the one who killed them all, discriminately. I am the one who resorts to extraordinary measures to attain my self-centered goals. I am the selfish one and at fault.
It is about time I take responsibility for my actions – or maybe not.
I am the one who created this ordeal.
Me.
We.
That oversized wa-omme, the one who was nicknamed "the colossus," seemed far too familiar for my liking. It can't be him, right?
Right?
He became the enemy of my first incarnation. Before the Sincistic Mal slaughtered the masses when he was on Forrine, he briefly mentioned there was someone he knew who was considered a dear friend to him, named Enjin, and compared him to Sillhaine.
Who was he? This Enjin.
The mad entity also mentioned my name, and even went as far as to claim that I'm V-syvious's second incarnation. So these memories stored in my subconscious aren't a coincidence, then.
He even reminisced about the time when he was human and traveled with a companion. He reiterated my past. But why is he using the name Enjin instead of Reven? He must be mistaken - or lying.
If the past version of myself tried to analyse that reiteration, I would have thought it was impossible for him to have known such personal moments. Only Reven and I knew of our conflicting sentiments - our shared pain. The Sincistic Mal brought up my private experiences, which make the probability of him being my next reincarnation more plausible. I take a deep breath and huff. I stare at the torn, sanguine heavens, then smirk to myself, and lower my gaze.
This is so fucked up.
The Sincistic Mal beckoned my name from the void, and from across the bounds of time. He insinuated that I was their second reincarnation when I was but a spectating participant. He even said the divine darkness chose to aid me in this current lifetime. Was that the reason why I felt comforted by the dark instead of being afraid of it like most people?
Those nights when the visitor would frequent my bedroom in the wake of dead hour when I was very young - the shapeless shadows that kept me company when I was homeless - and the dark manifestation possessing the standalone bookcase.
The times when I used to watch the stars in awe when I was unable to sleep - and how I longed to touch them.
The umbra's quiet serenity tempered my isolating, chaotic thoughts. The darkness has always been there for me. It became a recurring theme throughout my short life, during both ordinary and stressful periods.
A sudden spell of nausea interrupts my pondering. A rushing sensation upsurges through my throat, barely giving me time to react. I hastily bend forward as my jaw slackens. Stygian blood gushes out from my mouth and into the sea, polluting the waters further. The blood spreads and consumes every bookcase; however, in the midst of the ever-expanding swell of contamination, the starving, edged hands and shrieking disproportionate faces dissolve, as though they were melted away by acid. The horned figure steps out from the standalone bookcase in front of me - crippling it in his emergence, and letting it sink in shambles.
He towers over me, menacingly, and narrows his infernal eyes.
From what I gathered from the dreams, Vonplex wielded two divine elements, electricity and darkness; whereas V-syvious and I inherited one of each. When he took notice of his own distinction in appearance and compared himself to Vonplex, it became clear to him. He even pondered the theory of genetic dilution.
Authenticity is impossible to replicate, and yet if you try to do so, all you will get is a weak imitation.
The dismal manifestation of him marches through me, without a care. Throughout all of those years I had spent living on earth, I never would have guessed their memories were stored in my subconscious. This macabre library is my personal archive.
Up until now, I have lived my life not remembering a damn thing thanks to my so-called bloody amnesia, but if I started to recollect them when I was on earth, it wouldn't have served any purpose other than to demolish my faith. Giving me nothing to hate or blame - nothing for me to cling onto. If I had known the truth back then, I would have begun to yearn for a past and a future beyond my reach. Depressing me even further. Driving me mad. Making me want to end it all. End the present. But now, it serves a monumental purpose. Instead of giving up on life, it has become a tool for me to use, so I can fight for it.
I'm not the only one with this brand of amnesia. Almost all of humanity is asleep, except for a select few who honestly believe in reincarnation.
You were right.
You were right all along, Reven.
Reincarnation is real. I'm sorry I was too hard-headed.
I should have believed you sooner – when you were still alive.
I should have been more open-minded, but I wasn't.
It is truly an ironic twist of fate, isn't it? Both of my incarnations fought against his race for different reasons, and yet, I am the only one who ends up befriending him. Vonplex certainly has been busy weaving his web of fate and has plenty to show for it.
I knew Reven's compassion was too good to be true, and it was foolish of me to let the novelty of it sweep me along like that. He saved my life when I was nothing more than a stranger to him, and he protected me to the very end. I shouldn't have fallen for his kindness.
None of it was real, but there is a part of me that refuses to part ways with this lie.
I remember when he questioned whether his amnesia was a blessing or not. It wasn't. In hindsight, I was the hindrance, and he was the blessing to me. And he shall forever remain so. I will never forget what he did for me.
You don't realise how precious life is until the threat of almost losing it becomes real.
I look at my bare, bloodied feet, and a stray tear races down my cheek. I also wish I didn't know what those hallucinations were alluding to. A thick wet blotch lands upon the slightly crooked bridge of my nose, stealing the attention from the evanescent shed of emotion, and paints my skin with a foul odor. The surgical incision in the sky enlarges and develops a darker shade of crimson. Palpitating veins branch out further from the jagged perimeter of the horizon's wound, as it is undesirably stretched further.
Gargantuan hands grab the raw borders of the wide-open incision and slowly peel back the sky, releasing a rain of blood. Drenching me entirely from head to toe, although I was covered in it already.
Her hum of contentment grows more audible, and the volume of her tonal base rips through the waves, vocalising her undeniable engrossment. Vibrating through my marred subconscious. A black eye emerges from inside the expanding wound and peers down into my inner world, studying me. A kind touch rests on my shoulder. I turn around to see myself again – and my heart aches. More silent tears are brought to my eyes. They have lost their exuberance, even when I hardly had any in the first place. Jaded. Listless. Crying blood. My hairline has an impeccable bleeding red line traced around the outer margin of fuzz. Rounding my shaved and peeled scalp.
Despite my suffering, I manage to show myself a kind and sympathetic smile.
"There isn't much time left. You must hurry." I nod and resume my pursuit. I sprint down the aisle as the shadow veers into the next. Upholding my current pace. Contending with his hurried strides while keeping myself aligned on the straight and narrow before taking a left turn.
The victims of the flood rematerialize into inconceivable shapes. Begrimed by darkness. Covered in what is seen to be thick tar. Dripping and heavily coated hands shoot out from the bookcases, twisting and snapping as they begin to undergo another metamorphosis. Their faces dehumanize and morph into gruesome, mutilated visages, shining bleak, ashen rays from their cracked glass optics. They lash out like crazed, rabid animals. Their uneven needle-like nails repeatedly catch my skin, etching crosshatched lines into my bare flesh.
The trapped wailing spirits of the demised Wa-omme from Vonplex's timeline yearn to take me with them to the other side, to their Esseden. If I were given the option to go with them when I was living on the streets, I probably might have let them take me. But now, it's different – and my mind is already made up. No more excuses. No more self-wallowing.
Yes - I was once an enemy of the Wa-omme's Esseden, and unavoidably opposed other members of their race in my first life, but I became friends with one of them in this one. Even if the authenticity of our friendship is one-sided, I will find a way to save his soul and fulfill my promise, no matter the consequences.
What truly matters is what I choose to do right now.
I want to fight back and take back my control. And show this sadistic piece of shit what I'm made of. As long as I remain mindful of the defiled and corrupted Wa-omme's reach. They won't be able to take me.
"Please hurry." The disembodied voice of my mirrored self reminds me again. There should be another volume somewhere – or something to at least commence the next memory phase.
If not in the guise of a book, then what else could it be?
Then the isle encloses around me. Pushing each possessed row on both sides inwards, towards one another. Closing the space. Up ahead, I see the shadow merging with another detached bookcase at a dead end, same as before. I keep running.
But why does it have to be a dead end, though?
Why choose a standalone bookcase? Is it a metaphor for something?
Or is it because they are the only ones that are unoccupied and not haunted?
And then it clicks.
These other bookcases are his haunting memories. And the dead ends are – literal - perhaps? Or is it because each volume has to come to an end at some point? Death and survival have been recurring themes in his memories.
Unable to slow down, I run straight through the bookcase itself and into the blackness.
I bring myself to a staggering discontinuity.
Where the hell am I?
Is this where he disappears off to whenever he merges? Or am I just inside the bookcase itself?
"Hello!" I call out.
There is no echo. I can't see or sense anything. The pressure of this place feels thick – almost suffocating. I touch my throat, feeling it constrict ever so slightly. It's as if I am in the void itself.
"Not yet." A voice finally responds, one that has now become familiar to me.
"V-syvious?"
I am thrust backwards and extracted from the fabric of darkness. Now, I am standing before the same bookcase, with a leathery jet-black book in my hand, made from the same revulsive materials as before. Just like the last one. I need to hurry. There isn't much time left. I flick through the first couple of pages, unbothered to read the contents page, and begin reading the first chapter immediately. I land on the first chapter of the book.
The procedure.