A Hotel Room
...
Xander blinked, then again, and again. It was a strange feeling, as if some veil had been lifted, and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he'd opened his eyes and seen the world as it was. As if he'd spent the last eternity having his mind melted by a blue screen, just to have it suddenly shut off, and to have himself shunted back into reality; a reality so far removed from whatever dream he'd had that he wondered which was real.
The cold moonlight drifted lazily into the dark room, painting his new reality in an indigo haze, and bringing the truth to light.
He was kneeling on a bed he didn't recognize, and there, beneath him, was a woman: a woman with fair, milk-coffee skin and hair like smooth cream. She was once beautiful, but that beauty had been tarnished. The face that was fair, the skin which was unblemished, and the breasts which were as round, bountiful and motherly as the Earth itself had all been assaulted by something unspeakable. Her face was paler than the light that dared enter the desecrated space, her empty eyes reflecting nothing but the darkness around her, and her cheeks standing locked in an expression so anguished that he could all-but hear the screams. Her body, full, feminine, and fertile as the soil had been sown by some devilish rake, with blood being the only harvest; the welts of black bruises the only fruit of the season.
Her nakedness left the beauty and beastly sight bare, sanctity and desecration, holiness and evil, virtue and sin all contained within a single portrait- a picture so horrible that no mere man could stand the sight of it.
-But Xander could. He stared at the woman, examined her flesh, pondered on the deeper meaning of the brushstrokes made with red. He was enamored with it, obsessed with it, and couldn't dare look away. Deep inside him, yes, he could feel something writhing, wailing, and slamming against the walls of his soul. These, he recognized, were the emotions he ought to feel, the proper response of a man.
-But Xander could no longer see them as a part of himself. These emotions were nothing more than the clinging memories of a dream which would fade not long after waking up. Whatever this woman was to "him", to Xander, she was nobody. Just a woman, perhaps less than that.
-Yes, that's right. This was no woman. This was a corpse. A bag of flesh and bones in the crude shape of the Madonna.
As he turned his attention away from those memories of emotion, he became aware that he was caressing her- no, that isn't right. He became aware that he was caressing "its" face. And there, he saw, was a new stroke of a brush. In the blue light, the blood which covered his fingers looked almost-violet, and the situation became clear.
The result was emptiness. Stillness brought about not by serenity, but by the clashing of two equal and opposing forces, an apparent stillness which belies the subtle quakes of the titans beneath it.
Stillness...
Quiet...
Something inside him caressed his mind, as if to assure him, 'Stillness is the sign of a mind awake. Peace is the result of wisdom.'
He snapped awake again. The wall that pressed against his bare bottom was all that kept him upright. He reached for his face, as if making sure his body was still his- that his face was familiar, and it was- until he removed his hand, and the sickly stains of blood stuck there like the worst kind of grime. But, if nothing else, his mind was still again, he was at peace once more, and could now consider his options.
He was a murderer. Although certainly insane, and without any memories to confirm or deny his guilt, his still and quiet mind assured him there was no point to the law, or to justice. These things were arbitrary, and concerning himself with the opinions of other men would only lock him down. His concerns were and should only be for himself: he was innocent, and so had every right to act as such.
Even so, while his mind had been freed, his body was burdened by the actions that were forced upon it, and the men of the world had no interest in such nuance. He would need to cover-up his body's crimes; he would need to dispose of "it".
-But gazing at it again only made him want the opposite. He wanted to keep it, to have it, to hold it, to...
No. These were the dreams of a mind asleep. Dreams that must be disposed with, along with the evidence.
With his mind quiet as a mouse, and still as a clear sky, his body hoisted it in its arms, and guided it to the balcony, gazing out into the wet and foggy night. He couldn't help but take one final look at the horrible picture, and he found it gazing back at him. While it saw nothing, it seemed at the same time to stare into the deepest parts of him, and to look into the eyes of each conflicting emotion...
Unable to bear the confrontation, he let go, and watched as it tumbled deep into the fog, disappearing without a sound into the great nothingness below.
He walked inside, his soul fighting to maintain his composure, but the great titans trembled again, bringing him to his knees as all his mind, body, and soul crumpled under the weight. He forced his mind to be still, to be calm, and hobbled his way to the bathroom, leaning on every available surface, and leaving a trail of violet stains behind him.
In the yellow light, all his crimes were clear, his hands and face painted red, and every part of his body coated in moisture, whether belonging to himself, to her, or to the night. His mind trembled again, and anxious to make it stop, he scrubbed desperately to take the blood from his hands, the moisture from his body, and the emotions from his heart.
-But the blood remained. No matter how hard he scrubbed, or how cold or hot the water, it remained, and with each attempt the fractures of his mind grew, and splintered, and threatened to bring his whole being with it.
He slammed his fists against the counter, and the first thought that came to his mind was that great nothingness, the infinite abyss from the balcony to the ground, and how easy it would be to follow her-
'Peace is the goal of all mankind.'
Xander listened.
'If guilt drives madness, throw it away. If love brings worry, dispose of it. All things which fail to bring satisfaction are themselves unsatisfactory. Man is not meant to live in pain, so don't allow yourself to be moved by the sweet words of martyrdom.'
He looked up, into the mirror, and found there the image of his own nakedness, and the marks of his own shame.
'Find peace, Xander. Find contentment.'
"Where?"
"In yourself," replied his reflection. "Where else could inner peace be found?"
"But-but that's where the pain is."
The reflection smiled, "Good, then you've marked your prey."
It reached out towards him, and in his hand was a dagger. It was obsidian, curved like a cat's claw, and with all the bloodthirst of its inspiration.
He took it with shaking hands, "This... this will bring me peace?"
"It will. And once you cross the veil, you'll be reunited with the one you love."
"The one I... am I even capable of that? Of loving someone?"
"Love is what you make it, but it can only exist when you try."
His hands were shaking, as was every part of him. But, with bloodstained, trembling hands, he gripped the knife with both hands, held it out, and hesitated for naught but a moment before plunging it into his own chest. He felt no pain, nor shock: only emptiness, as if all the air in his lungs, and all the bones and blood of his body had evaporated. His vision blurred and darkened, the light above flickered on and off, and all he saw as he collapsed were two violet eyes staring back...
...
When Xander woke up, he was limp on the bathroom floor, naked as he ever was, and in the dark, the pale light of morning tip-toed like a thief through the open door. He laid there, still as a corpse, as if his body weren't his own but a limp puppet removed of its strings. Eventually, however, the puppet found its joints and made strings for itself, pulling off the floor, drenched in its own sweat, and for no reason except that it was what the strings pulled him to do.
He reached for his memories, but found them pulling away from him each time, and was unbothered. He did not thirst for knowledge, or for anything. He was at peace, content.
There was one feeling, one thirst too rebellious to be suppressed, to be cast into the void of peace: a sensation of emptiness, as if something were missing, but each time he cast his line into the depths to try and catch whatever it was that he lacked, there was nothing there, including the will to be bothered by its absence.
Instead, he walked out of the bathroom, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and found there, in the bedroom, what he was seeking.
A woman with skin like coffee and hair like cream, with breasts as round, bountiful and motherly as the Earth, and a body feminine, full, and fertile as the soil. She was clasping the straps of her underwear when she caught his eye, and gifted him a warm, loving, and wifely smile.
Here, what remained of his soul trembled, "Y-you... you're-"
She waltzed over, wrapping her arms around his neck, "I'm here. Where'd you think I was?"
"I..." The well of his memories remained dry, "I don't know."
The woman, Filza as he now remembered, kissed him on the cheek, "I love you, Xander. I'd never leave you."
He smiled, finding that all was right with the world, "I love-"
-But he was distracted. Coming from the far wall was a thumping noise. It had been there the entire time, and was likely what had woken him up, and yet he only noticed it now.
"What's that?"
"Radiya's having a bit of trouble accepting Chauncey's betrayal. Maybe we should help her?"
"Of course. We can't afford another AWOL."
It was the most natural thing in the world to do.
She wasn't at peace, and so needed his help.
That's all there was to it.
….