Category Linkin Park
Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
Disclaimer: LP is not mine. Never have and never will. So dream in fiction.
Well well well... Ray has another story out, yet he still has others to finish? Honestly... what's with this boy. Irritating really. I'm sorry, but Ray doesn't know why he's speaking in 3rd person. He just hopes that you guys can forgive him for being so unfrequent with his updates. He promises to try and get at them soon.
This story is very very fantasy induced. I don't know how far my imagination will go. If you dont like AU, then i guess this isnt your lot of reading. I do hope you give it a shot and tell me what you think of it though.
Anyways, im infinitely sorry if you spot my spelling errors and other mistakes here and there. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.
Chapter One – Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
Everything was in a state of splinters and he couldn't make it stop.
He didn't know how. But she knew. She always knew.
He ran, covering his ears from the shatters of glass, from the sound of car alarms or houses alike. Every footfall of his heel, a cry of fracture would resound a would be silent night. But not tonight, never this particular night. He had to keep on running because only she knew how to stop it, to diffuse the ravenous molten liquid scorching his insides. His blood-flow prickled his veins, needles almost and he hadn't a clue how to allow them to concede.
Another car with its windows cracked, snaking at no point before shattering, alarming. Street-lights went out in flurry of static before dying completely. Rocks, dirt, dried leaves, paper or any such garbage in near his vicinity would rise of no particular gravitational pull before flowing back down as his being sped fast.
The disturbance allowed agitation within the buildings and houses past. Dogs howled at the anxiety, lights turned on and within his hand-covered ears, the approaching sheer ring of sirens. He needed to run faster.
It was difficult for him to discern the time but once he caught site of the small house wedged between two buildings, he already felt a wave of ease course through his life. He ran for the door, but before he could reach for the handle, the door flew from its frame. He pulled his hand back, startled. He would have to apologize later.
"'Lia!" he screamed. "Ophelia!"
"I'm here, I'm here, my boy," she crooned, already expecting him. "Come this way."
The old lady, fragile as she was, led the boy with as much strength a man at his prime would hold. Her gray hair was spun in a neat bun and if not for that, the energy emitting from the teenager would cause her flowing locks to dance about.
"Sit down," she instructed softly.
She could already feel the vibrations on the floorboards of her home. Like herself, the house was as close to her age. Thankfully, the room was empty, save for the chair in the middle and the unlit candles about the floor. No pattern to anyone's eye, but it was clear as words to her. There were no windows, allowing them privacy. She closed the door gently.
"Make it stop, Ophelia," he cried. The tears stinging behind his eyes fell down his cheeks and they burned. "Make it stop!"
"Close your eyes," she whispered. She took his arms from his ears and made him hold on to the hind legs of the wooden chair instead.
He could hear her whisper words unknown to his ears. He heard her speak of the dialect in past years, more frequent as of late than before, but never able to understand them.
Before his thoughts would wander any further, his body felt warm, not scalding like a moment ago. It engulfed him and slowly lulled him into a quiet slumber.
She stared at the door, wondering how the boy even managed to unhinge it from its frame. He's getting stronger, it seems, she thought to herself. Or perhaps the old rusty fortification was in fact needing of a repair. But as she turned around to further face the contents of her house, she realized it was not rusty fortification, but he has indeed grown in power. She muddled over this as she went about placing pieces of her home back to recognition in the light of morning break. Some things of her collection of 'witchery', as the boy put it, were broken and near impossible to fix. Tomes that were delicate to begin with were almost unrecognizable. Vials of various colored liquids were scattered about on their holdings and others broken with liquid pooling in the shattered glass.
The house was not large, so there was very little else she could place the abundance, especially since one room had to be empty for certain practices. The other was a bedroom, one she rarely ever sees herself accommodating. She found that her recliner near the shelves of books and tomes is much more comfortable, anyhow, although it had lost a leg during the happenings of the recent evening. She could tend to those minor mishaps later. For now, she needed a fresh batch of eggs.
She closed the refrigerator door, grabbed her purse and headed out from her door-less home. No one would see the open door. No one would take note of the house.
No one ever has.
In the past, he had woken up to a great many headaches, migraines... hangovers. Seldom would he feel the severe censure of his body over unbidden actions. So he lay there on the plush bed, hoping to any god to be rid of the heavy banging that goes on in his head.
Everything else was normal, at least they felt that way. His vision was clear, his breathing unlabored, and his hearing tolerable. The intense flow of heat from the night was no longer and he could relax. He could relax if only the heavy banging would cease. Not even the smell of cooking eggs and bacon could have him standing.
Suddenly the door open to Ophelia with a warm smile. "Up you at it you sloth," she pulled the blankets back and he curled at the cold biting his skin. "I'll not have you laze while I'm around. Now up for breakfast. You have school." She slapped his bare thigh, allowing a glare to grace his face but only towards her back. She was already heading out the room.
He wasn't too certain what had transpired last night, nor did he remember coming to this bed. He shook his head, placed his jeans back over his boxers and headed out to the small kitchen. He looked around, smiling sheepishly at her.
"I'm sorry about the mess," he smiled as innocent as he could.
"It was much worse earlier," she shook her head, smiling warmly.
She placed the two plates of breakfast on the table and sat down.
"I need to speak with you, Michael," she said, all seriousness edging her tone. He never liked it but sat across from her nonetheless, starting at his breakfast. She paused a moment to look him over before continuing. "What was about your head last night?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," he lied. She knew. "Homework... work... more homework." He looked up from his plate to see her fuming eyes. "My parents," he answered truthfully this time. "Who else would I think of?"
She reached over to grab his hand as he dropped his fork, losing appetite. "Michael, it's been four years, yet this is growing stronger? You're fueling it."
"I am not!" he said angrily, the plates and forks suddenly clanging back upon the table. They both looked down at the ware of food. "I have to get to school."
The weary old lady sighed as she watched the young boy go. "As you wish, my prince," she whispered before emptying the plates and cleaning the dishes. She too reprieved of appetite.
Primary instincts told him that school was not the place to be in his current state of mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the heavy headache that he had hoped expired from earlier that morning. But he could feel it haunting back behind the lids of his eyes.
The masses of the school populace seemed to be crowded in that particular hallway today and he had trouble getting his school supplies from his locker. As he made to open it upon unlocking, a muscled hand came to slam it back shut. He flinched back in surprise before darting a glare at his unsuspected company.
"Fuck off, Mason," he whispered angrily, trying for the locker door again, but the hand lay there still.
"Moody today, aren't we, Shinoda?" A malignant smirk about his face.
"No, you just bring it out of me." He swatted the hand away and opened his locker.
"Go I guess it's true what they say, you some sort of freak that does black magic?" It was more a statement than a question. The grin was annoying.
He sighed. "Yes, Mason, and if you don't get the hell away from me now, I'll curse you and make you do wicked things." The grin moved from the older and much stronger boy to the smaller almost vulnerable one.
"You stay the fuck away from me and your stupid voodoo rituals unless you want your head up your ass," he said coldly. Loudly even as a small crowd began to rouse around them, hoping for a fight.
Michael ignored the threat and went about this ways throughout the whole day.
Oh yes, rumors were bound to spread about him and his particular divulsion in unrequited talents. It was never his intention, but they would see when he was angry. So he was particular not to be in any arguments, although they could not be kept from him.
No one dared come near him or even so much as speak to him, apart from his teachers or the brave and intrigued few. This was fine, but when he sees people whispering with their hands about their mouths to a neighbor, he couldn't help but seethe inwardly and push the thought away, hoping it was not him they whispered about. But their eyes say otherwise.
He excelled in classes that dwelled within books and studies, but never anything relating to athletics. That was his moot point. Teachers never much showed for concern and he wasn't sure how he'd fare if they started taking interest in him. Many have tried, but he pushed them away like a hot branding iron. It was early in the autumn season, they had time to ravish their interests, but Michael was adamant to be vague, if not untruthful to his certain activities.
"Don't you have other souls to bother with your bouts of complaints?" the old woman sighed as if dejected of the boy's presence, but her wane smile noted her teasing.
"No, not really. Your much more forgiving than most of them, anyway," he replied, voicing through a whole lot of mathematical equations once more. Ophelia would give a grunt when he equated to a correct answer and would scold him if not. Which he would then process through the whole of the problem again.
The graying haired lady learned from earlier on in Michael's haze of forlorn that he appreciated the company that had been close to his mother. Both his mother and father. Perhaps that may be the reason he was at her home so often, he had someone to share his anguish with, albeit showcased, and it played ease in what may have been a depression. She more than welcomed him to her home, even so far as asking him to move in with her, but they both knew there was little to no room in the house. And other reasons.
Michael chose to live in the apartment alone. Most, if not all things, have remained untouched since the unforeseen accident. He was scared to move or brush an object that he knew his mother or father last touched. He didn't want to disturb them. As eccentric as that may seem, there was no one that heeded his appraisals, other than Ophelia. She voiced little to nothing of the matter. He appreciated her for that.
The kind landlord allowed for him to stay, being given the apartment for free until he was of age. Then he would pay rent. The landlord heard news of the accident and held a heavy heart for him. Almost, she looked at him like her own son, having a ten-year old herself and could never imagine him going off to a random foster home. So she became Michael's legal guardian. Ophelia would have been, if only her contacts were definable.
"Next week, I have an assembly to attend," she said between Michael's scribbling. He looked up at her. "I will be gone for the whole of the week. If you so please, you are welcome to stay here."
Michael nodded and went back to his work.
It was normal for her to go to such 'assemblies'. She never discussed or delved deeper than the mere word. Michael prodded several times but received nothing. It was futile to even bargain for his peaked interest. Sometimes, she would leave within hours notice. Never giving more than the simple word. He eventually gave up and assumed it was a bingo rally she so critically needed to attend. Seemed to be the 'in' thing with ladies her age.
Once he finished with his work and the later afternoon's day clocked to the late of the evening, he packed his things and headed for home.
The side of the red-bricked six-storey apartment held a basketball course. The fence stretched high just above the first storey. The landlord's son, Jason, was playing basketball with his friends and waved to Michael, telling him that if he wanted dinner, it was still warm. He shook his head and said he already ate, asking the younger man to tell his mother that he had said hello, before continuing on to his apartment.
Third floor. Room 304.
He'd lived here all his life, yet it feels as though he'd walked this path only several times. He unlocked the door and then the chain.
It was cold.
Switching on the light, he could see the various amounts of family portraits hung on the wall, atop the television, the counters... the windows, everywhere. But for the life of him, he could not bring them down and store them away where he would not see those two faces each of every single day. Perhaps one day, but not today.
Everything was tidy, severely so. His mother always stressed manners and cleanliness. Its become a part of him and he did not want to lose such an attribute, cleanliness anyway. Not bothering with the lights in the living room, he headed straight to his own and shut the door.
Here he was safe. This was his domain and he controlled what features to accentuate to his liking. There was not a portrait, not a single family picture, there were too many of that already. Instead, his four walls were adorned with posters of his favorite bands, actors, actresses or anything else that allowed a smile to trickle his lips.
One would imagine that an seventeen year old would have clothes scattered about the floor, chair or whichever else place they could hang. Or paper, magazines, cd's... but then again, most teenagers his age were not Michael.
He let out a breath and got ready for bed.
"Just asking if you wanted to sit with me, is all." A warm and soft hand snaked around his forearm in a tight grip. Michael looked in horror at the peroxide-haired girl, trying to steal his arm back. What was the matter with her? Wasn't she suppose to be afraid and fleeting off? "Don't you like me? Am I not attractive?" She pouted. Her perfume was engulfing and her face littered with a myriad of colors. One had to wonder if she simply placed the mask on.
"No, it's all right," Michael pressed his argument, wanting to leave the school for lunch. "I'd rather be alone... please, let go of my arm," he asked weakly.
"Why don't you want to sit with me?" she pouted still.
"Just... just let me go," he snatched his hand forcibly back, stronger than he had intended before walking out of the school in the midst of curious eyes.
Most of the boys in his school would crave, swoon over a plain look directed at them by Stacy. Noticeably one of the more beautiful girls of the school - slut, prostitute - and boys turned heads when they dawdle pass. Girls sometimes as well, in utter awe or jealousies.
Michael was having none of it. To him, they were a mere lot of snobs. All of them.
He was glad it was finally the end of the day within school, and a Friday at that. Ophelia would be gone by Monday and his homework done, no doubt, by the time he leaves her home. Figuring out what to busy over was a hurdle for him. His repertoire did not list to lengthen quite far. He busied his head with activities he could do, but was rudely interrupted by a heavy clasp on his back.
He sighed. "Leave me alone, Mason."
"You're a freak and a fag?" he drawled.
Michael gawked. Behind his large figure walked out the petite girl, Stacy. Her smile was no longer sly, rather cunning.
"Heard that you turned my sister down," he asked, as if the king of the court.
They're siblings? "Whore's aren't really my thing," he replied, realizing a second after he had spoken the words. Wrong choice of words, it seems. Mason's anger blazed, his nostrils flaring and his ears reddening. Stacy was near ready to cry.
Michael received a punch to his jaw. For a large teenager, he was agile. Michael could do little to block the vigorous blows directed towards him. A student nearby shouted 'fight', and like bees to honey, people started to crowd. He looked at the violent eyes of his attacker, not knowing how to escape free. He could only hold his hands to block out the punches so long till his bones fracture.
A punch blew to his stomach, doubling him over before he was elbowed on the back. He could taste the copper tinge his mouth. He used his hands to push up only to be kicked hard in the ribs. He cried out, spitting the liquids from his mouth.
Through the whole ruckus, not a soul stopped it. They watch, enthralled, waiting for something.
They did not have to wait long.
"Get up you fag," he placed the emphasis on his kick. "I said, get-"
His sentence was interrupted by the fierce hold that stopped his leg. He stood there, trying to balance himself, hoping to steal his restrained ankle. But it would not budge. Mike opened his eyes, stood up and flipped the larger boy to his back with little effort. His eyes were black as night.
"Wha-? What the fuck-?" the larger boy stammered.
Michael went over and straddled the boys legs, leaning in close to his face, a malevolent grin ornamenting his child-like features. "That really hurt," he whispered close to his ear.
The large boy tried to move his hands to push him off, but tilting his head to the side, he noticed they became cemented to the concrete of the ground. He panicked, wide-eyed. His legs were one and the same.
"Get off me!" he screamed, terror that most students never heard stricken his voice, watched, observing.
"Goodbye," Michael whispered again to his ear, leaving a light kiss to the larger boy's temple. He walked off, ignoring the screaming pleas to let him loose.
As they watched Mason, a tremble emanated from the ground - from beneath the restless boy. Without further second's wonder, a large rock protruded quickly from the ground, through the boy's chest. Everyone screamed. Everyone ran.
The tapered rock glistened with crimson, the body severed in two.
He woke up, yet again, to a blinding headache. The gods must have ill-demises plotted for him. He groaned, rubbing furiously at his temple. He looked about the room. Ophelia's home. He had to recollect his thoughts and wonder just how he came here. Last he remembered, his body was being trampled on.
"Good, you're awake." The door opened to let in the old dame, holding a tray of steaming broth.
"What is that?" Michael scrunched his nose at the smell and look about the abomination. "I really hope you don't expect me to have to eat that."
"Lest you want to be rid of that head and other aches of yours, you will consume this," she held a spoon full of the broth to Michael's lips.
"I'm not helpless!" he exclaimed, glaring at her. The woman sighed and left him to be alone.
As he stared at the bowl, he conceived his body's rebellious plea at ease. It almost hurt to even so much as breathe, let alone sit straight up. He wasn't too certain what had transpired of his blackout, or how he came here. He began to work at some explanation, but the knots in his head grew tighter. He hesitated before bringing the soup past his lips.
He still hasn't quite established how, in the mere seconds he stepped out of the room, an argument ensued.
"I said you will not!" She was close to shouting.
"You don't have a right to keep me here!" Michael, on the other hand, had bested her to it first. Ophelia was quickly loosing her control. "It's late and I have to get back."
"You are unstable and you are in no condition to be walking off from my watch," she replied, managing control after all.
"I am not unstable and I do not have to be under your watch!" Michael was sure he felt the house shook.
Ophelia closed her eyes and bowed and shook her head. Michael took his book-bag and left the house.
He had hopes that his headache would subside, and for a moment it had, but now he felt its icy return. He grumbled, his footsteps purposely heavy as he headed back home in the night. A police car passed by him quickly, its sirens on. He ignored it and continued on.
Ophelia knew where to draw the line. Telling Michael why she was so adamant on his stay with no foolproof explanation behind choice words, were not something he liked. He demanded explanations and gods be damned if he didn't like them. He had every right to his own being.
A resounding sigh escaped him. He never could understand the old hag.
He turned a corner, his gaze stopping him abruptly at the amount of police vehicles by the building. A few people were outside, watching the commotion. He had gone up to one of his neighbors, asking what was going on. But a shook of their head or a shrug of their shoulders gave him nothing short of an assumption.
"Jason!" the younger boy turned around and gave him a grim look.
"Hey, Mike," he said, his voice distant.
"What's going on?" Then realizing that if the others hadn't a clue, a child possibly could not. "Where's your mom?"
He hesitated. "They're upstairs, going to your apartment."
Michael drew back slightly. "What?... Why?"
Jason looked around, seemingly avoiding Michael's eyes. He wanted to ask something but he waved goodbye and ran out the front instead.
Michael ignored a lingering wonder and jolted upon the stairs, taking two steps at a time. If it was at all possible, his head became worse.
"Josie? What's going on?" he asked his bewildered landlord at the front of his step, looking worried.
"Michael," she said hoarsely. "Is it true?" He gave her an inquisitive look. "What the police are saying, is it true?"
"Is what true?" He walked passed her and into his apartment. He stopped. Josie went further to explain but Michael could not hear her behind him.
They were rummaging through his things. Cupboards were left open, photos taken from their spot and place haphazardly back. Drawers were pulled and their contents strewed about the top. Magazines that were left collecting dust placed on unkept tables. "What's going on?" he asked, panicked.
A few of the men within the room turned to look at him. A voice bellowed from the hallways - from the bedrooms.
He ran towards his room. "What's going on!?" he demanded but was apprehended from behind. His hands were gripped tightly by a man twice his build. "Let me go!" he tried to shake his hands free, but the police officer would have none of it and placed cuffs to secure him tightly. He turned to the man and glared.
Another, seemingly the head of the entourage, walked out of his room with an air of disgust about him. He ran from the man's grip behind him to have a look at his room.
He stared in shock at the mess. Everything was askew. Rummaged. Invaded. His private domain was violated by rigorous hands that cared of no one's personal space.
"Where are your parents, my boy?" the man behind him asked.
Michael's breathing became labored.
"I asked you a question," he said. "Where are your parents?"
Goose-pimples formed about Michael's body and he whipped around to stare up at the man. "They're dead."
The officer's face twitched. He looked at the uncaring eyes of the boy, undiluted. Careless, he thought. Careless and crude boy. "You are hereby under arrest for the death of Mason Dolden and in custody for your parents' death."
"He was not responsible for his parents' death!" Josie shouted, also detained by an officer. "And he is no way a murderer. Leave him be!"
The lead officer grabbed Michael squarely on the shoulder, his grip ruthless. Michael did not flinch nor move from his spot when the man proceeded to have him out. He stared at the boy. If he had to pick him up, he will.
"Don't make me repeat myself," he said warningly.
"Get out!" he suddenly screamed.
The officer's face contorted in anger and the others in bewilderment. "You will do as I say-!" He was interrupted by the force of sting that ran cold through his body. He clutched at his chest. "What're you doing?" he asked, panicked.
Michael's eyebrows furrowed and his smile graced a dangerous leer. He leaned in closely to the man's stunned form and whispered. "I told you to get out." He walked passed him and towards the officer attending Josie. "Let her go," he ordered.
The man was hesitant. "Sir?" he asked his officer.
"I said let her go!" Michael screeched. The officer Michael had turned his back upon screamed. Numerous ice shards spiked and emanated from his body with the sharp sound that would an unsheathing sword from its casing. The middle of his forehead, his neck, chest, back, arms - everywhere. The frigid cold left frozen air to smoke about his body.
Slowly, blood trickled from whence the spikes had darted. The officer collapsed on the floor, the ice shattering from beneath him. Josie screamed whilst the officer rebuked her. He took hold of his weapon from the holster on his belt clasp instead.
"Stay where you are!" he shouted. The others followed suit to his actions, their guns pointed to him, albeit perturbed of what Michael may do. Josie had already fled from the apartment.
Michael stood where he was, the vicious grin still about his face. The four officers twitched at a bizarre enmity. Their guns shook. The first officer that had pulled the gun at him suddenly flew from his stance, the shattering of a window and the dying resonance of his scream.
An officer fired at him, the bullet lodging just right below Michael's right collarbone. The infused anger welted from his presence and the officer suddenly regretted the move. The officer choked, unable to breath. He freed his gun and held his chest, failing to heave in air. The other two stared at him with panicked eyes. They stepped dubiously away from him, their guns still aimed at Michael, threatening looks still darted.
The officer doubled over on his knees and hands on the floor. "Stop-" he choked, his voice gurgled. He was drowning. He looked up at Michael, water flooding from his eyes, his nose, ears and mouth. "Plea-" He held one hand to his throat before convulsing over, water spewing from his mouth in endless torrents.
Without further consideration, the other two officers fired mercilessly at Michael's unmoving body. But the bullets disappeared within a centimeter from the boy's form. The two men were out of ammunition and looked about ready to run, their guns held loosely at their sides. The moment one of the men's heals touched the floor on a move for the door, the bullets reappeared around them. All that they had fired.
"I told you guys to get out," he whispered.
The rapping on the roof became steadily heavy. Soundless drops became pebbles. The roar of lightning was crackling far too close for comfort. The slosh of water underneath heavy car tires resonated within the small one-storey house before speeding past to get away from the torrential weather.
A strike of lightning caused the old woman to flinch, swearing that it had hit the road just outside of the window. She blinked before her grazing hands went back to gently combing the still damp hair of the young boy. He was so cold. She was afraid to stop in fear that he would remain at such a state. She stood up to retrieve more blankets for him.
She laid the heavy blanket atop the pile already on the young boy. She looked at his pale face, ghostly and unnervingly so. His lips were almost blue. She wrapped her sweater tighter around her, feeling the chill run along her own spine. She continued combing his hair back.
A deafening clap of lightning startled him from unconsciousness. He shivered, holding the blankets higher up his neck. He felt so incredibly cold.
"Ophelia?" he called, but no reply. He looked out the window. Dark.
The cataract of waterfall on the ceiling was powerful, as if they were very close to breaking through. Michael did not doubt their insistence to enter. He shuffled away from the blankets, his bear feet creaking the floorboards underneath. He looked at the unfamiliar sweater he wore, shrugged, and hugged it tighter.
"Ophelia?" he said again, but his groggy voice was too easily overwhelmed by the weather.
Michael did not know the time of hour, or even the day. If he guessed, it would be Saturday night, or perhaps it was early morning. But it may possibly be Monday morning, or night, and Ophelia would surely have gone to her assembly. Michael did not want that to be true.
As if the pellet of rain did not further dull his footsteps, he tip-toed to the sound of what appears to be a fierce argument. One voice he recognized, the other, not so much.
"-exposing what's left of us!" argued the unknown voice.
"You must understand that those actions were unforeseen!" Ophelia shot back. Her voice was in control, but it was bleak reassurance of her steady hold of it. Any moment, she would burst out in shouts. "Even you! You would have known and stopped it. Did you know?"
The man whom Ophelia was with remained quiet. "No... No I did not. That still does not excuse-!"
Ophelia had the upper hand. "How would I track it even before its begun when you yourself cannot! Only after was I able to grasp of the happenings of that night."
The man sighed. He was about to open his mouth to continue but shut it back down. He looked passed the shadows. "How long have you stood there, boy?"
Michael was startled at the echoing voice of the man. The voice demanded attention and a direct and quick response. Michael stuttered, not knowing what to say. Finally, "Not long," he said. "I just got up. I couldn't really hear what you were saying everything's real-"
The man was suddenly in front of him. A mere shadow. Michael could not see his face but he was tall, much taller than he was. He had to crane his neck to gaze up at the face. He felt... violated. The stare was strong, seeing. He felt exposed, his secrets, his life, his entire being was thoroughly gazed over. When a flash of lightning erupted, he gazed upon the face of a deity. His lock of hair, white as snow, neatly combed away from his face to the length of his shoulder. His eyes, blue as the sky and wiser than even the eldest man. Yet his skin was flawless. There adorned no wrinkles, not a blemish.
Michael looked away from the intense gaze and at Ophelia. "I have to go home," he whispered, afraid of speaking any louder. Ophelia did not hear him but saw his pleading eyes.
"Michael-" but she was interrupted by the abrupt raise of the man's hand.
"You are not to leave this home until the return of Ophelia," the man stated. Michael was put off. "She will return by five-nights time, if not more."
"I don't live here," Michael replied.
"You don't have a choice," the man whirled around.
"Who the hell are you to tell me to stay here!" he roared, if not for his anger then because of the sudden clap of lightning. "Ophelia!"
But again she was interrupted. The man did not turn around to face Michael to speak with him. "We are doing this for your safety. You will not be harmed within the walls of this house, I can assure you that. Ophelia, we must leave."
"I'm not staying here!" he shouted again. Ophelia and the stranger walked into the other room lit with an abundance of candles and slammed the door. "I'm not staying!" he shouted even louder. He went to the door and banged it with his fists. He twisted the knob but would not budge. He banged harder, his screams surely being heard by neighbors no matter how loud the storm. A twinge of inferior pain ran from his right shoulder downwards to his arm, making him see stars. He eased the pounding, tried the knob again and opened. The room was dark and empty of the two from earlier.
It smelled of burnt candles and made his insides churn.
He could not get out.
When he first headed for the door, it was not there. It was merely a wall. But he was certain the door should be positioned there, but it was simply a wall. He kicked and punched and still it felt like a wall. It was both awkward and painful to see a means of escape disappear. He opted to crawl out from the windows, but they uniformed with the wall. They too became non-existent and it made Michael scream in frustration. He tried the door again, but it was still as it was.
He paced for a few hours that morning. He fell asleep on Ophelia's chair, realizing why the woman adored the thing to begin with. When he stared towards the door, it was there. So blatantly there. When the thought of escape through that door came to mind, it blended into the walls. He groaned and screamed obscenities at it. At least he figured how the mechanisms of Ophelia's - or rather that sick stranger's - mind works.
Perhaps he could incinerate the whole house.
He scoffed at the idea. The whole interior of the house would probably go aflame but not a kiss of red would peak out. An oven. That's what it would be like. The stranger had a sadistic mood about him and had most likely planned for such an 'accident' to occur. Michael hated him.
Towards the wayward culmination of of daylight, Michael had taken ragged old tomes and books from the shelves coveting the comfortable chair Ophelia frequented. He was disappointed. He hadn't a clue of what to expect, but surely not books about modern sciences, histories of North America, Europe and other countries. These were items you would find in a History classroom.
He stood from the chair, just about to gather the books before stopping. He grinned to himself. Ophelia will clean them herself. That cheeky old hag leaving him like this, Michael thought she deserved the extra labor. The stranger wasn't the only one who had a bite of sadism in him.
He scanned the materials again. Going from one end of the bookshelf to the other. Michael tilted his head, a tattered book catching his attention. It was wedged between two other readings, the worn out spine frayed severely.
He took it from the deep placement on the shelf, careful not to damage it anymore than it looked.
"You've probably seen better days." Michael chuckled to himself. "Conviare Existentia," he read. "Conveying Existence. Interesting."
Michael hadn't known Ophelia was well versed in the language of Latin. Late Latin even. Michael's seen text like these upon the shelves of his school library. A Latin class which he had to study the Latin patriarch of Antioch. A painful memory, really. Michael barely passed.
He flipped through the pages, attentive of its poor quality. Some words were difficult for him to make out, but most were easily translated. He sat back down on the chair and read.
He skimmed through most of the pages where implications of theories were contradicted by self-doubts of the writer. Michael was sure some pages were missing. A sentence would read about a fractured body part but would continue on as a query about life expectancy. Not to mention words that he could not understand.
Although, as he read further on, there were visuals. The ink used was so delicate that if Michael even so much as traced his finger roughly against the paper material, his skin would turn charcoal.
He looked intently at one of the pictures, reading the words on the adjoining page. He gaped.
The picture depicted a man within a circle of flames, the sun to his left and the moon to his right. He was cross-legged, his hands at a prayer. There were symbols above the mans head Michael could not decipher.
It was a ritual an underground sect performed every fortnight in ancient Latium. They were liturgists and condemned the conducts of the Roman Catholic Church. It explains of their struggles and difficulties through the decline of the Roman Empire until the the reforms of the Second Vatican Council when they were all being sought out and prosecuted. They used this as a form of propaganda to right the wrongs of the past.
Michael read on, astonished. Why Ophelia would have such a book was beyond Michael, or how she managed to acquire one. He remembered briefly in his studies about a form - a cult - that was eradicated from their ill-beliefs and wrong-doings and everything in their possession were burned, even them. Perhaps this was that organization that Michael had briefly touched on.
What he read next caught his breath. Correcting the past. And they were done literally. The image he had seen before was a man going into the past to correct the wrongs of the Roman Empire. Whether to execute a political power or to warn someone, to correct, establish or to instrument a growing power within the future.
There were no cases of any return from the people that had gone back.
All but one. Ophelia Vagnoni.
His eyes bulged, his breath caught in his throat. He was confused, startled and a tinge frightened. Michael checked the authenticity of the book, but its old age and explanations were - from what he could tell - truthful.
His heart stopped. "Mom... Dad," he breathed.
Michael read the procedures.
We have not verified the implications of the ritual nor do we have any knowledge of its true nature. We have, however, gathered past corrections. Our ideals are carried through, albeit discreetly...
Items of the past, containing memories of hatred, regret or love. An emotional drive to carry a living capsule to right history...
The moons departure and the suns arrival. An ending and beginning. Alpha and Omega. A fissure of an instance where existence is left within an open chasm...
The turns of fate from the graceful Clotho. The greed of fate from the guileful Lachesis. The compromise of fate from the indulgent Atropos.
Three hands of fate to guide and bend well-beings.
Michael's head ran quickly from one thought to another. They wove him a headache. Taking the book with him, he left for the bedroom and laid down. He needed a rest and hopefully to help sort what lay jumbled.
As his head hit the pillow, he succumbed to unconsciousness, the influence of the book forgotten on the bedside table.
An elaborated symbol, so intricate that Michael was having trouble figuring out where the piece of thread aligned correctly to. He studied the patterns and paid close attention to the displacement of the long thread on the floor to the corresponding image within the frayed book. The pattern was constructed to a shape of a triangle, thread woven from one angle to another. Michael was certain, when he finished that it was correct. He was more certain when the curling threads righted itself to a perfectly straight line. It glowed slightly in the dim room and he was startled, yet brilliantly fascinated of his own doing.
There were numerous unlit candles circling the pattern. Michael did not dare touch the thread now. As he sparked a match, he wondered how in heavens name he were to light all of the candles. The thought of lighting each candle one by one irked him, and as he lit the first one, it was just like dominos falling. In a clockwise fashion all of the unlit candles sparked to life, startling him even more.
"Well then..." he sighed.
He stood up, re-read the book and made sure everything was correct. Satisfied, he went back to the bedroom, placed the book on the counter and snatched up three other objects that lay there before heading back to the other room.
"The moons departure," he whispered, stepping over the candles and into the circle. "And the suns arrival."
It was the early hours of morn, where the sun was neither up nor the moon hanging like a blade above his head.
He wasn't sure of the correct quantity of items he were to have with him, but he deemed three were enough. The first was a ring. It was his mother's ring, an intricately carved band that seemed to hug his finger with a tiny jade stone. It was simple, yet terrifyingly extravagant. He placed it at one corner of the triangle.
The second was a photo of both his parents, smiling blithely against the afternoon sun. Their hairs were swaying against the breeze and Michael could still discern the memory as if it were just this afternoon. He shivered and smiled back at the photo, placing it at another corner of the triangle.
Lastly, an old and chipped race car. It was a key-chain given to him by his father. It was little and he had wanted a large model, but being as poor as they were, Michael opted for better than nothing. It had made him happy, joyous that he now has a car of his own like he saw on television given to him by his father.
He looked at a spot of wetness on his hand as he placed the miniature car down at the last corner. He had not realized when he began to cry. He wiped them away and took another heave of sigh.
He stood in the middle, waiting what to do next. The book indicated of no incantations to be said nor of things to be done once with the items and the linings of the symbol completed. He quickly grew impatient as his vision blurred.
"Work, please," he whispered, his breathing erratic.
Still, nothing happened. The thread glowed as it was, the candles still as they slowly warmed the room. Michael was getting furious and annoyed that nothing was happening.
"Please," he said.
But still nothing.
"Work fuck damn it!" he shouted.
He felt the house reverberate and his orientation jumbled. He fell to his knees as the candles blew out and all the air stolen from his lungs. He felt as if he were going to fall from hanging down, yet he was confident the ground was where his legs were glued to. The very air around him was cold and made his hairs stand up, yet his body felt like liquid heat. Every pore on his skin were needles, incising him.
A scream bellowed from the pain coursing through his body and for a moment, he realized something had gone wrong. Surely... surely, this procedure was not this painful. It was agonizingly slow at how time stretched the throb of torture, yet he could not tell if seconds or even hours have passed.
His voice was gone. He had no air to breathe. And he didn't know which he submitted to first, pain or lack of oxygen, when he fell into deep unconsciousness.
Well... uhhh how is it? It's kind of weird, if not confusing a little. I hope it wasnt all too confusing.
Tell me what you think? I'm enjoying writing this so I'm going to write and update this as often as I can. If you would like to be a part of a mailing list, by all means leave your e-mail address and I'll email you when I next post an update.
Thanks for reading,