Whispers of an Unquiet Mind

Roninsha Chronicles: the Strange Case of the Lonely One

(by Subieko)

He didn’t notice the rain falling on his bare skin.

It was a frigid, autumn rain, soaking through his thin, patched garments, but he ignored it. The wind moaned through the streets, freezing the rain on his skin, but still he did nothing to warm up or shelter himself. He simply stumbled forward, the rain mixing with the blood on his clothes and dripping into the street.

No one would notice, or care. This was Southside; it was a strange day when there wasn’t blood in the streets.

And he did not notice. He had long since grown used to the sharp, metallic smell of blood, to the feel of it running over his hands. His ears had grown deaf to screams of pain. And she never screamed. She did not know how to scream. It simply would not have occurred to her.

"Sarah," he said, in a weak, lost little moan. "Sarah!"

He stumbled on down the dark, filthy street, sobbing brokenly. He had to find Sarah. Where was Sarah? Who had taken her?

"Sarah…"

All their fault. It was all their fault. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but he would punish them, hurt them, tear them to pieces until they gave her back. He had to find Sarah.

"Sarah! I’ll save you, Sarah! Just hang on! I’m coming, Sarah, I’m coming!"

The rain poured on, a steady stream of white noise, as he disappeared into the shadows of the night. No one had seen him…or rather, no one still alive.

It was the rain that woke Alan, the sound of it dripping through the damaged window he’d been meaning to put some duct tape on. He would have liked to just roll over and go back to sleep, but he made himself get up and check it. It had come loose yet again, and was swinging back and forth in the wind, letting the rain through.

Stifling a yawn, Alan grabbed the edge of the window and forced it closed again, stuffing the end of the curtain into the gap in the frame to stop it from getting loose again. With that he stumbled back to bed and tried to fall asleep.

The clock blinked 2:30 in neon red, reminding him that this was really no time to be awake. But now that he had woken up, he couldn’t quiet his mind enough to sleep again. So he lay back and stared at the empty ceiling in the darkness, wishing it would be morning already. He hated the dark.

Gotta get the rent in…it’s already a week late, Alan thought as he listened to the rain drumming against the window. He usually tried to get his rent in on time, but it wasn’t easy with the pay in the Department of Law Enforcement. And he really didn’t need to get kicked out of another apartment.

Maybe this new job would pay a bit better, though. It wasn’t exactly a promotion—Alan doubted he would ever be promoted—but it was something new. He tried not to think about the fact that he had been transferred because he’d been so bad at his previous job. This time he would do better. Well, hopefully he would at least be passable.

After a few more minutes of unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep, Alan resigned himself to the inevitable and got up again. He padded softly out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to rummage through the cabinet until he found what he was looking for.

The sleeping pills Alan took weren't anything special--only a Class-A drug. Cheap and available without a prescription; Alan didn't have the money to go to a real doctor unless he was in serious trouble. And he wasn't quite sure what he would tell a doctor anyway. It would be stupid to pay a doctor to listen to a pack of lies.

Swallowing two of the chalk-white tablets, Alan stumbled back to bed and closed his eyes, waiting for the medicine to take effect so he could rest. And hopefully, for tonight at least, he would have no dreams at all.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It had been a while since he'd seen the rain, Gereksh reflected. He had only just been reassigned to a surface post; there was no rain in the Below, and no sunlight either. He couldn't wait for dawn to come so he could finally get some rest; it had been a long night of patrolling. And he had nothing to show for it. Again.

"Anything?" Siess said, sidling up out of the darkness. Gereksh hadn't heard him coming, but that wasn't surprising; no one heard Siess coming if he didn't want them to.

"No," Gereksh said. "You?"

"Nothing new. It's been too long...the trail is gone. He's moved up."

"Good. Then we can stop worrying about it."

Siess shook his head. "Don't be an idiot. He killed one of ours."

"One of yours," Gereksh said. "My tribe's got nothing to do with it." But he didn't mean that. Blood was Blood; of course he was involved.

"Fine. There's no point talking to you when you're in one of your moods."

"Hnh." He didn't bother denying it.

"There you are."

They looked up. It was Seegrn, their leader, with their tracker, Amkh, at her side. Gereksh and Siess both straightened up respectfully.

"Anything to report?" Seegrn asked.

"Nothing," Gereksh said. "No further activity in the east district."

"Nothing for me, either," Siess added. "It's been too long...the signs have faded."

Seegrn sighed. "So it's come to this..."

Gereksh scowled. "We just have to look farther--we'll find him. No one can hide from the Blood."

Seegrn nodded. "In that case...until tomorrow. Be well."

They bowed respectfully and went their separate ways. Gereksh could see them for only a short while before they vanished into the darkness and the soft curtains of rain. Turning, he loped off down the street. His sister would be waiting for him, back in the Below. Soon he would be out of this human territory, no longer forced to look at their ugly human world, filled with the stench of their flesh. Soon he would be home.

-o-o-o-o-o-

--short interlude that may or may not make sense in the final analysis but which is being included anyway because it seems like a good idea at the moment--

People. The world overflows with them. In every land, on every last scrap of ground, they have left their footprints. The thousand faces of human kind, each one familiar, each one unique.

--and now that's done. it was interesting to write, at least. oh well. -_-;;;--

Jonathan Greer was not the sort of man to believe in omens or signs. Stepping on a crack, walking under a ladder--just random happenings. Sudden bad weather--mere chance. His faith was in facts and evidence, not 'feelings' or guesses.

Still, the persistent rain was starting to get to him. It was as if the heavens were conspiring against them to wash away as much evidence as possible, and keep people indoors so there would be fewer witnesses.

He shook his head, irritated. The case must be getting to him; it wasn't like him to think such things. He couldn't afford to lose his touch now, not when seventeen people were dead with no signs of the killer stopping his rampage. And the Arch Bishop himself was starting to take notice--Jonathan's director had told him just the other day that he had better make some progress on the case, and fast, before the Church got involved. It wouldn't look good for the Department if they couldn't handle their own cases.

There was no point in telling the director how insane this case was. How the few witnesses they had could give only the vaguest descriptions, how the evidence was totally inconclusive, how one of his agents had just been promoted, leaving Jon to train someone new at a moment like this. Results were what mattered, and Jon was expected to provide them. If even Officer Jonathan Greer, renowned as the finest detective in Shakune, and possibly all of House Mortak, couldn't solve the case, who could?

But in the back of his mind, no matter how much he tried to deny it, Jonathan was starting to wonder if he had finally been defeated. If this case was unsolveable.

He didn't allow himself to think that for more than a second before roughly shoving the thought into the recesses of his brain. No. People were being slaughtered in the streets, they couldn't give up. This murderer had to be stopped. It wasn't just the pressure from the director and the Church, it was his duty as an officer of the Department of Law Enforcement to protect the people of the city.

Not that that made it any easier, Jonathan reflected as he kissed his sleeping son's forehead before heading off to another day at the office.

-o-o-o-o-o-

But what is the line between 'human' and 'person'? Human is only a species, no different than a cat or a dog. But person...it is a word filled with meaning. Saints and sinners, heroes and villains, the brave and the cowardly, the kind and the cruel...a thousand, thousand meanings. A thousand, thousand ways to be. An infinity of possibility.

Is there a difference? Are all humans also people? All people are not also humans. The demons are proof enough of that. But humans...are there humans who are not people?

Of course there are. Everywhere that people are, their counterparts are also. Everywhere that humans are, those human-but-not-people are as well.

They have often been called monsters.

What is it that makes something monstrous? It is it scale? Impossible--a single murder is enough to make the world cry 'monster'. Is it the kind of deed? But there are those who do nothing wrong, yet still seem monstrous. Is it only in their treatment of others--is the label, then, a purely subjective term? Or is it something more basic, something intrinsic to their natures?

What is it like to be one of them? Does a monster know it is a monster? Do they regret it? Or are they happier living that way, never considered people at all? Even if someone asked them, would a monster be willing to give an answer?

Is it possible for someone to be a monster if they do not know that their deeds are monstrous?

Maybe that's something better left unknown.

There are many things that shape us. Small things, large things...things we can't even remember. Tiny moments, insignificant at the time, change the course of lives, of worlds. There are moments from before we have any memories at all, from when we were only infants.

Mother. The first person any human meets. A person who is with each human before they are even born. It is an inescapable truth.

Mother. Giver of life, of love. Giving the milk of her body, feeding and bathing and holding her child. A nurturing warmth. A caring heart.

Mother. It is a word that means nothing to that girl.

It is foolish to say that a person's whole being is determined from the moment they are born. And yet...when that girl came into this world, was it already inevitable? Was there any other way?

She did cry. That much is reliably known. The doctors report that much. Most babies cry, they are supposed to cry when the leave the warm comfort of the womb for the first time. And she cried.

I do not presume to blame her mother. No one can judge her, whose situation was so singular. It is impossible to know what, if anything, could have been done. All I can say is what happened, and let others decide for themselves what they will think.

But it is easy to blame her mother, and so I feel compelled to offer up some defense. She could not have been an easy child to raise. Raising a baby is difficult in any case; but she was beyond what anyone could expect a parent to cope with.

She did love that child. She intended to love her daughter. She smiled at her, counted those ten perfect fingers and toes, held her close and rocked her, exhausted from the labor but triumphant, holding her newborn baby. It was a love that had been born months before, as the child slept within her. Of course she loved that child.

But love is not a static thing. It must grow, it must be nurtured. Who could love a stone? It can give nothing back.

If your child does not seem to hear your words or feel your touch...if your precious baby stares through you instead of looking at you, if she screams whenever anyone else comes near...if the child you carried through months of pain and trouble doesn't seem to realize you're alive...you begin to distance yourself. It is a form of protection. Each smile that the child does not return is another blow, building up until at last, even a mother's heart breaks.

At first she blamed herself. What parent wouldn't? She thought it was her fault, and the world agreed. A mistake in how she had raised the girl. Not enough attention for the baby; too much attention. Not enough of some vitamin or other; too much of it. No one agreed. All that anyone knew was that the child could hardly be taken out of her own house, could hardly stand even her mother's presence--when she seemed to realize that other people were there at all.

She could hardly even be called human. That was what her mother began to think.

The doctor could not find anything wrong. A healthy baby girl, no illness or birth defects...a perfect, lovely baby.

A baby that screamed until she lost her voice when anyone but her mother came near her. Even her father was barely tolerated.

He left. It was more than he could handle. The baby was a devil, he said, a banshee. He wanted nothing to do with either of them. Neither mother nor daughter ever saw him again.

She blamed the child.

Her daughter didn't seem to even notice he was gone. Maybe she had never known he was there in the first place. She had only two modes, it seemed; inert, lifeless, like a broken doll--or a tempest of fury, lashing out at everyone and everything around her, shrieking wordlessly until she was too exhausted to do any more.

A monster. That was what her mother began to think. A monster in human form.

It was only in the very darkest and most secret corner of her own heart that she ever so much as thought it. She never spoke it out loud; she never allowed herself to think about it for more than a moment. But it was there all the same, festering. It was an inescapable truth.

She was glad to be rid of that child.

If, from the moment you are born, the world gives you nothing but pain...if, from the very beginning, the only words you hear are reprimands and shouts you don't understand...if even your own mother regretted your existance...

The heart is a living thing. It must be taken care of. If, from the first instant of life, your heart is seen as a meaningless shell...it dies. Your feelings...your thoughts...your very self...it all begins to die. Slowly, painlessly, it dulls and fades...and you become a monster.

Her heart never had a chance to live and grow. Perhaps it was dead from the moment she was born. Or perhaps it was waiting, dormant, for something to awaken it.

Not that it mattered. In the eyes of the world, a monster never had a heart to begin with.

That murderous, innocent heart...those bloodstained hands...those empty eyes that look at nothing...no one would call her beautiful. No one would call her anything but horrid, frightening, monstrous. That incarnation of death, that perfect killer...brought up for no other purpose than to obey. Given no other life than death, no other work than killing. That cold and lifeless heart.

But you will not care about all of that. A monster is a monster, after all...isn't it?

It doesn't matter how they got that way. It doesn't matter why. They are only monsters. Their lives are devoid of value. They deserve neither pity nor mercy, nor indeed anything but swift and just death. That is the lot of a monster, an abomination that should never have existed at all.

There was someone who called her beautiful. The child he called his daughter, precious and adored. He read her stories, he sang her a lullaby at night so she would sleep. He kept her safe from those who would cage her.

He sent her to kill.

But you will not care about that, either. That man--he is a monster, too. A murderer. An evil person. He, too, deserves death.

He had a wife and two sons. They were killed by those he trusted. He killed all those who, in his madness, he thought might harm her.

He was a monster. The rest does not matter.

There was someone who smiled at her. The woman he called his sister, precious and beloved. He stayed by her side, he gave her a home and family, he taught her about things like 'likes' and 'dislikes', about love and happiness and what it meant to want something for yourself, not just because someone told you to.

He did not care that she killed.

But that probably does not interest you either. That man is a monster, too. He also is a killer. He is a demon, a true monster. He was condemned to death from the moment he was born.

He protects his people with fierce courage. He is utterly loyal to his leader. He would die before he let harm come to his darling sister, who he took in without even knowing her name, for no better reason than decency and love.

He was a monster. The rest does not matter.

There was someone who loved her above all others. The woman he gave his heart to, loved and loving. He accepted her without judgement, without trying to make her 'normal'; he helped her to overcome the terror and the pain that tormented her. Although he didn't understand, he listened to her and believed in what she said. He saw her as a person, to be valued and respected, and he saw her as someone he loved.

He was troubled that she killed, but he did not blame her.

Perhaps that will be of more interest to you--perhaps not. This man, too, has been called a monster. Within him sleeps a great and terrible power, a pure destructive force that is likely to destroy all of existence. He has been called the Antichrist, the destroyer, a shell for an evil being. And he is a traitor, a liar, a fool. It would be no loss to the world if he died; he has committed crimes that are punishable by death.

He believes that people are basically good, the world is a beautiful place, and that everyone really can make a difference. He has hope for the future, and a spirit that never gives up. Although he is often weak, he is strong when he protect those he loves. He will condemn no one.

He is the hero of the story, so I suppose the rest does matter, after all.

And that child, that monster in human skin, is also in the story. I don't want to send you in unprepared--you may well hate her. You may well be disgusted by her. What she has done is horrible; I do not like to think about it. It sickens me to think of what happened to the nine people she took for him--for Joe, for her 'father'.

She is a monster. But please don't let that prejudice you. Read on a bit, and see for yourself.

Don't worry. She never minds when people tell her she deserves to die. She does not mind very much that people say, to tell the truth. So she will not be offended if you think her a monster.

Her 'father', her brother, and her boyfriend might be, though, so if I were you, I would not say it in front of them.