TO START FROM SCRATCH
TO START FROM SCRATCH
Silence. The oppressing, heavy kind of silence that bears the darkest foreboding. The silence before the storm.
The leaves of the ancient trees, reaching so high that their branches entirely cover the sky, thus wrapping all life underneath into eternal darkness, are soundlessly moving in a light breeze. It is neither chilling, nor warm. Life exists here without doubt, although it has chosen not to be seen or heard. At odd moments, the ear can almost catch a fragment of a sound... no... more like a feeling. A dreadful suspicion that countless unblinking reptilian eyes are observing the scene from their hideouts, that clawed paws are soundlessly treading on the mildly damp soil in smaller and smaller circles, that the branches above would, if need be, make way to flocks of malicious beaked creatures without any forewarning.
In a world such as this, things aren't quite what they seem from the outside. Deep within, the stench of death that cannot be stopped lingers, filtering through the air like an ever-present truth. In a world where wolf eats wolf, an innocent, beating heart is the most tender and sought after of trophies.
And, amidst of the nightmare land, we find the most curious thing: a child. It may be five years old, or as young as two or three, the serene expression making it seem older. Definitely, it is still in pre-school age. The jet-black hair cut in the pot-like hairstyle that most boys wear until they find their own style is the only clue from which it can be guessed the child is male. From under the fringe, two eyes of an unusual violet color are observing the surroundings. The eyes seem to be the only thing about the boy that is moving, the only part of his body that is, somehow, alive.
The boy is sitting calmly, obediently in the middle of a tiny meadow, on a carpet of the softest fresh green grass, cushion-like moss and occasional cloverleaf. In a place never graced by a single sunray, such a perfect natural bed should not exist, and it is safe to assume it has been created there by an unknown force especially for the sake of the child. It is as if Nature herself wanted to accept the tiny one, cradle him in her arms and ease his earthly suffering.
For reasons unknown, he is wrapped into a kimono far too huge for a child of his age, one that must have belonged to a grown-up man or woman previously. It is pooling around him in the form of a small lake, snowwhite, splashed with crimson... not quite flowers, not quite regular spots. Only on closer look one might find out, that those patterns have not been created by the tailor. They are painted by blood, flowing from wounds on the boy´s body, hidden from sight under the cloth.
It surely is a monstrous, intricate way to kill the small being, for if he will not bleed out soon, the fresh blood is going to attract the mysterious inhabitants of the primeval forest. The ancient beasts are drawn to it like moths to light, they are creeping out of their hideouts in the alleyways of death outside of society, and they are always hungry. And when they approach, a wild mix of scaled, winged or furry species, some of which are only known to humanity from myths and legends, the tree branches don´t need to stand apart, because they are passing right through them, through the leaves, through the trunks, unbound by a physical body yet frighteningly material in their appearance.
The universe stands still, holding a collective breath. Then, a child´s scream pierces through the darkness.
They say that before death, the entire life passes in front of your eyes in reversed order. If that is true, maybe there is logic in the way D regains all memories of who he was in his previous life, and who he would be forced to become again, chronologically. In maybe less than a minute, they return to him violently, parading one after another in a pathetic entourage - birth to death - and revealing the painful truth of his life.
*
When the sunrays slither between the heavy branches, cre ating a soft curtain of shining pearls, the last shades of darkness having disappeared with the speed of flying stars, their light reveals an unmoving body of a young male spread on the moss. The kimono fits him perfectly. His raven hair is so long and thick that even if he were laying there without the robe, he would be entirely covered. The moss has changed color to crimson, having soaked up the child´s blood.
A single ray idly tickles his eye-lids, then slides down to the red, red mouth. The man´s eyes open wide, catching the light and sparkling like amethyst. He takes a deep breath, which startles him profoundly as if it were his first one. Nevertheless, he manages to gain control over his body and scrambles to his feet, making a few experimental steps.
The light slowly proceeds further, passing the body, and reaches the other end of the clearing. There, under a group of ancient trees, appears a figure of another man - a carbon copy of the first one, if not for his shorter hair and odd golden eyes, as cold as the expensive metal they resemble.
„Father“, the young man speaks. There is recognition in his voice, with just a little touch of anxiety, sadness and anger. „We can decide the form of our reincarnation“, he keeps on calmly, but the underlying anger is now obvious to hear. „You had no right to take that choice from me.“
„It was a mistake that needed to be fixed“, the other man dismisses the previous statement with ease, stepping forward. „I do not expect you to thank me that I did not let you live a life alongside our worst enemies. You have never learnt to appreciate the right things. But if you are inclined, you are welcome to do so.“
Several minutes pass before the younger of the two collects the strength to speak again. Within those minutes, the anger so clearly written in his face is replaced by an ironic grin, followed by misery, then finally defeat. „It will never end... will it?“ he asks silently.
The father doesn´t hestistate for a moment.
„Nothing ever ends. Everything goes on.“ His voice is absolutely detached and somehow ominous.
