Dark
618 Words
I think he’s toying with me. It wasn’t “just a mission”. He was pleased at the time—I “saw” it. Even if it was a mission, he could have made her suffer less. He tortured her to death. A sadist. All the tenderness and concern he feigned were to bond with me. Disgusting.
After that, we didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.
The Tower District here is very different from the one I used to live in. There, the sentinel tower was more like a landmark, too small to house many people. A large district was delineated around it, providing a living area for the sentinels and guides within its jurisdiction. But here, there’s an actual enormous dark pyramid. I vaguely recall seeing this tower in an introduction to world-famous sentinel towers, a distant shot. It was built ten years ago. The description mentioned how every aspect, from design to materials, reflects the lingering fear in people's hearts from the war that ended twenty years ago. I don’t understand how a black pyramid can symbolize anti-war sentiment. To me, it just looks jarring, standing out awkwardly amidst the gleaming skyscrapers.
The car drove into a pitch-black tunnel. I realized it was going underground. There were gate after gate and security check after security check. My tower district also required iris and facial scans for entry, but not this many checkpoints. This felt more like entering a prison.
The car stopped in a completely dark place. Sentinels have very acute senses; even without light, they can “see” their surroundings through other senses. Some guides can, too. But not me. Not at all. He turned off the white noise, and the rustling of leaves faded away. He cut the engine, and everything fell into silence. He opened his door. I opened mine too. But as soon as I stepped out, he pushed me back in. He pressed me down, leaving me no time to react. He came in, his mental tendrils—it hurt, more than it did several years before. I felt like he was ravaging me, destroying me. After the pain came a chaotic stream of visions. I “saw” crying. I “saw” hatred, anger, sorrow. I “saw” split, loss, agony. Iron, blood. Loneliness.
Loneliness. Darkness. Loneliness.
I “saw” his mental space—all darkness. He was holding my hand, and we were floating in the darkness, like in space, where there was nothing, not even ground.
He let go of me.
I opened my eyes, drenched in cold sweat, my head throbbing. He had already withdrawn, but he was still lying on top of me, breathing heavily. It seemed that it wasn’t just me in pain; he felt a lot of pain too.
Suddenly, the lights flickered on. Someone had turned them on.
“Oh—sorry—” I heard a woman’s voice. The way she spoke was strange, each word was separated, with an odd lilt, as if she had just learned to talk and found organizing her thoughts into speech difficult.
“Did I—interrupt—you? But—I heard—screaming—Phoebus, are you—alright?”
He got up.
“I need guidance,” he said, walking toward her.
The woman giggled.
“I figured—as much—you would—need me—”
The door closed.
I turned over, curling up, and released my spirit animal, clutching it tightly. I can’t do anything right. And before I can even try to do anything, I’m already too scared to do anything. I want to cry. I want to die.
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- Writer
