Dawning

The sun’s in the sky but when I look up, it feels empty. Like a passive bystander, just watching from a million miles away. It’s meant to be powerful. People said it was powerful, before, and like, some people still believe in that stuff. Mythology. Legend. But I’m looking at it now, and all I see is a circle burning its heat into my retinas.

I’m in a pool of something. If I lift my head and turn to check, I know what I’ll see, but I’d rather not know right now.

My arms are torn up like something mauled me and got me really fucking good. My head hurts worse than I can remember — in recent times at least, because I always forget the bad things first. And the smell of burning, acrid ash is so pungent I can taste it on my tongue, the aftermath of some infernal flame swallowing up the earth itself.

I can hear them again. I try not to listen most of the time, but they’re louder right now, like something’s lowered the veil a little. Maybe my transformation, maybe something else — this whole situation stinks of the void regardless.

My head feels so heavy. My eyes feel so heavy. I don’t remember what happened, but I’m exhausted like I’ve been fighting for days, and that’s something I’m saying from experience.

When my eyes squint shut, unable to stomach the glare of the sun for any longer, the afterimage scorched into my eyes is a blurry spot. The longer it stays, the more it takes shape: swirling  blackness, a ring of burning flame, and finally, an eye.

It’s looking at me. I want to open my eyes now, but I can’t. The Inkwell has some sort of fucking hold over me, something that I can’t resist. The voices are louder and I feel like I can make out what they’re saying, but the second I hear it, I forget it.

The eye slips closed. Satisfied, maybe. The voices are gone.

I’m used to forgetting, but right now, there’s a mantra running through my head. I know one thing: I have to keep running.

More importantly, I can’t go back.

I can never go back.