vision

The shape of a figure is burned into what remains of your vision. A hole, carefully cut out of the blindfold that ensnares your very soul. It is tall, and seems to exist beyond the world around you. To blindly wander through a place in the woods you seem to know better than you know yourself. The cold slowly drains you -- this is, strangely, comforting.

A picture of your surroundings paints itself in strange, abstract shapes. No tree looks like what you believe a tree should. Dark foreboding lines stretch endlessly, intersecting with one another, creating images with the empty space that lies between them. Nobody seems to walk through the empty spaces as you see them, however. They see you, and slowly back away before fading into the fog.

Each person is a concept in your vision. A dark, blistering red, or perhaps a calming light purple. Some are technicolor. There was one made of pure inky black -- a color that, like so many other things, feels familiar in a way you cannot quite understand. Sometimes you feel it’s the same color as your own. But you cannot see yourself. Look downwards, and gaze only into the abyss.

But one has caught your attention. It’s someone that has been tailing you, trying to get you to stop and listen. They appear constrained. A curtain hangs over them, preventing any light from escaping. Occasional glimpses can be seen, in the desperate manner they chase you, of a bright light. The kind of light that could blind you, or perhaps the kind that already has. You foolishly believe they will leave you alone if you do not pay them any heed.

This has not worked so far, and appears it will never. They have tried for weeks now, crying out a name as though you answer to it. One “Faodubh” does not know who they are. If that is you, why would you not remember? A blind being walking endlessly through the forest would know its own name.

But eventually, even your attempts at being left alone fall prey to their tenacity. They come across you on the edge of trees that break away into a long, winding dirt path. Your entire soul freezing in place, as a facsimile of a heartbeat pounds in your ears, is the most alive you’ve felt. You can no longer escape.

“Faodubh, listen to me! For once, just--” the stranger pleads, stopping in their tracks, “...Listen…” They realize that you, too, are no longer moving. Your breathing is uncharacteristically labored, your feet nailed to the ground, dead leaves crushed beneath your feet. You fear what happens to you if you dare stay to see what lies beyond the curtain. Their closeness burns.

“I..am listening.” You clumsily brush aside the possibility that you are in fact Faodubh. “Why? What is the purpose behind this pursuit?”

“You’re not listening, you’re asking! I’m pursuing you because I’m trying to help you remember!” The stranger is more forceful now. They haven’t moved an inch, but every word burns with a bright flame that you can hardly bear to witness. You don’t speak a word. The blindfold that strangles your mind tightens further. The flames grow no darker. Every bizarre shape behind them seems to shift in real time. The road away wasn’t this long a minute ago. You take one step back, but can barely contain the agony of ripping the nail through your foot to allow this brief movement. The stranger steps forward, curtain briefly letting a horrific blinding light through. The source, what’s inside, is a fire -- white-hot, poised to scorch everything around it, perhaps with kindness.

“Faodubh, you can’t just run away again!” Their words freeze you in place. “...Listen. You don’t remember, but I can help. You are Faodubh. I’ve told you this countless times. Just sit there and listen.” They pause. “Please.”

Nothing.

They speak again.

“I am Kierke. Your sibling.” No. No, no, no. The beginnings of panic take hold. Every word, a bright, flaming cudgel to your soul. The pounding in your head grows louder. But you are once again firmly nailed to the ground.

“I do not remember,” you pause, “anyone named Kierke.” Because you remember nothing. The idea of knowing who you are terrifies you. “I apologize.”

The curtain draws back over the fire. The light subsides. You are no longer burning. But you still cannot move. This supposed ‘Kierke’ stays planted before you. Uncertainty wells up within them -- the flame is flickering. But before long, you feel it reignite, twice as hot as before.

“Oh, right. Of course you wouldn’t.” Kierke throws the curtain back, full force, exposing you to the entirety of this blazing inferno. “You remember...me, right? Circe? Your sister?” Their voice has lost its force. But this only makes it harder to listen to. The curtain lays discarded on the ground.

“--” Your silence is deafening. You can’t hear yourself saying nothing over the growing cacophony screaming at you to flee from these revelations.

“Tell me you remember. Please. Tell me you remember. Our family. Our friends. You have to remember.” Kierke (Circe?) is begging now. Their voice cracks with every word. They step forward once. You do not move.

“...Kierke? Circe? I do not know either of these names. Please, surely someone else--” Before you can finish your sentence, they cut you off.

“No! It’s me! I can’t just spend this long trying to finish what I started to have you just not remember!” The fire lets off steam now. Every now and then, a strange liquid substance drips onto the flames, hissing and evaporating. It smells like salt.

“Finish what you... You found me. Your effort spent to find me has paid off. Even if you think I am someone I do not seem to be. This supposed Faodubh.”

“No, no, no, -- Faodubh, I keep telling you to listen.” Kierke’s voice now drops into a deep, somber register. “I just want you back.” They barely speak above a murmur. As though no matter what volume they speak at, their words will never penetrate the thick wall constructed around your mind -- the blindfold.

You say nothing. They take another step forward. The flames begin to overtake you. Their arms pull you in. You can feel something resting on your chest. Their head. You realize, perhaps late, that they are crying. Whimpering, sad sobs muffled by your cloak that you instinctively wrap around them. Focusing on this, the flames almost seem like home.

But that was never destined to last. Something screams past you, leaving behind a static. The fabric of your vision once again tears open, but it sews itself back shut. The shapes of everything around you shift yet again -- they are now alive. You feel every individual line, the empty spaces between them, closing in on you.

Beyond every shape, strings. Thin, nearly invisible strings that guide them towards you. They will snuff the flame. They will see you return to absolute nothing. As they get closer, the screaming static grows louder, louder, until it is absolutely deafening. You tear yourself from the spot, vanishing out from within Kierke’s arms.

The agony of both feet moving again is incomparable to anything you’ve ever felt. You can feel your very soul bleed. Every droplet on the forest floor is a lifetime of pain. And in the distance, over the static, you hear Kierke cry out in despair.