The Tale of Katan D.

 

How is everyone doing?  I thought I would try writing something a little different than usual. 
 I hope you like it!

 

The Tale of Katan D.

To begin this tale, I want to clarify that this story isn’t about me.  In fact, I’m not at all quite sure it’s about any one singular person.  For all I knew, it might involve perhaps two or four or even a hundred different persons.  But how was I to know?  And as I didn’t know, you all shall know no more than I.  So I guess you could say that at the commencement, this story was quite a bit about my own self. 

So I’ll begin by stating that I (who was the only being present at this time) didn’t know how or why, but I woke to find myself in the interior of some strange mansion.

I will attempt as best I can to paint a word picture of this mansion.  I was in the corridors, as mentioned before.  It was extremely dark so offering a description might prove to be a challenging task.  The walls were red.  Not red like the cheerful color of holly, but more of a dark and menacing red, closer to the color of black cherries.  There seemed to be an assortment of chairs and furniture about me but, as was the case with many of them, I couldn’t make out which piece might be a settee and which was a table as they were covered in white sheets.  The floor on which I was pacing was covered in a thick rug that was the same black cherry red but with looping patterns of gold entwined.  As I waited in this place, the idea to remove the sheets and take a seat upon one of the surely sumptuous pieces of furniture was, of course, a definite desire to any person exhausted from pacing and anxiety.  However, as I looked about me, I felt they were too fine and too shut away from the likes of someone as I.  Even though, as I’ve said before, I knew as little as to why I was where I was as an infant might know when born into this dark and insane world. 

To continue on with my story:  somehow, despite the enormous uncertainty of my predicament, I knew I was where I was for a reason.  I was also quite certain that the reason was not one of the pleasant nature.  But I had absolutely nothing for which to aid me in deciphering who I was or what my mission was in my being in this mysterious, ornate room.

 I ceased pacing and reached into my pockets in an act of frustration.  Once doing, I felt my fingers brush against a piece of paper.  I quickly dug the parchment out and studied it for a moment as if struck with a certain pang of something I could not comprehend.  This lasted only a moment and after but a single breath, I unfolded the letter and surveyed its contents.  There was a short sentence scrawled hastily.  But despite the speed in which it was apparently written, I could deduce it was penned by the graceful hand of a female.  But once I read the message, I began to give more care as to its author. 

“Meet me at midnight,” it said “your life may depend on it.” 

I impulsively shoved the note back into my pocket, as if afraid of someone seeing it.  What did it mean: my “life may depend on it”?  Was I to die?  Why?  Why was this happening?  These questions, and a million more beside, whirled around inside me like a hurricane, along with a strange and horrible feeling I simply could not dismiss. 

 The grandfather clock against the wall clanged back and forth in the distance, droning on and on as the time dragged.  I stopped my pacing (which I had since picked up again) to glance out of the window.  The night was black, nearly intense, but the wind and rain were fierce in equal measure.

“What am I doing here?”  I at last gave a voice to the all-empowering question. 
For all I knew or felt or understood, was that I was in some sort of strange dream from which I longed to wake.  Or maybe I was locked away in some alternate universe with no chance of ever escaping.  I did not know.  And not knowing is torment in itself.

I could not explain it.  Not if I had a thousand years in which to relay the weight of my predicament.  But here I was, and here I was to wait, as the mysterious letter instructed, until the hour of midnight made its arrival. 

Just when I thought I was to remain alone with only the ticking of the clock and the torment of my ceaseless anxiety and thoughts, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming from the hallway directly to the front of me.   But when I lifted my eyes to see who was there, I saw nothing.

“Hello.”  A voice behind me uttered.  I whirled around quickly.  My heart felt as if it were nearly to pound out of my chest from the unexpected meeting, but I felt myself begin to relax as I realized who now stood before me.  It was a young woman.  She was beautiful; short and slender with dark hair, lips as red as rubies, and skin like milk.  Her features were solemn and her lips drawn.  Her brow was arched downwards, in a way I could not quite decipher what she was feeling.  Perhaps, determination, perhaps sorrow, but I could not detect fear as I for some reason expected to.  But maybe it was my own fear that I expected to see mirrored in her visage.  All in all, I found myself speechless for a moment as I observed her.

At last when I found my tongue I seemed unable to withhold a multitude of questions from escaping me.  “Who are you?  Who am I?  Where am I?  How long have I been here?  Why am I here?”

“Please.”  She interrupted my slew of inquiries.  I stopped my ramblings as quickly as I began them.  The silent urgency in the simple word she spoke struck panic throughout me.

“Please,” she repeated with hardly the slightest intonation in her steady voice, “there is no time.”

At this moment, something began to change in me.  I could not explain it, not if I had my whole life in which to express the feelings swirling through me.  I knew I needed to do something, but I had no idea the course of action I was to take.

I looked into the face of the beautiful and strange young woman before me and felt a sudden desperation in a way I had never experienced.  “What am I to do?”  I asked—nay, begged…pleaded.  “Please, tell me what I need to do.”

She smiled at me, softly, gently, and, if I didn’t know better, tenderly.  “You already have.”

What did she mean that I “already have”?  What did I do?  I felt as if a thousand and one years of guilt were throwing their dark shadow upon me.  I had the all empowering urge to scream.

The grief within me grew with such intensity; I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.  “What am I to do?  Oh, please, what am I to do?”  I realized then that I was crying.  I seemed to find some sort of sense with this realization, if not the slightest hint of relief.  I slowly relaxed my grip on her shoulders.  “Why am I crying?”  I asked.

“Please…I-I don’t know..”

“Yes you do.”  I replied, lifting my gaze, I looked deeply into her eyes.  The blueness of them was all so enchanting and eerily familiar to me.  I searched through them desperately, as if certain I was to find the answers to all of my questions within them.  “Tell me.”  I gasped, sliding my hands away and leaning forward.  I was suddenly exhausted, as if looking into her eyes had drained me of every ounce of energy.

She said nothing for a moment, but finally, she gently lifted my chin so I was forced to look into her piercing gaze once more.  “I think you already know.”

I somehow managed to bring my gaze back to her face, despite the feeling that there was the weight of a thousand deaths buried within her soul’s window.  A thousand deaths of people I knew, that I had experienced, and a thousand deaths I had caused.

I reached frantically into my pocket and retrieved the note that had been burning a hole in my pocket ever since I knew of its existence.  “Meet me at midnight; your life may depend on it.”

Shakily, as a man drunk with fear and trepidation, I crumpled the letter and let it fall to the ground. 

“I remember.”  I said. 

The shame I felt in this moment haunts me to this day.  If I could go back to where I stood that wretched day, I would scream and tear at the invisible chains that bound me.  I would try as hard as I might to end the sorrow—to end the pain that I had caused.  Oh, that I could change the past!  Oh, that I could change the fate of that horrid day!  Let all who read this beware of cowardice.  It creeps upon you, quiet and harmless.  It seems like light and joy and freedom from pain and sorrow.  But once accepted into your life, it no longer becomes a safe haven, but a living hell.  It offers salvation, but ends only in misery and self hatred.  I write this narrative to warn you of its danger.

As I gazed into this young woman’s eyes, I saw the heart of everything I should have been.  All that was courageous and dutiful and good seemed to be embodied in her.  For I will tell you, bravery is the not like cowardice.  It shows not light and freedom in its wake.  For when one chooses bravery, there are two paths—one of success and one of failure.  But what I did not know then, is that both paths reap a reward far beyond that of safety.  As I looked into her eyes, I saw the joy that came with bravery.  Long have I wished for that joy, and long have I wished to see her again.  For she was the one I loved and the one I could never be like.

As I shook and sobbed with all the guilt and pain within me, she gently lifted my head.  “If I could do this for you a thousand times over, I would.”  She said.

I simply sat there, like the cowering fool that I was.  “Is there no other way?”

She shook her head.  “Do not worry, dear Katan, I forgive you.” 

In the distance, the clock struck the twelfth hour.

“Remember,” my love whispered, “You are a good man, you have only to realize that.”

Slowly, yet all too quickly, she began to fade.  The wind from the storm outside swirled through and around her, lifting her raven hair into the air and soon, the rest of her lifted with it.  I simply watched her awestruck.  A black mist appeared to be clouding around her, but I could not see its source, until I looked down.  The source, revered reader, was me.  I tried to grasp on to the blackness escaping from me.  I struggled at it, pushed at it, fought it, but it was to no avail.  As the blackness fully left me, I looked up at my love, she was enshrouded with it.  But unlike me, when it reached her, it turned into something, not so terrible and disgusting, but beautiful.  Before I had a chance to understand what I was seeing, the mist was overcoming her and the wind was sweeping her away from me.  From above, she looked down at me, her eyes searching through me.  It is an image I never have forgotten.  It is an image I see when I close my eyes at night and it is the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning.  It is a memory that has haunted me for the rest of my days. 

The mist was all about her now.  The wind and rain gave one more turbulent blow, and then, she was gone.

Looking back to the years gone by, I see what could have been, I see what I could have been.  If you have felt any hint of compassion towards me throughout the length of this discourse, I am sure to snuff it out now.  You see, in my cowardice, this young woman was not the only one who suffered.  Oh no.  She suffered the price for all of my other sins I have committed in the name of self preservation.  I will say it now, as I should have long ago:  I have hurt and I have killed in my desperation and my fear.  This is not to say that I do not love, for I have loved fiercely for my fellow kind, specifically for the raven-haired hero.  But, I am ashamed to say, that despite my deep devotion to her, the fear of death and the love of safety tore me away from her.  This whole narrative is to paint a picture of my life.  The house I found myself in was the house I made for myself.  Beautiful, ornate, but shielded from me.  It was there for me, but I found not peace there, but discontentment.  I found not love, but loneliness.  I found not joy, but sorrow.

Someone had to pay the price for my cowardice, but I was too much of a fool to do so myself.  And so she—the most courageous being that ever drew breath, answered the request for a soul.  She traded her life in return for the many lives I have ruined in my attempt to save my own life.  She saved me and in doing so, I allowed another death to be taken in my name.

And now I am prepared to end my wretched life of cowardice.  I intend to make one last act out of fear and shame.  And you, dear reader, you shall be the last to know of this.  Let this be my final testament.  You know how I died, and we shall leave it at that.  If you ever find yourself in my mansion of doom—my prison of self-worth, perhaps you will take my advice, and escape from this place as soon as you can.

May every piece of this discord be taken word for word.

Signed: