When I was able to recollect a portion of what happened after my mental blackout, the evoked memories came swarming back to me as a merged compilation of blearing highlights. Moving sequential images, and audial-stifled mutters are replayed from each broken scene shown to me. I could barely make sense of them, for they were just random extracts.
Samples sourced from varied and numerous scenarios, ranging from measly seconds to hours. They are a splintered and contaminated recollection of my subjectivity. My memories. Whether it is a scene, an emotion, a face, a voice, an identity, or an audible sample of background noise, those were the parts that stood out to me from within my clouded perspective that was influenced and governed by a hungering primeval lunacy, while four high golden walls isolated me.
Pained and aggravated by my own injuries. Stripped of the breathing contraption on my face. I was forced to learn how to breathe all over again, but this time without a reliance, and to use mind over matter instead. I had to delude myself into believing I could actually breathe without oxygen in my lungs - so that the lie may eventually become the truth.
I needed to adapt quickly. I needed to suffer first to survive, to function, to live in his reality.
It was a nightmarish struggle to overcome my asphyxiation. Torturous even. It was as though death was taunting me from the imperceptible beyond when I was on the brink of breathlessness, and yet, I wasn't allowed to die.
But, as the heightened awareness of my harrowing experience started to mellow, my false sense of time in confinement became noticeable. The reclaimed and shattered influx of memories that survived the slow, excruciating madness stayed.
They are the ones worth remembering.
Back then, I was filled with irrationality and pain. I was overpowered and driven by a raw animalistic instinct known as a "primal high." I've been told it is a type of mania induced by certain elements of divinity, especially the ones that have impassioned or unpredictable personalities. The ones who have an insatiable hunger for expressing their dominance; such examples are electricity and fire. The electricity continuously stimulated and amplified my high prey drive to an unnatural extent. Accompanying my unbridled insanity.
I have a vague recollection of lashing out and hissing at anything – or anyone who dared to come too close to me. My newborn feral nature was the reason why my recovery period was so painstakingly prolonged, since it was delayed in regular intervals.
So much so, most of my memories are now missing, and some of them are poorly remembered. From what I could discern from the fragments, Ira did visit me frequently.
He would crouch down behind the semi-transparent wall in front of me and made sure he maintained eye contact throughout as he spoke. Treating me as if I were still sane. But unfortunately for me, I wasn't able to fathom what he was saying, except for "I'm sorry."
I couldn't answer him properly as I was incapable of coherent thought and speech at that time. All I could do was sense and feel what was around me. Self-preservation and my burning appetite for revitalization were my two main motivations.
And when I did finally regain control of my mind, I found myself released from the snares of insanity.
Later on, Ira explained to me that when certain divine elements are stressed or used improperly for long periods of time, they produce a manic euphoria within the soul, commonly known as the "height of mania."
He also mentioned that the difference between a divine element and the standard sort is the existence of consciousness. The divine element has a separate self-awareness and the capability to destroy or maim a soul, whereas its ordinary elemental twin does not.
I have personally seen the extent of what a divine element can achieve from the environment around me - to engaging in close combat with a one-eyed behemoth - to the planetary annihilation enacted by Vonplex himself.
From the standpoint of an insignificant mortal, as the Wa-omme addressed me as such, it may be considered an incomprehensible and limitless power; perhaps even a divine miracle or curse?
The Sincistic Mal was extremely fortunate to have fled with his life when he did – lest his soul taste total obliteration.
There is no doubt in my mind that his heart will come to bear a grave and ugly scar. My injuries and the once unshakable lethargy in my bones had added more reasoning to the element's desire to consume another soul in hopes of revitalizing me. Through the only method it knows. Energy consumption. Domination. The best means, given the severity of my condition.
I trace along the edges of my jawline with my fingertip, never allowing my talons to touch. It won't be too long now until it is fully healed. When I tried to apologise to Ira for the way I acted, he insisted I wasn't to blame. That it was not my fault.
And thus, the twinge of guilt has not left me since.
I lower my hand. Watching the monumental energy-scape from my gilded balcony. The immense golden river of particles flows ceaselessly throughout the soul-born astral planet. They circulate protectively around a stationary black sun positioned at the heart of the upper sphere - instead of a nebula. The sable orb grows in subtle, incremental stages. From a simple glance, it is unnoticeable at first, but when you try to gauge the frame of false time spent here, the progression of its expansion is blatant.
Like an egg gradually growing inside a womb. Enlarging. Amassing energy.
I don't know what it is, or why it's here.
But I doubt it's just for show – and yet I've never thought to ask him, until now.
His soul is ever-changing and mesmerising. From the consistent view of the eternal eclipse and the grand elevated river, to this façade of a facility, everything here is made of his energy, including the interior of my present accommodation. His prana. Everything which exists here is begotten from his very being, and obeys the laws of his reality.
For a mortal such as myself to live in his essence, I have to meet him halfway and comply with the law of "mind over matter."
If you visualize yourself as a living organism that can function normally with no issue at all, then it shall happen – as long as there isn't any doubt. This place is where belief and notion can become real. If there is any ounce of disbelief or skepticism, your soul shall be dragged into the strong currents of the grand life force stream.
I am alive because of Ira, and if he wanted to, he could have left me to die or effaced me without so much as a second thought.
I move away from the balcony and steer myself back inside through the open archway. My reflection on the floor glides ahead of my moving feet, corresponding to my swift steps. The height of the surrounding walls and the ceiling above is fairly high. The room Ira has lent me is spacious and has pleasant acoustics. I meander over to the levitating slab in the centre of the room. On top of the polished work surface lies the disembodied soul of the wa-omme, I had put out of commission - and deservingly so.
His soul is held down in place by a debilitating net of static. The pulsations of its life force are rapid and irregular, as though it is mimicking a racing heart. I lean over the edge of the work surface and cup the imprisoned brilliance in my hands, enclosing my talons around its pale blue essence. I then tilt and rotate it before veering my attention to the set of diverse instruments aligned in a row, resting beside the paralyzed subject. Provided for me by Ira.
He has informed me of the purpose of each tool here and has already demonstrated how to utilize them properly. Being here has certainly nurtured my little acts of sadism, especially when I have the necessary tools to indulge them to the fullest; and therefore, for my first choice, I select a clasp, as well as a magenta strip measured at medium length. A blade of livid crimson materialises and extends down from the handheld strip, delegating it to the role of a handle.
And so with a steady hand, I begin to cut into the Wa-omme's aura while using the clasp to hold onto the partially sliced energy field.
Diligence is crucial because all it takes is the slightest of tremors to reduce one's efforts into shambles. Then a subsequent, anguished outcry of his soul ensues as the auric layer is peeled back like skin.
The pitiful bemoans and wails of the one who scarred my chest shall receive his just reward at last.
The ongoing frequency of his rapid palpitations stops, and his life force quivers, flaring up like an ill-tempered azure flame. Even when he is in a disembodied state, his soul is still able to feel pain. Then, a terrible smile crept across my countenance. Another tendency of mine I have recently developed while in Ira's care. I apply minimal pressure on the handle as I saw back and forth, cutting away at the first astral layer. Eventually reaching the hardened astral membrane underneath. An ardent combination of intrigue and vexation emanates within me. I lean further in - lowering myself.
"Listen to me very carefully." I snarl at the soul beneath me. "You belong to me now, and therefore I shall use you in any way I see fit. I will make sure that you suffer a degrading agony worth a thousand lifetimes. And by the time I am done with you, you will no longer be able to recognise yourself, that I promise you."
The pointed end of the blade slits the membrane, and water exudes from the long, lined incision, allowing a minor deluge to spill onto the work surface; not quite spanning wide enough to reach the set of surgical tools laid adjacent to the subject, therefore remaining untouched.
"Only through death can you meet your salvation."
I readjust the clasp and grip the wet perimeter of the newly made incision while my knife cuts deep. Diving into the bleeding wound. Piercing straight through the white membrane itself, causing a minor perforation, as I feel another layer underneath. It is soft, thick, and heavily layered.
Are there multiple perhaps?
The unexplored inner structure makes me question the extent of its depth. Then the tip of my blade strikes something solid – and silver. It refuses to penetrate any further, and the tip slips sideways across the smooth yet ridged coated barrier under the weighted pressure of my hand.
Could this be the soul's nucleus?
I replace both the radiant dissection knife and the clasp with another tool, one that is more befitting for the next phase of this delicate procedure.
I pluck two golden strands from the selection of tools, one for each hand. The instant it made skin contact, it autonomously weaves itself around the base of my fingers, creating an intricate network of threads in between and manifests a secondary set of talons, which encase my own. I sink my energy-constructed digits into the thick multi-layered membrane, enrooting my infiltratory grip, and rive it asunder, as I am eager to uncover the protected nucleus underneath.
Then I step back as a shimmering projection of moving images and sounds bursts out from the tear, piquing my intrigue. Drawing me towards the scenes.
Are these – memories?