TDV 68: Filling The Empty ThroneMay 27th, 2010 by Sharkchild
I thought I had told the Doctors nothing but the truth regarding my wounds, yet their doubt in my words led me to not wholly believe in those insects of memories crawling behind my eyes. They wanted to know how the rings of flesh were once missing at the wrists of my bloodless arms and how a ring of flesh was once missing at my neck without the décor of crimson.
Indeed, anyone should wish to know such answers, so I told them the truth—the only truth I knew and the only story I knew how to tell. But the Doctors would not receive it. Every week they came and withdrew me from my cell and every week they asked me the same questions. Mainly their probing led to the defining of the role I played concerning the wounds, but my account did not involve any of my doings; I was a victim, and especially not of myself.
As the weeks came and went, I began to divulge less and less of what I remembered when the Doctors came to inquire of me. For one thing, I realized that the florescence of my details gave ignition to punitive results, and second, the line between nightmare and reality had become a pool of mixed elements, leading me astray from the substantial qualities of confident testimony, and beyond that, cognizance. I would rather have not remembered anything regarding the incident at all; that would have saved me great torment, or at least given cause to administer it.
The wounds they found upon me as I lay on the floor of my prison cell were deep—almost all of the way to the bone. They were circular cuts—rings: one on each of my wrists and one around my neck. There was no bleeding; the wounds were completely clean as if those rings of flesh had been removed by teleportation and the fissured blood vessels somehow instantly sealed.
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