Maerchentic Persona
#5 of Maerchentic
"Maerchentic Persona"
by K.M. Hirosaki ([email protected])
AUTHOR'S NOTES: All stories, characters, and places within are copyright (c) 2004 K.M. Hirosaki
This is the fifth installment of 'Maerchentic.' I doubt it will make sense unless you've read the first four.
It's an unusual one this time, folks. Let me know what you think.
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MAERCHENTIC PERSONA
-=~in a sea of timeless consciousness is the mind of a frightened child~=-
Sometimes, I sit and I wonder how old I am.
That probably doesn't mean what you think it does. It's not like I've forgotten or lost count of the years. Perhaps I'd be better off rephrasing that to "I wonder how old I should consider myself." That probably makes a little bit more sense.
Part of me just thinks I should consider myself timeless, ageless, and eternal. For all I know, that might be the case. Yes, I know. I'm still not making sense, am I? Trying being me for a little while. We'll see how much sense you make then.
Making sense of things has always been the biggest problems of my existence. Half of the time, I don't even know what to call things. The rules of the world are different for me. It's the same world, though, and I'm definitely a part of it, despite how often it feels like I'm just watching it through glass.
Glass. That's what the mink was like. I told him that, and he didn't understand. Of course he didn't understand. How am I supposed to explain what it is I do? You don't just tell someone, "Yes, I'm metaphysically taking the form of your innocence, breaking into trillions of tiny shards, whereupon I will thrive upon those fragments for the next few weeks." Especially not while you're making love to someone; you just don't do that.
That's what it was, too. That was lovemaking. Maybe I didn't exactly 'love him' love him, but the act itself was still lovemaking. I know that I loved doing it, and naturally, I knew that he loved it, too. That sort of love isn't something I had felt in a long time, either, and I relished it so wonderfully. But it was the innocence that really got me.
I hadn't felt real innocence like that in the longest time. Must've been decades, I figure. It might have cropped up a few times in the meantime, but if it did, I don't remember it. Too much of the interim is overloaded with the negative emotions, and so the positive ones get covered up. When you folks talk about things being 'dark' in the emotional sense, let me tell you: you're not kidding.
No, before the mink, the last time I remember feeling such unspoiled innocence was my own. Except... it wasn't quite me that felt it. This gets back to what I said before. You know, the part about wondering how old I am.
My name (or is that 'his name?') was... well, the actual name isn't important, in the long run; I'm not sure if I'm even technically allowed to say I'm that person anymore. But my nickname was 'Auri,' and that's what I liked to be called. It's how I thought of myself. And after the incident, that was one of the few things I just wasn't able to let go of, and so 'Auri' I remain.
I kept the name, but I lost the innocence. I lost most of everything, really. But in return, I gained much, much more. It wasn't an even trade. If there was a way to going back to being what I was before, I think I would. Still, if that were possible, I don't know if I'd be able to survive without going mad. Things would just be too different.
Through the years and years, I've gotten so used to thinking of the emotions of others as a smorgasbord for myself. Wanting to be normal doesn't mean that I'd be able to adapt to being normal. I suppose that part of me should be bitter about that, but I'm not. And there's a reason that I'm not.
I enjoy what I do.
Some folks think that I'm sadistic. They're right, of course. I'm not going to lie and say otherwise. I hurt people, and I enjoy it. Sometimes it's physical, but mostly it's emotional and psychological. I hurt people, and I enjoy it. But that doesn't mean that I want to do it.
Maybe that seems like a contradiction. But it's not. Think of it like... like eating. Hell, that's practically what 'eating' is, for me. Eating is something that you need to do. If you don't eat, you die. Plain and simple. It's a requirement. But eating is pleasurable. It feels good to eat. It provides that impetus to eat again.
And when you're hungry, things taste better, don't they?
When I draw off of the thoughts of a person when they look at me and think that I'm arousing, it's like somebody's cooking dinner in the room next door. When I break the spirit of an arrogant man and make him concede to my will, it's like a beast sinking its jaws into the belly of its prey. For the victim, and from an outside viewpoint, it's horrible, of course. But the beast has no remorse. And neither do I. It's a necessity. It just happens to be an enjoyable necessity.
So, yes, I'm a sadist, and I like it. If I'm going to be forced into the role, I may as well make the most of it, right? There's not much of a choice to the matter. It's how I get by.
Actually, that's not true. I do have a choice. The emotions caused by pain and suffering aren't the only ones I can consume. Things like love, fear, innocence, satisfaction... all of those are viable options. Some of them are just better than others. And some of them are easier to get than others.
If you think of it that way, then perhaps I'm a bit of a hedonist, going for the easier, more satisfying route. But that probably comes as no surprise, I bet.
Lately, though, things keep coming back to that taste of innocence I got so recently. It was spectacular. Not only was it a different flavor of sustenance than I'm used to, it was more satisfying. And the person that I used to be was much more happy to be feeding off of something so positive and so... pure. I thought to myself, "It'd be great if I could just make do with this instead of playing with people's minds."
But then, cold reality hit me. How often would I even be able to find innocence like that, and have it be so readily given? Not often enough, certainly. And besides, after I had their innocence, I'd just need to leave. That would probably hurt them even more. That'd be worse than any sadism I could come up with. Right now, there's a young man out there who gave himself to me and doesn't remember, because I used the strength that he gave me in order to spare him from the agony of heartbreak.
I'm a paradox, I suppose. I love the suffering that I cause people, but I hate to have them suffer. Under most circumstances--sometimes, they deserve it.
Like that rich fucker. Damn, the gall of him! I went through so much time and effort, looking and researching to find someone who would appreciate the pleasure and attention I could give him. I deliberately found someone hard-to-please, so that I could be NICE, and give him that perfect pleasure which he sought. Then, I could feed off of that sheer bliss, and I'd be happy. We could both have gone home satisfied that night.
But no. He ruined it. He deserved the suffering that I caused him. And it was only made worse because the taste was so sour, mixing with my own anger and bitterness. Some tastes just don't mix well together on the tongue. It's times like that when I really begin to despise my existence, needing to feed the way that I do. It makes me wish that I had never been saved.
Again, we're back to the innocence. That just keeps coming up. And we're back to the question of my age. There's a reason why these threads connect where they do. But to understand that, you need to understand more about me. You need to understand who--what--I am.
I am Auri. I am a linsang. But at the same time, I'm neither of those things. I am something fundamentally different from what I was back before my innocence was lost. Whether it was luck, or perhaps a curse, time will tell.
Auri, as he--I--was, was a twelve-year-old boy when it happened. A twelve-year-old boy stands no chance against three grown men intent on venting their sexual frustrations. But for something that's drawn to an outpouring of pure emotion, there isn't much more intense than such a group of four people, all together in the same place. And that's where it happened.
I found the young boy right on the cusp of disaster. Something about experiencing abject terror for the first time was irresistible. But contrasting that with the violent, id-driven urges from the three men, the distinction was clear, and I had a choice to make. I asked the linsang child if he would like my help.
And when I heard that request for help, naturally, I accepted. I was being assaulted, and naturally, I would have taken even the longest of long shots for any hope of safety. The warm feeling entered my mind, and thoughts were mingled.
That was the moment where I lost my innocence.
The first of the men who laid a hand on me was killed instantly. My memory's a bit of a haze from that point, but if there was any more of him left besides a bloody smear on the wall, I'd be surprised. After that, the haze changes over to a blur, but I know that when everything was done, I was untouched, and the three men were dead. Only one of them had enough remains to constitute a body.
That was where I first tasted it for myself: terror. The last two to die had been utterly horrified to see the first of their number obliterated before their eyes. And their final moments were filled with naught but confusion, panic, desperation, and, at the very last, agony.
It was... scrumptious.
From that point on, I was supposed to separate again. I had given help, and I had made use of the power that had been granted. But something happened--and I don't think I'll ever know what--to prevent the dissolution. My running theory was that the intensity of emotions in those few seconds--going from fearing for my life, to reveling in chaos, and the resultant joy of survival--was just too much.
And so now, I am what I am. There is no more twelve-year-old boy, and there is no more metaphysical entity. Two have combined, with the result being different from either of the other. That is what I am.
I've tried to come up with a term for myself, but nothing really fit. If you replace 'blood' with 'emotion,' then I'm something sort of like a vampire, only... not quite. After I became a bit more sexual, I thought of myself as an incubus of sorts. But that implies that I'm after the sex.
Sure, I've got my sexual urges, but that's separate from feeding. I've still got a body, and a body has needs, too.
You might be wondering, then, where the sexual seduction shtick comes from. That part's simple: you dig where you know there's oil.
If you can try to, imagine that you're a confused being with untested magical abilities and the body of a twelve-year-old boy (I say that like it's so easy, I know). Part of you is still getting over the fact that you just killed three people, and part of you is confused as to why it's thinking in terms of "I" and not terms of "We."
Your first instinct is to flee. Your second instinct is to hide. You tap into some part of your mind that you didn't know that you had, and you change yourself; somehow, you change yourself. You want to feel safer, and stronger, and so twelve becomes twenty. Now, that takes a lot of juice out of you. Luckily, you've just overstuffed yourself at your last meal, so you've got enough to go around.
But now, you're hungry again.
Part of you still thinks it's twelve years old. Part of you knows that you're something far more ancient. Neither part is correct. Your mind needs the emotions of others. But you are bound by flesh. Walls, once nothing, are now hindrances. Water, once life, is just wet.
But you're physical. You can affect things. And part of you still thinks you're a twelve-year-old boy. And what do twelve-year-olds do when they need someone to notice them?
That's right--you cause trouble! You go out there, and you spark mayhem and chaos wherever you can! Like some faerie, impish creature, you wreak havoc, and you delight in the confusion that you cause among the people, because that confusion is your lunch. Your magics let you do things that folks won't believe--and stupefaction tastes an awful lot like candy at that age.
There's a problem, though, about reaping your harvest by causing problems for the "mortals," you suddenly realize--because you're one of the mortals as well. Even if that explosion you set off with your mind doesn't kill anybody, eventually, people are going to recognize that you're the key factor in all of these unexplained incidents. And you can't run forever. And even if you could, you couldn't feed. There needs to be another way.
So you decide to try a different tactic. Instead of perturbing the masses at a distance, you try to get REALLY strong emotions from single people, up close and personal. And when your survival depends on having supernatural empathy, you discover something pretty quickly.
People like sex. They really, really like sex. They think about it all the time, really. And they especially think about it when you do the right things. You've got something to work with. Now you need a mirror.
You stand in front of said mirror, and look at yourself. It's time to look your best. Not just 'the' best, mind--'your' best. So you alter a few things here and there, and you go with what you've seen works. After all, part of you has been around for a very long time, and they're not joking when they call it the World's Oldest Profession.
Now, you just need your modus operandi. You need to know how to hone in on your targets and get what you want, without fail. Women are emotional creatures, yes. But that sort of emotion is drawn out in a more long-lasting sense. You can't make time commitments like that. You need all of your emotion coming at you in raw, unbounded bursts.
Men: when it comes to the release of id, power tripping, and selfish gratification, they're your jackpot. That's what you want, and you know how to get them. You've given yourself the perfect face, perfect curves, and perfect ass. Dress yourself up like prey, to hide the fact that you're the predator. Men are going to want you.
Your first victim is a wolf. Why not? He's a burly chunk of masculine energy. He'll be good for you. So you provoke him. You wear tight leather pants and a chain collar, and you make yourself very, very available. You swish that awesomely seductive tail of yours to make sure that his attention is right there on your ass, where you want it, and where he wants it.
He takes the bait. You smile. The dance has begun. You can flirt nigh-flawlessly, because you're the next best thing to an outright mind reader. Of course, he never realizes this, because one, you're just that good, and two; you're too sexy for him to care even if he noticed.
You 'let' him buy you a drink. He doesn't actually usually do that sort of thing, but you throw a few suggestions into the back of his brain to make him do it. That way, more eyes are on you, and the rest of the patrons in the establishment get a bit jealous. Jealousy, you discover, makes for a wonderful hors d'oeuvre. That morsel of emotion fuels your power. You make that wolf your bitch before you're even anywhere near a bedroom.
The best part is, wolfy doesn't even know he's your bitch. He's still dripping and oozing with disgusting self-confidence that you can slurp off of here and there. And he's horny. Even without sensing emotions, you know that his cock is straining hard in his pants, because he just wants your ass so badly, that he'll do anything to do it.
And so you make him.
You tease him for hours and hours, and even after you're alone together, you drag it on. He's dying to just blow his wad, but you force him to sit in agony, as you don't quite put out. Finally, he starts getting frustrated. Better reel the sucker in, now, because otherwise, he'll decide to leave, and the energy you blow on forcing him to stay will be more than you get from the meal itself.
The wolf brings you to the bed. You let him tear those leather pants off of you, and he lubes that fat cock of his up. It's nice-looking, you think, but yours is pretty. He wraps his hefty arms around your slight, feminine frame, and he throws you on your back onto the bed, and now, he has his prize.
But you have your prize, too. If you weren't dependant on drinking his lust, it'd almost be worth it just for the look on his face alone as he finally gets to shove his dick into you. He holds you by the ankles, and spreads your legs wide. You've never done this before, but still, you're a pro. You're the best goddamn fuck he's ever had, and his pleasure is the sweetest thing you've tasted, you realize, since you killed a room full of people in self-defense a few years ago. Now, you know that your plan works. This is the way to go.
You beg the guy to slam your tight little ass harder. It turns him on. He spreads you a bit wider, and that hot, slippery cock keeps hitting nice and deep inside of you. Coincidentally, you don't even need to fake the whimpering noises as he pumps you full of his cock incessantly. You realize, shamelessly, that you get your own pleasure from that. Unfortunately, that's an emotion that doesn't go on your plate. It's okay, though, because you're coming up on the end of the main course, and dessert is next. The twelve-year-old inside of you that never died--he fucking loves dessert.
The wolf pulls out, and you're already devouring his rush of his orgasm before his fat tip even begins to spurt. He shoots his load all over you. The strange, new sensation of wet stickiness spraying your fur is nice, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of an unadulterated male climax vented specifically at you.
Fortune smiles upon you. You get a bit of an after dinner drink, as you slowly sip down wolfy-boy's twisted sense of pride over the fact that he just came all over you. He's so fucking smug. He thinks he's hot shit. He thinks that he just made you his bitch.
Oh, how wrong he is. He just spent all night playing right along with whatever you wanted him to, like an overgrown action figure. Now it's your turn to be the cocky little motherfucker. You've earned it.
Tomorrow night? Do it all again. Change it up a bit. Maybe go with someone who wants you to play 'pet,' and munch down his elation when you let him jizz all over your pretty face.
They say, "Third time's a charm." And before night number three is even over, you know you're addicted. You could turn back, maybe, but that would take effort.
Besides, most addictions are bad for you, and down the line, they'll probably kill you, but this addiction keeps you alive.
This is why I have no remorse about what I am. I enjoy what I need to do in order to survive. Am I still a sadist? Yes. People get over pain, eventually. It's up to me to cause new turmoil in the minds of people so that I can continue to exist. Survival of the fittest has never, ever implied fairness.
The rules are different for me. They always will be. Not even magic can change that. I don't need to, though. Like I said, I have no remorse about what I am. I can't help what I am. I just am. But that doesn't mean I'm not remorseful about what I've done.
I've made people suffer. I liked doing it, too. I've brought proud men to their knees; I've broken the will of stalwart folk. There have been times where I've lied through my teeth and harnessed the reigns of mind and soul to trick someone, just so I could eat their fucking surprise when they realized that I was on top of them instead of them being on top of me. And one time, many, many years ago, I killed a group of three people.
I don't regret that, though, either. I'll never regret that. They were scum among scum, and they deserved to die, probably more slowly than I let them. Sometimes I wish for the power to bring them back to life, just to kill them again. Sure, I could devour their suffering anew, but the real reason I'd do it would just be to feel MY pleasure when I got to do it.
Maybe I'm not exactly sure about the times I've felt innocence since I changed. But I do know that I've never cried since becoming what I am, except for one time.
Somewhere out there, there's a college sophomore. He's probably got a bright future ahead of him. Powers willing, he'll make some lucky person very happy someday. His strength of character is amazing; he's a bit shy, but he'll get over it.
This lovely young man gave me his innocence. And while I was drunk with rapture from that, I could taste for one moment--just one fleeting moment--that somewhere, deep down inside, he was hoping that someday, he'd fall in love with me. I couldn't let him experience the suffering of having to learn that that could never come to be. So I took those moments from him, leaving him ignorant, and sparing him the pain.
But I still think that's the worst thing I've ever done.