Because I Love You ~

Chapter 3: The Alien Within

"In some way or another, those who truly love will find their counterparts, no matter in what form. And who are we to judge love, the fleeting touches between muscles? We only watch, gasp, and cry." -Olive

Dreaming most often occurs in the REM stage of sleep, where GABA (inhibitor) neurotransmitters induce sleep paralysis. The restriction of bodily movements allows the dreamer to safely move about in their fantasies without fear of corporeal movement. With the advent of new chemicals altering the structure and release of neurotransmitters, it is all the more likely that sleep paralysis may be disabled in those taking severe medications... more information found in Professor Chase's report on page 351 -Horton's Introduction to Psychology

Things moved slowly in Akrasia.

Beyond the dense fabric of the overcast thicket, scattered cumulonimbus clouds puffed languidly, their shadows forming blotches of darkness across the afternoon sky. A weak light illuminated the rocky stone path as Senkath made his way into town, a gray glow but no sun.

Senkath's mansionesque residency was situated on the Northern outskirts of Akrasia, where two jutting mountain peaks surrounded a fjord, remnants of a deceased glacier from long ago. Following a stony path inlaid with granite, marble, and basalt slabs, he made his way southward towards the little villa, pausing at the halfway point where Dr. Sotto's stuffy wooden cottage lay. It was brightly lit on the inside and he caught the whiff of nostalgic jazz twirling from vinyl. An aimless humming noise followed the melody, floating out onto his terrace, the doctor's haven for carnivorous plants. Thick swashes of venus flytraps were separated by beautiful dollops of pitcher plants and the occasional sticky bulbs of honeydew.

He walked past the doctor without greeting, for he had been there just two days ago and had nothing new to report; his delusions had faded completely, he had the reconnaissance with Heather he had dreamed of for years, and nothing seemed out of place. A hidden sprinkle of blackness catches his attention, lodged just under his fingernail. He grooms it away, muttering to himself about the oddness of soil being caught in his hands when he so regularly washed them. The soil was dense, lusciously onyx, so different from the brown loam that surrounded the rocky shores of his fjord. Taking immaculate attention to detail and satisfied at the result, he notices a mirror of the black soil in Dr. Sotto's terrace. Resolving to question the doctor about it later (something must have happened when he was unconscious during the last visit, with him neglecting to wash his hands over the days...), Senkath gripped the heather flowers he had brought with him and trudged on ahead. It seemed uncharacteristic of him to sully himself without cleansing, but he had awakened recently with a great strain in his arms, presumably from the injection of muscle relaxant, and as the afternoon was drifting quickly towards night, he abandoned doubts and quickly found his way into the villa.

The bulk of Akrasia lived in a tightly-knit community of densely packed huts of juxtaposing exteriors; a dark, gaunt, looming building was squished between a cutesy cottage and a homely cabin. The scent of cinnamon and sugar clung to the air often, as sweet bakeries were a staple to the lumberjacks, farmers, and agricultural town.

Senkath, even with his moseying excursion, found himself in the lively town within around forty minutes of walking. He did not bother to check the time; no one in Akraisa (save for the Doctor) had cellphones or wished for one. Large towering clocks were found inside the houses with an especially decorous one marking the central point of the villa.

Today, the markets were bustling with activity. It was a quaint, respectable place; farmers advertised bundles of rounded, glistening fruit, apothecaries had scattered tarot cards on the floor, butchers drew up large rounds of meat. Though little in number (just barely a hundred people, as he recalled) lived in the dreary town, it was clamorous and interwoven through the day. Senkath knew that when night fell, the villagers would disperse into their own homes, disentangling and spending evenings in isolation from the other inhabitants.

He passed through the ruckus, hearing neighbors barter with each other as he drifted southward into the town cemetery. The air grew cool and damp, seemingly unwelcome. The rustling of leaves in the ground caught his attention—a feral raccoon or vole, if not a fragment of his imagination. The cemetery itself was by no means unique. Overturned black soil tilled in neat lines was covered with five rows of tombstones. Still clutching in his hands the heather branch from his backyard, Senkath found the weathered marble tomb inlaid with slightly tarnished gemstones—slightly translucent and glittering topaz, opal, and rubies, forming a necklace around her name. In the middle, a picture of her lay unscathed, smiling brightly, hands waving. He brushes the picture lightly, caressing gently as if cradling an infant.

"That was a wonderful picnic, wasn't it? It's been a year now."

Silence.

He chuckles under his breath.

"I have to get used to talking without your bubbly laughter and quick wit. Recently, I've been thinking about before. You know, before everyone scattered."

Senkath speaks to the unmoving marble passionately, fondly, quashing and disquieting worries that plagued him ever so often. He spoke of his delusions vanishing, of his time with her, of his adventures with Olive, of his recent excursion with the odd doctor, of his romantic fantasies now that a young woman was staying with him.

"-puppets as people! People as puppets! Imagine that."

Guilt makes Senkath fluster a bit and he quickly restates himself in a hurried explanation.

"I'll remember to visit you often, of course, so please don't be jealous, ok? Though I must say, it's about time I move on. Keeping you here, away from Olive, is much too unfair. Olive..."

His fingers trace the edges of his neck where a slight discoloration is. The blood vessels had healed a while ago, but the brandishing of a purple necklace remained.

"I'm visiting you for Olive too. Well then, until next time, Heather. I lo-" He coughs, clearing his throat and flashing a melancholy smile. "I'll miss you."

He places the heathers onto her tombstone, patting the silky soil and notifying the little mushrooms popping up above her casket. Fly agarics, glittering with white specks over their brilliant red luster. Poisonous, yet beautiful to behold. Patting the fine dirt off, he tips his head in farewell, walking away from the graveyard. Underfoot, the black soil is loose and unkempt. He doesn't notice.