Another week has passed and I am anxious that I will never reach him again, but I boil to hear the praise of others upon him. Kronia is past now and there is nothing but the cruel, icy winter upon the surface. I worry that he is cold, that he is sad and alone, yet I hope that he is and that he continues to be. He hates me now; I'm sure of it. He abandoned me in life, so I abandoned him in death. I am still busy untangling his web.
This process is excruciatingly slow, but I cannot erase my entire childhood, no matter how much I wish that I could. My distaste for hunting goes far beyond that of the other men here. I tell them that a bow and an arrow is a coward's weapon and they tell me that they would rather not have come to Hades for the hate of a fluffy animal pit against them. I wished one hunter would.
Whenever Narcissus dies, I hope he will go to Tartarus for what he has done and he will have no friends there, just as none were true in life. Although, sometimes I worry that he will. I am in the fields of Asphodel, in the unrelenting mist, left to be forgotten to history. I could drink from the Lethe, forget everything, but where would that leave me? Dumb and numb to all the world, I suppose. When I am angry, at least I feel something at all and it is perhaps less dangerous than if I did not. People will assume I did not, for cursing him as I fell, that I was his downfall as well.
YOU ARE READING
AMEINIAS
Short StorySo often we hear of what befell Narcissus, of how he was condemned to forever gaze upon his own reflection, doomed to wither away. Never do we hear of how he abused those around him, unrelenting and unaware. While Echo may not speak of it, Ameinias...
