Log in

No account? Create an account

December 2007



Powered by LiveJournal.com

karonabwr in blackwaterstory

Karona Nethermyst - Part One

This is the first part for several more to come, and is a present-narrative backstory into the character of Karona. I may have went a little overboard with my poetic side, at some points, but I don't suppose it detracts from the actual writing in itself. Enjoy!

The memories flood back to me as if the celestial dam, structured so very intimately into my narrow mind, has been shattered into thousands of glimmering and serrated razor-edged images. They no longer hold the past at bay, no... Instead, they cascade through the river that is my personal time and space, ever flowing, so that they may contour my very thoughts with those cruel edges that had remained dull for so long... Questions arise from the seeping, scarring wounds, not blood. They drip into the lake of consciousness that the river proceeds from, conforming my actions, motivating me, confusing me, driving, annoying, proving and teasing, and tormenting me... And yet, despite all of my re-found internal sufferings, I have not the will to give up; my will keeps me moving on.

Nightmares can come and go, most often haunting one for only brief periods of time. Eventually, they dissipate into the outer reaches of the lake, perhaps to sink into the measureless depths of a trench that is the unconscious... And it is there, and only there it would seem, that they can deteriorate into oblivion -- never to be remembered. Apparently, such fortune has not been bestowed upon me.

And so my story begins...

My childhood was plagued with consistent mishaps and misfortune, as though I had been literally born into it. My Mother... oh, Mother... fell ill only a year or so following my birth. Of course, her immensely strong will, pride, and love for her child altogether allowed her to be strong, to persevere through in order to raise me. According to her diaries (which I found in the ruin of our small home), the priests could do nothing to properly cure or rid her of the pestilent sickness, although it had been week at that time. Thus, it remained, spreading frivolously through her body in the last mirthful years of her life.

Twelve years had passed in those beautiful and loving eyes of my Mother, and twelve years she denied her condition, and twelve years it festered inside of her. Twelve years... I had salvation. Protection, from that blasphemous bastard that was my Father...

He, too, suffered from a sickness; to be precise, he must have suffered from more than one. That sickness was his unwilling daughter, the mysterious fault to his very existence, his damnable legacy. I was the bane of his suffering -- an unwanted daughter. Twelve years... My Mother kept him by her side, and the question "Why?" still remains unanswered...

He sought to punish the unknowing cause cause of his suffering, but my guardian angel had kept him at bay. Rarely did a hand grace my young body with my Mother nearby to prevent it. However, this did not last -- would not last, and I knew it would not. Her sickness took full control, paralyzing her, dropping her into a dark paranoia and insanity. The misery befell her now, her final days to be spent confined in a tiny bed, in a minuscule room... And thus I was alone to witness, and experience firsthand, the wickedness of my Father. His hate towards me is another of the unanswered question of "Why?", and I fear it shall forever remain that way...

Punish me he did, and there was no escape; he always managed to find me when I ran away. I was abused on a daily basis, however I knew not how wrong of him it was, but now... It haunts me terribly, to recall the numerous things he did. I learned to hate him, despite my confusion, for the pain he caused me to endure. But salvation arose once again, my guardian angel returned from her darkness, only a month following her fall into it. She was well aware of my father and his sickening relationship with myself, and in her final day of life, she managed to scribe a letter. I knew not what it said; my life was simplistic, I learned not how to read or write at that time. I knew to do my best, for her, to get it delivered. And so I did. My mother passed that very night, and in my crying fit in the wood outside of our small lodging, as my father mourned inside next to the corpse, I remember flagging down a youthful passing courier. I answered no questions for her, merely giving her passing glances, or otherwise averting my eyes entirely, and handed off the letter of my Mother to her. In what I believe was sympathy, the elven courier accepted it, and rode off to leave me now... Entirely alone with my father. I had returned inside, to my own chamber, whimpering pathetically in one of the corners...

My father had come at that time into my chamber, devious and tear-struck, ensued by a fit of anguished frustration. He used that in advantage, and turned upon me once again.

It was the last time he ever would.