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wtf_hollowJust a character sketch, exploring Roy's newfound friend.
Who is he?
It's a good question. One to which he'd very much like to know the answer, for his own peace of mind if nothing else.
There's too much he doesn't know, too few memories that can be trusted. The only ones he's certain of only date back a few weeks. Anything before that, and it's like stepping into a fog bank; shadowy forms that approach and recede without ever resolving, and fantasies of forms that may or may not resemble their source in sunlight. Some of his tattered recollections contradict one another, and there's no knowing which is correct, and which is false, so he lives caught somewhere between denial and dissonance, and mostly tries to avoid remembering at all.
But before he came to be here, in this town, in this tower, he remembers being with Them. They kept him, and he let them, because he didn't know anything else. Had he always been there? Before that is the fog, and the uncertainty, and he pulls away from the question. They made choices for him, told him what to do, and it was easier than trying to swim through the haze that slowed his reasoning, and made it so hard to think. It was comfortable, after a fashion, because familiarity breeds comfort and he had no other experience to compare anyway.
But sometimes, even through the foggy emptiness in his head, something roused at what he was told to do. It would examine his instructions, confused and slow, but uncertain that the choices being made for him were good. Possibly, they were bad.
Still, he obeyed. However even the soft, empty parts of his mind couldn't settle his wakened conscience. And he had never forgotten the lesson that questions, disobedience, resistance- these all led to punishment. So he did the only thing he could do. He escaped.
These memories, the escaping. They are the first ones he knows he can call his, and true. He knows, because after he left each morning found the foggy places in his brain smaller, and easier to push through. He knows, because leaving Them was like waking up, like looking away from a picture and seeing the real world moving and breathing and kicking up dust.
The longer since his escape, the more things he remembers. But they don't make sense, they have no context, no chronology. They aren't all real. Some, he hopes are not real. Sometimes he wants to make up his own stories from the scraps, to stitch them together into something he likes, and can wear like it's actually his, but in the end it feels too much like a lie. He thinks he'd rather not be anyone, than be something made up on a whim.
That doesn't mean he doesn't hope some of the stories are true anyway.
Who is he?
It's a good question. One to which he'd very much like to know the answer, for his own peace of mind if nothing else.
There's too much he doesn't know, too few memories that can be trusted. The only ones he's certain of only date back a few weeks. Anything before that, and it's like stepping into a fog bank; shadowy forms that approach and recede without ever resolving, and fantasies of forms that may or may not resemble their source in sunlight. Some of his tattered recollections contradict one another, and there's no knowing which is correct, and which is false, so he lives caught somewhere between denial and dissonance, and mostly tries to avoid remembering at all.
But before he came to be here, in this town, in this tower, he remembers being with Them. They kept him, and he let them, because he didn't know anything else. Had he always been there? Before that is the fog, and the uncertainty, and he pulls away from the question. They made choices for him, told him what to do, and it was easier than trying to swim through the haze that slowed his reasoning, and made it so hard to think. It was comfortable, after a fashion, because familiarity breeds comfort and he had no other experience to compare anyway.
But sometimes, even through the foggy emptiness in his head, something roused at what he was told to do. It would examine his instructions, confused and slow, but uncertain that the choices being made for him were good. Possibly, they were bad.
Still, he obeyed. However even the soft, empty parts of his mind couldn't settle his wakened conscience. And he had never forgotten the lesson that questions, disobedience, resistance- these all led to punishment. So he did the only thing he could do. He escaped.
These memories, the escaping. They are the first ones he knows he can call his, and true. He knows, because after he left each morning found the foggy places in his brain smaller, and easier to push through. He knows, because leaving Them was like waking up, like looking away from a picture and seeing the real world moving and breathing and kicking up dust.
The longer since his escape, the more things he remembers. But they don't make sense, they have no context, no chronology. They aren't all real. Some, he hopes are not real. Sometimes he wants to make up his own stories from the scraps, to stitch them together into something he likes, and can wear like it's actually his, but in the end it feels too much like a lie. He thinks he'd rather not be anyone, than be something made up on a whim.
That doesn't mean he doesn't hope some of the stories are true anyway.