ENTRY#001: The Grave with the Smiling Wall pt.1

LOCATION: The Still Acre

Chronicler Note:

I didn't want to log this one. In fact, I wanted to burn all the pages I had collected.

They think Gods speak in boisterous acts of grandeur. But it's never that loud at first.

It starts with rot. Or a name whispered where it shouldn't be. Or someone staring too long at the wrong kind of silence.

This one tested me; combing through the entries Leyna left - the weathered paper she scribbled on sometimes hard to decipher. I am grateful there was any record to be found, given this particular deity isn't known for leaving a lot of clues.

He isn't chaos. He isn't random. That's a more comfortable lie. Loki is vicissitude with a pulse. A thorn in a root. A wall that grins after it's cracked. And I fear Leyna found him in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps wrong place, right time - depends what side of the Codex you're on.

This one was buried deep. Not by time, but by shame. Someone wanted to hide this event. Wanted her side to be forgotten.

I'm glad I've salvaged what I can, and this, is her story.

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-LEYNA-

The sun was low, angry, and red when Leyna stepped down into the broken crypt. Still Acre stretched silent around her; nothing but scattered headstones and hot sand. Trees, or what was left of them, creaked and sighed with the wind. It felt suffocating in a way only empty graveyards at twilight feel.

She had no real reason to be there. Though, perhaps it was just the call of an alluring unknown. A dream half-remembered, clawing at the edges of her memory. Or maybe she was simply bored.

The stone steps underfoot were slick with dust. Cobwebs floated around in the dry air, sticking to her clothes. Nothing about the place appeared safe or even all that interesting, but Leyna was pulled deeper into the crypt. A cool draft wafted up from further down the steps as she brushed past bugs and dying overgrowth.

Relieved from the burning desert air above, Leyna sighed, the sound echoing gently off the stone walls. But there was something else, layered over that sigh...

A voice.

No, a... humming.

Soft melodic murmuring filled the small space. The sound vaguely otherworldly.

With a hammering heart, Leyna did what she always did; exactly what you shouldn't. The humming, like a hungry snake wrapped around its first meal in ages, dragged her even deeper. She couldn't object, she couldn't resist. The sound was haunting, and so damn beautiful.

Thick dust and crumbling stone surrounded her, the decay and grime a stark reminder of where she was. But still, she stayed, and she listened. She needed to know where it was coming from.

As her boots scraped the floor, the crypt opened into a low-ceilinged chamber - lined with alcoves, fractured coffins, and the scent of old paper. Stacks of rancid cloth piled in corners gave the illusion of exhausted ghosts hunkered down for the evening. An image that wasn't lost on her; she shivered involuntarily.

Leyna's footsteps were loud, bouncing off of the stone. Yet the humming remained singular. The sound didn't echo. It was flat, quiet, present. As if it came from inside her head. That was the first wrong thing.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, flakes of dirt clinging to every surface. Just being down here felt like trying to breathe underwater - the air stagnant and dull.

She made her way to the furthest wall to her left. The humming drew her closer, a particularly decrepit section of the tomb covered in paint and dry vines calling for her attention.

A mural, sprawling across the rear wall like ivy. The colors were faded. The vibrancy long since lost. But the artistry, the virtuosity still pulsed... Figures twisted in frozen motion - some dancing, some running, some laughing. And at the center stood a man. His long once-emerald coat flared as if caught in a gust of wind. His grin sharp and narrow. One long, slender, hand grasped a silver knife. The other? Empty. Outstretched. Like it was reaching.

Leyna approached slowly, more of the image coming into focus. She scanned the wall searching for any inscriptions, a label, something. But there was none. Only paint, dust, and now, silence. The thudding of her heart seemed louder than a siren.

She squinted. The eyes on the painted man - one green, one full of stars - seemed to stare directly at her. Not in the way murals usually look at you, where it's more suggestion than sensation.

No. These eyes saw her.

And then he blinked. Just once. Leyna froze, blinking back in response.

"Ah," purred a voice, incredibly cheerful. "Finally. Someone interesting."

There was no more humming. No measured notes roaming the crypt. Just his voice and the crackling of the stones around the painting.

Leyna took a slow step back. "...Who's there?"

The painted man's smile seemed to cut wider, his mismatched eyes staring, though the rest of the mural remained motionless. A wave of unease flooded her lungs, her throat, clouding her head. If Leyna knew anything at all, it was that murals didn't speak.

"Well, I was hoping for someone a tad taller. More robust. Perhaps a shining sword and a suit of armor," the voice mused, as if disappointed. "But I suppose you will do."

Leyna held up her hand like a shield, instinct nudging her back a few paces. "What are you?"

The mural sighed. "A prisoner. A painting. An exiled mistake. Pick your poison, little echo. Personally, I enjoy 'mysterious entity trapped within antique wall art.' Very Byronic."

A heavy pause lingered between her and the wall. The wind out above sounded mean. Impatient.

"I'm not here to free anyone." She spoke carefully. Her words felt strange, like they didn't belong to her. But as they left her mouth, the painting's edges began crumbling, small pieces of rock clamoring to the floor. She acted as though she didn't notice.

"Of course not," the mural replied. "You've come because the time was right. Or maybe the humming got to you. It does that. Very catchy."

The silence shifted, the voice sounding somehow closer. "I'm a memory, little wanderer. One they tried to bury. A story they bound in stone and ink. But I am also truth. And truth," he said, painted eyes sparkling, "always wants out."

Leyna took in the image in front of her, truly looking at it. The robes, the knife, that pointed smile. The way his mouth never moved, yet she heard every utterance. "I don't know you-"

"You saw me," the painting interrupted, his tone harsh, biting. A few more stones tumbled to the ground. "That's all it takes. This painting, this ink...it's not just a mural. It's a lock of belief. And you cracked it open with your attention."

Leyna didn't respond. Instead, she moved closer to the smiling wall. Slowly, gently, as if guided from behind. Her hand found its way up and out, palm resting against the stonework. "What do you want from me?"

Silence choked the tomb, not so much as a breath to be heard.

"Do you believe in stories that don't end? Ones that linger? Ones that wait?"

Again, Leyna didn't answer. The quiet air rustled around the crypt. Without any warning, the painted man leaned forward, protruding out of the wall at an odd angle. This time, she gasped, nearly falling back. "You're...alive?!" Her voice cracked and rose in pitch.

"Marginally," he replied with a theatrical bow, the tip of his gleaming dagger tapping on the edge of the mural. "But stuck. A God doesn't belong forever to one sorry little wall." A vibration of color rippled across the artwork as though in applause. "But enough riddles. I need your help."

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I’m smoking another cigarette, listening to the neighbor‘s rake scratch the leaves into a pile. Down the street some kids are giggling, but in a kidly-sinister way. Maybe they found some left over forgotten about fireworks they plan to detonate. A car alarm blares faintly. Like it’s sorta given up, too.

I overhear a pair of friends chatting to themselves, joking and laughing. They sound so happy. I laugh with them because, in the moment, it makes me happy.

It doesn’t last long. My chest feels heavy after listening, like it was a chore. Exhausting for my small frame. Everything feels heavy when you’re light.

This smoke makes me cough and it makes me sick, but I don’t stop.

I‘d rather the hole be filled with smoke than lined with mirrors.

Would it matter to you, if I told you what I looked like?

Probably. You’d probably care a whole awful lot what I looked like. I don’t know if you know why you care, and even I can only make half-hearted guesses to the answer for that one.

But some part of you will want to know. Are they tall? Do they have nice eyes, silky hair? Will I like to look at them?

Maybe you’re just curious, after hearing my name. Put a picture to the words; in your head. And it’s a fair enough assumption. Humans are wonderers. Always wanting a connection.

Would it matter then, if I told you I wasn’t human? Probably. You’d probably care a whole awful lot that I wasn’t human.

But would you still wonder? Would you still want a connection?

You see, the thing is, humans like things. Things they can touch, things they can see, things they can consume. Greedily, but that’s not the point.

But I like time. Time to myself, time to reflect, time without consequence. Time is irreplaceable.

But don’t be sad, annwyl, don’t be sad. You have so much time! You have it all, really...

Time to grow old, time to make mistakes, learn and transform.

Time to love.

And if anyone should feel that sting of time rushing by, it’s me. I have so many things, and all I want is the moments you ignored.

You ignored them for so long, human.

And I see you staring at the words, desperately swallowing the sentences.

I can hear your heart reading them.

It will be fine.

You’ll know what I look like.

You can have all the things... I promise.

Just give me your time….

It will only hurt a little.

It was nice, wasn’t it?

Before

I became just another name

You got to hold on your tongue

Before

I became the one

You blamed, for it all.

It was nice, huh?

Before

I opened the door

For your needy hands

And greedy mouth

Before

You shut it on my face;

Like I could do nothing more.

For you

I needed more than most...

Before

It was sunshine and sleepy wants...

Before

I was a house

You promised you wouldn’t haunt;

My personal ghost.

Before…

I wish I didn’t know you before

I knew

Me…

And before I knew,

That ghost’s don’t leave.

Because I could not play for theatre,

it did kindly play for me.

I abhorred the fact that it,

sooner learned to play before I.

Gently it goes,

the poetical,

the rhetorical,

the nonliteral.

The grotesque.

How joyful are operatic performances...

Do they make you shiver?

do they?

I will consider my venue;

to get me wondering,

if pause to play,

was just as lovely

as an empty grave.

#prose #theater #pause #play

I've never been afraid of disaster,

nor folly, nor madness.

The spark that marks the Joker.

I'll cry tears of joy,

when there is no glee at all.

Just the nightlife of a thief.

Your death was not calculated.

It wasn't planned.

It wasn't fair.

But I am not the one

to designate,

to justify,

your personal right from wrong.

I am only here to steal.

The marble etched 

with the cold,

the neoteric,

letters of your name.

They tell me all I need to know; 

your arrival,

and your departure from this plane.

You are not lost yet, but give me time.

The earth is tenebrous and I'm scared.

That separated soil;

fresh with the tears of your father,

your mother,

your sister.

They laid a petal for each year they loved you.

Twelve.

I come out of hiding

when the sky is aphotic,

the streetlights sparkling.

When the cemetery is destitute and silent.

Your graveside is vibrant.

Your soul is quiet.

I dig.

My fingernails split and burn.

My hands make fast work of your soft dirt.

My pulse pounds.

My head aches.

My, my, my.

My, you were young...

and in a sense,

I am too.

But I am not,

the Peter Pan you thought you knew.

Your face is pale,

it's smooth,

it's still.

The laugh-lines are faint,

but still...I need you.

That animating principle.

That vivacity.

That soul.

I'm selfish in what I demand from you,

this I know.

From here, there is only one place to go.

Your skin is gelid and I feel the whimper,

the moan,

climb the back of my throat.

Your eyes open;

you stare.

I stare.

I see the panic rise behind your eyes,

and shush you before you dare.

With whispers sweet,

my voice a muted cadence,

I sing the words to take you with me,

along to your Neverland home.

"A dead sound shivers,

such a luminous heartache will end.

And all it takes,

is a little faith,

and a leap through time and space."

The hot water beats against your skin as you sigh, relaxing amidst the clouds of steam. 

The room smells of heat and lavender.

A thought slips across your mind;

"I should pull the shower curtain closed."

One eye peeks open through the shampoo suds, about to reach for the plastic.

A single skeletal hand, flesh taut and grey, nails like claws, grasps the fabric and slowly slides it shut. 

A few moments pass when you hear the hinge of the bathroom door squeak, the click of the lock resting in place. 

Then nothing else.

When the world around me changes, 

when the heart inside me ages, 

when I look around and all my hopes are bound and tied in cages, 

the magic in my mind, 

can reach through and find, 

a way to agree to love the me

that's wild, free and strange.

In my attempt to bring myself home, along the way I felt the loss. Grief shook me, and I wept. 

I cried for the same reasons I slept all day; unspent love. 

Love for you built and boiled through me while I shut out the world. 

Obnoxious amounts of unsent messages clutter my phone, forever saved in drafts I'll never send. Because who would I send them to?

The years of my life you consumed are not forgotten. On the contrary, they play like movies behind my eyes. 

I know no other way than to be dramatic about it all. To write again after so much time feels better and wrong. I should have been writing to you, about your feelings and your loss. And instead I typed the words you needed, then pressed delete every time. For that, I'm sorry.

What I feel now that you are gone is nothing to what you felt as you sat there alone and broken. Not even I saw just how broken. 

As I weep for myself, your family, and all of the lives you changed, I can't help but think I could have saved your life. 

Perhaps, if we meet again, I'll do better than this. I'll know what to say to keep you here.  

Maybe next time this silence won't be so loud.