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Yan lies miserably in bed, woken from yet another nightmare repeating the events of his past. He stares blankly at the ceiling, his body feeling worthless, heavy and numb. His mind swirling with unsavory thoughts.
Closing his eyes again, he dwells on the contents of the nightmare, the images replay in his mind. It highlighted how powerless he’d been all his life. Nevermind a nightmare—my whole life is a nightmare. He cursed the City, the Prescripts and also himself—God, he really hated himself. He blames himself viciously for all the wrong in his life. His thoughts spiral and tunnel vision out of control. There was nothing left in his life to live for. He lost all of it long ago. All he could think about was how to hurt himself. He felt sick to his stomach, he didn’t want to live another second in this life. Yet, he finds it impossible to move even a finger.
He pictures a map of his house in his mind, and thinks about all the things he owns. What could be used to end his life? A bottle of painkillers—no, no, that wouldn’t do, he didn’t feel like trying to swallow so many pills. It’d take too long, and probably wouldn’t kill him. He imagines hanging himself, his neck snapping and all the life draining out of him. He smiles and laughs to himself. Thinking about his miserable life coming to an end made him feel joy. Sadly, he didn’t own any ropes or anything—and he wanted to see blood. He wanted to control what he lost—he wanted to lose all the blood in his body.
He’d had enough.
Finally, after gathering enough courage and energy to move, he couldn’t take it anymore. Deliriously—he couldn’t think of anything else—he rolls over to grab his trusty knife from the drawer next to the bed. He rolls up his sleeve and holds the knife up to his arm, eyes foggy, mind covered in a suffocating blanket of rage; one he would have to cut through. Hesitating slightly, he presses the knife into his skin and drags it hard and fast. He opens his eyes and watches as the blood slowly starts to well up from the fresh cut. The only thing he wished to witness, the one pain he had control of.
The first cut was always the hardest. Two, three, four, five—the blood starts to pour down his arm. A drip lands on the bed sheets, just briefly pulling him out of his haze.
He sits up, dragging himself out of bed, not wanting to stain the sheets with so much blood. A strange thought to have, for someone so sure these moments would be his last.
He trudges through the hall to the bathroom, dripping blood with each step, a hollow, dead look in his eyes. He feels like a husk of a person.
Five measly cuts isn’t enough damage to make up for it all.
He drops down onto the bathroom floor, taking the blade to his legs. He traces large cuts, some overtop of old scars, opening them up again.
Thighs bleed the most, but it doesn’t hurt so much. I need to do worse. For all the pain I’ve caused others and was ‘helpless’ to stop.
He moves back to his arms.
The pain here is sharper, but it won’t end my pathetic life.
He turns his arms inwards, holding the knife up to his wrist—something he only did in the worst of his mental states. He starts shaking, sweat dripping off his body along with blood. He feels ecstatic, and terrified. A nervous smile spreads on his face accompanied by laughter.
Haha... I could do it, I could end my life and finally the suffering would be over. It feels so good thinking about how it could be over in just a couple of movements, all the pain would be over—I’m so scared, I could end it all. Why am I so scared? You weakling, you want this, you can do it.
Angrily, he digs the knife further into his wrist, recalling any knowledge he had about the most vital points on the body. He watches, smiling, as the blood pours from his body. He starts to feel light headed, his consciousness fading. He lays his head down on the bathroom rug, closing his eyes, smiling, feeling light and pleased.
Finally, it’ll be over.
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Head to messenger Yan’s house, arrive at 6:30am. Knock on the door, if there’s no answer enter through the window on the left.
A peculiar request—no matter, as the Prescript points. Esther briefly ponders, having just woken up to a fresh Prescript. There wasn’t time to round up all his Proselytes before needing to be there, this task was meant to be for him only. He quickly equips all his gear and heads out of his place, directly to Messenger Yan’s.
He arrives and knocks on the door as the Prescript requested, hoping Yan would answer. He didn’t wish to enter without his permission if it wasn’t necessary, but he was willing to do what had to be done.
There was no answer. With a sigh, Esther heads to the left side of the building—as expected, there was a window. Gripping the bottom of it, he tests to see if it would open. Conveniently, it was unlocked. He uses a spot of the wall that jutted out as a stepping stone to climb up onto the ledge. Though it was a bit of a struggle to climb in through the window considering his height and size, he manages to slip into Yan’s house.
The place was rather empty. All the lights were off, and it was eerily quiet aside from the floorboards creaking every few steps. Esther calls out to see if anyone was home. There’s still only silence. It seems Yan wasn’t home. The Prescript did not say what to do after entering his home—he assumed he’d find out soon enough. He had to admit it left him somewhat uneasy though, considering the atmosphere. He walks to the bedroom, thinking perhaps he’d find Messenger Yan oversleeping.
The door to the bedroom was open, and there was no Yan to be found. Esther feels something slip slightly under his shoe. He finds the light switch for the hall and flicks it on, only to see drops of blood trailing down the hall that were just starting to dry. Blood was not an uncommon sight to see when you’re an executive member of the Index. Though as much as he liked to fool himself into thinking it didn't bother him, it did cause some concern to see it in the house of an appreciated associate. Esther cautiously follows the trail down the hall, to where it ends at the bathroom.
Opening the door, he is faced with a rather unpleasant sight, to put it lightly. He had found Yan, and immediately understood why he was brought here. Blood had soaked into the rug. Yan, covered in a large amount of cut wounds, was unconscious on the floor. Calmly, yet quickly, Esther moves to check his pulse. Yan was still alive, but he was still losing blood, largely from his left wrist. He curses and cuts off part of his cloak, tying it tightly around Yan’s wrist to stop the bleeding. It would have to do while he looks for proper medical supplies.
Esther scoops Yan up in his arms. His unconscious expression was oddly peaceful. As Esther looks at him, his own expression betrays a hint of sorrow. He didn’t like dealing with emotions, he learnt to lock them away years ago to cope with his own life. But he couldn’t help it, as the sight before him dredged up unpleasant memories from his long buried past. He shakes it off, all that he needs to get through life is the Prescripts, and this is where they have led him. Now, he must treat Yan’s wounds.
He lays out some towels on a table and gently places Yan on top of them. He rushes off to look through the cabinets—surely, someone with a hobby of injuring himself would carry some medical supplies. Upon locating some, he heads back to where Yan is on the table. Gently, Esther wipes away the crusting blood and sterilizes each cut meticulously, before applying a bandage.
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Yan’s consciousness finally starts to drag itself back to life. His eyes peel open, his whole body stings. As his mind catches up with its waking reality, he gasps and shoots up as if waking again from a nightmare. He feels the firm yet gentle touch of a gloved hand on his shoulder urging him to lay back down.
“It's okay, Messenger Yan, it’s only me,” Esther speaks up in his usual flat tone of voice, continuing to wipe off the blood from Yan’s arms.
Yan hisses, tugging his arm away, startled from the pain of the antiseptic and Esther’s sudden presence.
“I apologize, Messenger Yan, but I'm not going to let these wounds go uncleaned,” Esther says. He pulls Yan’s arm back carefully, so as not to agitate him and his wounds.
Yan’s mind became a melting pot of confusion and complicated emotions.
Why am I alive, and why is Esther in my house? How did he get in here? I’m glad it’s no stranger but, oh by the Wings, he’s seeing me like this—how pathetic, I'm so pathetic, now he knows how pathetic I am. He must think I'm so pitiful. I don’t deserve, nor do I want, pity. Please leave me alone—why couldn’t you just let me die?
He turns away from Esther and speaks up in his soft, almost whisper of a voice.
“Why are you here? How did you even get in here?”
“Prescript’s orders, and one of your windows was unlocked.”
Prescripts! It’s always those damn Prescripts! Ah, not even my death can be of my own free will. Nothing I do matters. I resent everyone—how can they be okay with this, all these horrible things? What am I missing? Why can’t I fit in? What’s wrong with me?
“...Oh, I see.”
Yan’s soft voice wavers slightly. He tries to remain collected, trying to appear unaffected as he usually does, but he wasn’t doing a good job. He feels tense, his throat closing up as he tries to avoid tears.
No, please don’t cry about it, why are you so weak, you can’t let people see you like this, I don’t need any help, I don’t need anyone, please don’t notice, don’t ask, don’t talk to me. Pah! That's right! Not like Esther cares about me enough to ask anyways! He only cares about those stupid Prescripts!
Yan was not true to himself. Deep down, he wanted someone to care for him like no one really had. He wanted to be asked if he was okay and to have friends, but he was scared. He couldn’t help it. He starts to tremble, teeth clenched and eyes closed. Memories of his past flood back. He remembers the caring embrace of his parents, followed by their harsh words and acts, and the dissonance both brought. He remembers their deaths, and how he and his siblings had to fend for themselves. He remembers the demise brought upon his siblings thanks to the Prescripts, and the few friends he had that he was ordered to kill. He was the only one that remained, and he thought he shouldn’t have been.
Why did I have to live? Why do I have to stay in this unbearable reality?
Yan’s breathing had become stuttered, he couldn’t take it, he needed to hurt himself. Sobbing, he yanks his arm back from Esther in an attempt to tear off the bandage from his wrist. Esther swiftly catches his arm and pulls him into his chest to restrain him, keeping him as comfortable as he could until Yan could calm down. Yan tightly grips Esther with his free arm, digging his nails a little too hard but not enough to make Esther waver. He screams.
“Augh, why, I hate the Prescripts, why won’t they let me die?! Why can’t I bring my awful life to an end?! I don’t deserve to live!”
Struggling to free himself from Esther’s clutches, he twists his arm in Esther’s hand trying to loosen the bandages. Esther re-adjusts his hold.
“Relax, Messenger Yan. It’s not your time. Have you thought maybe there’s a reason you’re meant to live?”
“No! Why would there be? Why do I have to be left alive, just to have to suffer these horrible things?! I’ve lost everything!”
Giving up on his struggle, he latches onto Esther, desperately sobbing.
“An unfortunate fact of life, yet one many of us have to face. Happenings in the City tend to have meaning, yet, it’s not worth thinking too hard on.” Esther holds Yan closer, patting his back in an attempt to be consoling.
“Nothing I do is of my own will! I can’t do anything to stop the pain. I’m completely worthless!”
“Not many, if any at all, have the option of free will. Though, that doesn’t make anyone worthless.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t make you worthless to simply follow life as it’s handed to you.”
“But how? How?! It causes pain to so many helpless people, I can’t bear to watch, yet I have no power to stop it. Tell me, Esther, how can you bear to live this life?”
Esther’s eyes briefly grew wide, before closing them with a sigh. Yan was asking him specifically.
“A difficult question. There’s no point to adding more meaning to life and the things you must do than is necessary. I will do what needs to be done and leave it at that, I do not wish to cause unnecessary hardship.”
Yan lifts his head from Esther’s chest, as he suddenly felt rather awkward clinging onto him like that. Esther carefully watches to ensure he wouldn’t make any rash moves. Yan frowns.
“Why are you staying here then, do you not have better things to do?”
“I do not.”
“There’s no reason to stay and care for me.”
“Yet, there is no reason not to.”
There was a pause in their talk. Yan feels conflicted. He’s calmed down significantly, though still feels that uncomfortable, raw feeling one has after coming back up from a breakdown. Not sure what to say next, he glances briefly at Esther. He notices a portion of his cloak torn and missing, and the blood-soaked soft, white fabric that lay next to him. He put the pieces together.
“You even wrecked your own cloak for this.”
“That matters little. The Prescripts will provide a new one in time.”
“So, you tore your cloak because you cared about my survival? Or did the Prescript tell you to do that too?” Yan speaks back, frustration leaking through in his tone.
“If it’s of any consolation, the Prescript did not tell me to save you and thoroughly clean your wounds.”
“So, it was done of your free will?”
“I wouldn’t say so. Truly nothing is done out of free will in the City.”
“Then why?” Yan sighs in frustration.
“That, I unfortunately do not have an answer for.”
Yan was asking too many questions. It’s not like Esther couldn’t answer, rather, he wanted to be careful. He was sympathetic for Yan, and didn't wish to aggravate his situation. Though, it seems like they had an incompatible difference in views. He shakes off the thought, he should go back to patching up Yan’s wounds; it'd get his mind off life. Esther reaches for the antiseptic and bandages he’d dropped earlier.
“I’m sorry Messenger Yan, but do you mind if I continue to clean your wounds?”
Yan sighs. He wanted to turn him down, he wanted to say no, to leave him alone, that he could just do it himself—but truthfully, he liked the feeling of being cared for, and looked after. It was a feeling he had not felt for a very long time.
“Oh… sure, I guess you can,” He musters out.
Yan rests his head back on the table and closes his eyes again with a sigh. He was exhausted. Passing out from blood loss then waking up and having another mental breakdown was so very tiring. He didn’t have the energy to really care about anything. He didn’t even notice that Esther had walked away, before he came back with some more bandages and a pillow so the table wouldn’t be so hard on his head.
Yan thought about Esther and the other Proxies. He was annoyed by their ability to just follow the flow of life—he couldn’t understand. He wasn’t sure what to think. His emotions were still out of whack. The Proxies were never mean to him—they’re not heartless, they all have their own little ways of showing care. Importantly, they were all he had left to lean on, all that he could maybe call friends.
That’s right, they’re the only people I have left, maybe with them... maybe I can show them I can make a small crack in this flow.
Before he knew it, he had woken up in his room, wounds fully cleaned and bandaged.
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Esther had already left. His mind couldn’t help but drift back to Yan. Was leaving him at home really a good idea? Surely, the Prescripts would stop it if he tried anything again. Though deep down, he worried maybe they wouldn’t.
Just have faith in the Prescripts, as they lead us to the right path... yes?