Ache's sad life: A thread

[Acheron]

TW: Abuse and violence. Misuse of zip-ties.
OCT 2016

“Bit late to go out, don’t you think?”

Acheron froze, grabbing the handle to the front door.  He licked his lips, blood pumping through his ears. He turned slowly, facing Jonathan who stood at the end of the darkened hallway, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. Fuck. That morning, Acheron had told him that he wanted out. Now, he was caught red handed trying to escape. “I, uh,” Acheron tried, the tremble of his voice betraying him. “I just. Wanted some air.”

“Some air?” Jonathan repeated. Acheron nodded. “Some air.”

There was a beat of silence, the air growing thick with tension. Acheron didn’t even dare peek at what the man was thinking. He glanced at the front door. Did he make a break for it? Then, Jonathan spoke. “Alright then. Let’s get some air. Come here.”

Jonathan motioned for Acheron to come close but he stood frozen in place. He glanced at the handle and Jonathan raised a brow.

“Acheron.”

He still didn’t move and the tension grew to a boiling point. Jonathan stepped closer and Acheron sprung into action, grabbing the handle. Locked. Then, a gust of wind and he fell to the floor. A hand grabbed his arm and pulled. Acheron had no choice but to follow Jonathan until he eventually found his footing and started struggling. “No! Let go!”

A cold gust of wind as Jonathan opened the door to the balcony and shoved Acheron outside. The teen backed away as Jonathan stalked closer, stopping when his back hit the railing. “L-leave me alone!” Acheron warned, blood pumping wildy in his ears. “I’ll hurt you.”

Jonathan laughed mockingly. “Really, now? I doubt it, but try.”

Acheron’s fists balled up at his sides, fear and anger coursing through his veins. He made a swing at Jonathan, who easily grabbed his skinny arm and twisted it in a way that made the teen cry out in pain. Then, something collided with his face, sending his mind reeling and splitting his lip. Something closed around his wrists and Jonathan grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at him.

“How’d that work out for you?” Jonathan was close enough for his breath to fan against Acheron’s face. He tried pulling away but his back was against the wall and something kept him from moving his arms. He glanced down to find his hands zip-tied to the railing. His stomach dropped. “Look at me when I’m talking. By Iosta, you’re like a wild animal,” Jonathan complained, rolling his eyes. “Seems we’ll have to be teaching you some manners after all. Oh well.” He stared Acheron down before eventually letting go of his face and stepping back. Then he smiled, amused at the frightened look on the boys face. “What? Can’t handle the consequences of your actions? Please.”

Then Jonathan turned and left, stopping at the door to look at Acheron. “I’ll be back in the morning. Enjoy your air.” Then, the door closed behind him and Acheron was left alone on the balcony, shivering in the windy autumn night, the metallic taste of blood stinging his mouth from his split lip. He was still struggling to catch his breath.

[Acheron]

TW: Religious trauma, child abandonment, trafficking, vomiting, child abuse

1.1 The most sacred gift was Spirit. Harbored by the Sanctified Mother Iosta, the Harbinger and Sovereign of earth, she shared her gifts with her children, the people.

You could see the entire world from the top of the big trees in the park. All the way from the gray apartment complexes, to the train station, to the shopping center on Oneștavistreyt. Surely, the boy thought to himself, you could see all the way to the school if only you could reach the top branches. He climbed higher, stomach dropping when he lost his footing.

….

“Moy królikta.” His mother placed a kiss on his forehead and ran a hand through his hair. The boy sat happily on the couch, watching cartoons and eating his ice cream, the cast on his broken leg long forgotten about. He leaned into his moms caress. Her perfume smelled like peaches that day.

1.2 The Spirit, a divine spark within each living being, and the ethereal connection to our Savior. The essence and flow from which all energy came to be. The gift to oversee, she gifted to her sacred people known as the Enferi.

“If that thing lays a hand on my kids, I swear to Iosta!” Carol  exclaimed. “This is your fault, George! You knew what his mother was!”

The boy sat on the top of their stairs, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, listening to the pair fight. His father and his wife. After the trip to the testcenter, his new siblings had been swiftly transported to the safety of their grandparents. Nachon. The boy wasn’t sure what it meant. They had a similar word back home. His mom had told him once it meant to be misunderstood. Now, he had a hunch that it meant something bad.

“Dammit Carol, we’ve been over this! He’s my son too!” His father was angry. He could sense the burning frustration of a fight they had had before, now mixed with… guilt? He frowned. “If I had known-“

“Known what?! That fucking some Nachon slut would produce some demon-spawn?!”

There were several words he didn’t understand, but it sounded like an insult. Carol continued yelling at her husband some more. Wrapping his arms tighter around himself, he imagined his mom was here. She’d cradle him, kiss him, say something wise about mean people. She’d-

“Fuck, Carol, I… I’m sorry, you’re right.” His father's speaking caught his attention. “We’ll send him away, okay, honey? There’s places equipped for these things. My colleague told me about an institute-“

Institute. Has the boy heard that word before, institute? He tried tasting it. Institute. And they would send him to such a place? He wasn’t sure if he would like that. He’d mostly just like to go home, where people didn’t talk funny and where everything wasn’t so confusing. Maybe he could tell his father in the morning, if they were going to send him away anyways?

1.3 The Spirit, the foundation upon which all life and consciousness thrive, at first a gift to all mankind. But the perversion of mankind awoke the duality of Spirit. This Iosta warned, speaking to Saint Thelmian, had lent the power to the force of evil known as Tarron.

The chapel was the most beautiful part of this place. Light washed down from stained overhead windows, coloring the gray stones in every hue of the rainbow. At the podium, the light intensified to a golden beam, as a halo around the preaching Enferi. She had looked so kind the first day he had arrived. Now, he knew she wasn’t. The Enferi were the light, he had quickly come to learn. Which was why the chapel was beautiful, when the rest of the institution was shrouded in oppressive darkness. The Enferi presided over the chapel and no Nachon was allowed besides the teachings, as to not taint it with their wickedness beyond what was necessary.

He cast his eyes down to the holy text in his hands, trying to find the text from which the Enferi preacher was residing. Sometimes they would pick someone to continue the reading – to test if they were truly listening. If they did not, if they stumbled over their words, if they misspoke and mispronounced, then- he shuddered, eyeing the bruising along his wrists. He had been here for four months. He still did not understand all the words but they always went over the same verses anyways. He should know how they should sound by now. His eyes frantically scanned the pages, starting to doubt if he even was on the right one. But then, there it was:

- and Acheron, was for his transgression against what is whole and good forever exiled from Her holy  light. For he who has chosen Tarron shall be forever corrupted by his darkness.

1.4 Tarron, in his darkness, allured weak enferi’s seduced by thought of destruction and selfish gain. These would fall at his hand and turn their back to Iosta’s light. The misled she would name Nachon.

Warm tears flowed down Acheron’s cheeks, his nostrils still flaring with anger as he looked at the destroyed apartment. Chairs laid scattered on the floor, feathers hanging in the air from torn pillows and books recklessly thrown about. His back met a hard wall and he slid down, the weight of the world suddenly crashed down. Looking at the bunched up piece of paper on the floor, the note was still clear in his head.

“I have to leave the country. I cant risk taking you with me. I wont return.  Sorry. Please forgive me.
Rachel”

1.5 To the Enferi, blessed with Iosta’s eternal light, she spoke to Thelmian: “Dedicate thineself to the continued preservation of balance and holiness. Spread the message of Tarron’s evil and let not more be seduced by the destruction he yields.”

The porcelain of the toilet bowl was cold against Acherons damp skin as he heaved for breath, trying to will the memories out of his head. His stomach churned, threatening to make him sick again. The wiping of memories. He had never done it like that, a whole person at a time. He had passed out halfway through. He was still lightheaded. Closing his eyes, he saw the argument between the girl and the father she would never see again. Bile rose in his throat and he vomited again as Jonathans voice echoed from the hallway as he talked into his phone.

“Yes. Yes, of course… well, the first extraction was, uh… well, let's call it mixed results.” Jonathan lauged. “Yes, I understand… but Charles, think of the savings we’ll make on Zeals this way, if we can just– right. Right. All I ask for is time. The Nachon will adjust soon enough… Well, then we make him adjust.”

1.6 “Aim to make the Spirit whole once more. And heed the Nachons, for their path leads only to destruction and abomination. They hath forsaken the light, turning them against the holy and true. For this, they taint the essence of being.”

Acheron followed Jonathan inside the rundown house and down into a damp basement. His stomach dropped as the light turned on and revealed a person, tied up to a chair and gagged. Her fear, immediately noticeable in the air, suffocating and all-consuming. Jonathan went further into the basement. Acheron followed, reluctantly.

“Here we are,” Jonathan said, placing a hand on the shoulder of the woman, who flinched. “How long would it take to wipe her clean?”

“I-” Acheron spoke, shocked. “Who… who is that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Uh. Yes.”

Jonathan fished a cigarette out of a carton in his pocket and lit it up. He took a drag before speaking. Acheron’s heart started pounding in his chest as he realized exactly how big a mistake it had been to trust the man before him.

“Well. We can say she is a child abuser if that makes it easier,” Jonathan finally spoke.

Acheron paused. Doing something he shouldn’t, he extended his powers to get a read on the man. A chill went down his spine when he met only cold neutrality and mild annoyance. This man was dangerous. Glancing at the door, he considered running. But then, the person, somehow having pushed out the fabric gag and looked up at Acheron with big frightened eyes as she started pleading.

1.7 Appointing Thelmian the first High Priest, he was sent to spread the word of Iosta and the great risk at cost. And for this, the preaching of goodness was born, ensuring the continued prevail of Guiding Enferis over the Demonic Nachons.

"Please, help...help me...I don't want to die here..."

He woke up with a start, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. He sat up, getting his bearings as the blurred darkness came into focus. The warehouse, his make-shift camp, the squeaking of rats somewhere in the darkness. He reached out with a shaky hand, turning on the lantern at his side. He ran a hand through his hair, willing himself to breathe in, breathe out. He was okay. That was over now. Jonathan was dead. He didn’t have to do that anymore.

As his heart rate went down and as the panic subsided, only cold numbness remained. Staring blankly ahead, Acheron knew he wouldn’t be sleeping more that night.

[Acheron]

"Let's get ya patched up and into something warm, " Rachel sighed. On the doorstep stood a teen boy, dripping wet, bruised and with the dried up remains of a nosebleed staining his face. “Come on in, Ache.”

Acheron followed silently as she went inside the small Erast apartment. He closed the door behind him and paused in the hallway, looking out at the small living room. Humble and sparsely furnished, the small tv playing one of those foreign dramas Rachel was fond of. The rain pattered against the window, pitch black darkness outside. Rachel returned from the bathroom, throwing a towel Acheron’s way. He used it to wipe the dried blood off his face.

“Anything broken?” Rachel asked, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms, shooting Acheron an accusatory look. It was late and she hadn’t slept yet, he could sense that much. Annoyed more about having been kept up worrying than she was actually angry.

Acheron shifted his weight to the other foot, fiddling with the towel in his hands. The cold wet clothes clung uncomfortably to his body and more than anything, he just wanted to go take a hot shower and go to bed. He shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he answered. Rachel wanted to scold him for disappearing again. Acheron didn’t have the energy for and he headed for the bathroom.

“Oh no you don’t,” Rachel protested, grabbing his arm perhaps a bit too tightly.

He turned, narrowing his eyes, pulling back his arm.  “What?” He spat.

“What’dya mean what? You’ve been missing for three days and ya come back all bloody and lousy-looking,” she retorted, brows furrowing with frustration. “Where the hell have ya been? Is this  still about going back? ‘Cause I already explained why that ain’t gonna happen.”

Acheron grit his teeth and looked away. Rachel had some sort of contact with the EFA, he had found out a few months ago. They could help him leave the country. He could go back home. Rachel said that wasn’t possible. That had been  a week ago. “It’s not. Leave it.”

“Then what is it?”

“I said leave it,” Acheron repeated.

“Ache, ya can’t just come and go and not-”

“Well, then kick me out!”

“Acheron, you know that’s not-”

“I want to take a shower.” He turned and locked himself into the bathroom before Rachel could protest. Soon she was banging at the door.

“Acheron, I swear to Iosta!”

He sighed, leaning back up against the door. He met his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. She was right, he was rather lousy-looking. Dark wet hair clinging to his forehead, dark circles under his eyes, blood staining his clothes. He looked like shit. Life on the street really wasn’t it. He averted his gaze, unable to keep on looking at himself. The anger and the protests died down from the woman outside. He could hear her sigh in defeat.

“Ya know I’m only trying to look out for you kid,” she said after a beat of silence. Acheron closed his eyes. He knew that. But he hadn’t asked her to. “Take your shower and go to bed… we’ll talk in the morning.”

[Acheron]

2019 - The start of March
Acheron had found the advert on the side of a lighting pole in Erast. A piece of paper taped to the metal, reading “Tenants wanted. Flats on Daimler Street. Text for info.” It was a sketchy offer. But after what had happened with Jonathan, well, Acheron wasn’t too keen on going back to living on the street. And he had money. Stolen from Jonathan’s apartment before he had abandoned the body. It wasn’t much and it wouldn’t last long but it was enough to put down a deposit for this place. Income, he’d figure out some way.

“Old tenants disappeared,” the landlord spoke, lighting a cigarette. “S’why there’s stuff here. Keep it if you want. Or throw it out. Whatever.”

The flat wasn’t much to look at. All in one room, the size of a shoebox. A small kitchenette. A bathroom. It came furnished, as the man had said. A mattress in the corner, a dining table. A torn up couch and a small, ancient tv. There was an open dresser with clothing torn out of it from where the previous owner had packed in a hurry. It looked lived in. Worn down and filthy. The floorboards creaked, there was something in the air that vaguely smelled like mold and a dog was barking from the apartment next door. It was a dump. But a dump was better than a gutter. And the landlord didn’t want to know anything about Acheron – had said the less he knew the better. Acheron eyed the man, his powers constantly on guard. He had trusted people to house him before and had grown wiser. But the man didn’t have any bad intentions or hidden agendas. The man was short, looked older than his age. The result of a tough life. No, he just wanted his rooms filled and rent paid. It put Acheron the closest thing he could get to being at ease.

“I’ll take it,” Acheron nodded.

The man smiled then. He was missing two teeth. “Great. Rents 2000꩒. Cash, put it in my mailbox outside,” the landlord instructed. “Deposits two months rent. You can move in whenever you pay.”

“I have it.” Acheron slipped off his backpack and fished around inside, taking out two wads of cash that he handed to the landlord. Satisfied after counting that everything was indeed still there, he pocketed the money. Acheron had a feeling he’d never be seeing them again. The landlord then threw a set of keys at Acheron who caught it.

“Apartments yours.” The landlord turned to leave before adding, over his shoulder. “Don’t be late on rent.”

2019 - The end of March
Erast remained as much of a shithole as it had ever been, Acheron thought to himself as he stood waiting in an alley, cigarette in his hand. He shifted impatiently, checking his phone for the time. The man should be here by now. Acheron filled his lungs up with smoke before exhaling, foot impatiently tapping up and down. Had he been screwed over? Rent was due soon. He needed this. Shit. He was just about to leave when he felt the tugging at the back of his mind of someone approaching, followed by frantic footsteps. A man entered the alley, trench coat closed around him with the collar popped up, as to hide his identity. Acheron narrowed his eyes. It certainly was an attempt not to appear suspicious.

The man panting as if he had been running the entire way, apologized for being late. “I just,– I don’t know Erast well, I…” he took a moment to catch his breath, looking Acheron up and down. “You’re… you’re the Nachon?”

Acheron raised a brow at the tone, his powers picking up on the man's disbelief before he had even asked. What had he expected? Well, certainly not some sickly looking 20 year old. Something more threatening. Acheron could be threatening, sure. He could work on that. He took another drag of his cigarette. “What do you need?” The man paused, blinked. “Well, you sought me out for a reason, no? What is it? " The impatience showed in Acheron’s voice as he shifted his weight. The man sprung into action, frantically searching his coat pockets. Acheron’s eyes narrowed, placing his hand in his pocket and grabbing his knife. Just in case. But the man didn’t pull out a weapon, just an envelope.

“I didn’t know how much you needed to know beforehand,” the man explained, almost stumbling over his own words. “It’s – uh, she’s my wife. Ex-wife. Soon to be, at least. I need you to, uh,” the man wiped his lips and searched the alley in his eyes, as if someone was hiding and listening. He then leaned in closer and whispered. “You know, uh…” he poked the side of his forehead to indicate what he meant.

Acheron raised a brow. “Wipe her?”

“Not- not everything!” The man laughed, to downplay the seriousness. “Not everything. No. Just, uh. There’s evidence, you see and. I need her to forget because… well, it’s in the envelope.” Stress was emanating off the man in a way that almost made Acheron dizzy. “It’s just, well – I… This could ruin me.”

Acheron paused, looking at the envelope in his hand. The man, he could feel it, was very much guilty. Cheating, lying. A prenup broken. He probably deserved to be taken to court, but Acheron needed the money. “Get a grib,” he instructed the man, who looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He pocketed the envelope. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll- Amazing! That’s amazing,” the man looked overjoyed. “Thank you, I really–”

“It’ll be 6.000꩒. Cash. When do you need it done?”

“Wait, how much –?! Wait, you know. Fine. Fine,” The man started protesting but stopped himself, realizing how little it was in comparison to what he stood to lose. “There’s a meeting. With our lawyers, in a week. Before then. Please.”

Acheron nodded. “It’s done. Meet me here the day after the meeting. Bring the cash.” He moved to leave the alley but stopped, sending the man one last steely looked. “And don’t even think about being a no-show, I know how to find you.”

—

The wife was right to sue this man, Acheron decided after some time of rummaging through her brain while she was picnicking with some friends in the park. In fact, the man probably deserved worse. He was sitting on a park-bench nearby, considering this dilemma. He needed the money or he wouldn’t be making rent. He was a terrible person, really, even for considering making them this way. But it felt like crossing a boundary, attacking this woman who had really done nothing wrong. He could hear her, complaining about the beginning of a headache. The effect of his own powers, no doubt. She wasn’t feeling well, she excused. She was leaving and Acheron had to make his decision fast.

—

“Thank you! Thank you!” The man was estatick, standing in the Erast alley with Acheron. The nerves were still tangible. He was still wearing that ridiculous trench coat “She was a no-show at the meeting–  And I– I assume that was your doing. I can’t thank you enough–”

Acheron held up a hand and he shut up. “Do you have the money?”

“I– Yes! I do.” He rummaged through his pockets and got out some wads of cash, handing them over to Acheron. “Is– is there anything else?” He tripped, anxious to leave and get this whole ordeal overwith, but Acheron took his time to count the money. Once satisfied that everything was there, he packed it away and looked at the man.

“There is, actually. One last thing.”

The man backed up as Acheron came closer. He grabbed the collar of the man and proceeded to invade his mind – quickly, locking in on every memory the man had of him. The deal, the Erast alley, the money. He would later wake up on the side of the road, confused and with his wallet missing. He’d be called in to a new meeting later that week – apparently his wife had completely forgotten the date. He’d lose most of his fortune in the following divorce. And Acheron made his rent that week.


May 10th 2019
Acheron got into a rhythm after that. It turned out that as much as Ilomar despised Nachons, there was no shortage of people who wouldn’t mind exploiting their powers. To hide business secrets, infidelity, where the body was buried, theft, fraud. Everyone had something they wanted to hide. It paid pretty well at that too. And while Acheron might once in a while double cross a customer, if he deemed it deserved, it wasn’t the worst idea he had ever gotten. There was a certain type who contacted him, he found. They all had something to lose. Which was why he was surprised when one night, it wasn’t a nervous CEO or regretful spouse that stood in the dingy alley, but a lousy-looking homeless teenager. A Nachon, Acheron quickly found out upon further inspection.

“You delete memories. Right?” She asked.

“You’re Nachon,” Acheron pointed out, raising a brow. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

“Can’t delete my own memory.”

Acheron’s eyes widened at that. She was the one who wanted to be wiped? “No. I ain’t doing that.”

“I have money.”

“Don’t want ‘em.”

“Come on, why not?”

“Because,” Acheron started, trying to find the words. “Well. You’re a kid.”

“I’m not.”

“You very much are.”

Lucy groaned in exasperation. “I have money.” She repeated.

“Still don’t want them.” Acheron tilted his head. “What have you seen that you want to unsee so badly anyways?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, it is my business if you really want me to delete your memories.”

“That’s not what I meant!” She threw her hands up in exasperation.

“What did you mean then?”

“Well, what I meant is that–!” She paused, unable to find the words, she groaned in frustration. “You should just do it!” Acheron didn’t respond and she tried staring him down, as if to intimidate him. “It’s your job, isn’t it?”

“First tell me what it is you want to forget and I’ll consider it.”

She looked conflicted. She licked her lips and pursed her lips together. “I just –“ her voice broke, the anger suddenly turning to despair. “Want to forget him. Please.”

“Forget who?” She didn’t answer. Acheron furrowed his brows, guilt suddenly churning in his stomach. He had been like this child. Alone in the world, vulnerable. He should help her, somehow. “Where are you staying?”

“Why?”

“You’re homeless, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to you?” He could feel her turn defensive again. “You some kind of creep?”

“No.” Acheron sighed, before correcting himself. “Not that kind of creep, anyways.”

“Then why are you asking? You aren’t gonna help me anyways.” She crossed her arms and tried her best to look brave.

“Not with that, no. But I have food. When was the last time you slept?”

She paused, eyeing him suspiciously. She was probably right to mistrust him, he thought. It was healthy. If only he had been more critical. He sighed, reached into his pocket and getting out a piece of paper, scribbling down an address on it. He held it out to her. “Here. Drop by when you get tired of sleeping on the ground. You can come and go as you please.” After a moment of hesitation she took it, eyes never leaving him.

“Why?”

“I’ve been in your spot kid. There’s bad people out there,” Acheron hesitated. “Think about it.”

May 17th 2019
Acheron had thought that might be the last he’d ever see of the girl. That she, like so many other Nachon refugees, would die in a gutter somewhere in Erast. But one night, the girl had knocked on his door, drenched from a rain shower, tears running down her cheeks. Three hours later, she was dry, splayed out on the sofa and talking. And she could talk a lot, Acheron thought, from his seat by the dining table. She was on her third cup of instant ramen at this point – had been a while since she had eaten, he figured. She was talking about, well, something. He had tuned her out quite some time ago, figuring her words more of a way to calm herself than being of actual importance. It was harder to read the energy of another Nachon, usually. But she was all over the place. Anxiety, fear, anger. Bubbling right under the surface. Nightmares had kept her up, he learned, not because she told him but because the images still kept flashing by in her consciousness. He knew what that felt like. He figured that he would not make a good caretaker – wouldn’t even pretend to be – but a roof over her head was at least something he could provide for the time being.

“Anyways,” she said, placing the now empty plastic container down by the rest. “That’s Wilkinson’s books and why they fucking suck. You follow?”

“Not at all,” Acheron admitted, shrugging and resting his head in his hand. Her eyes flickered. That hadn’t been the response she had anticipated.

“Oh. You don’t read, do you?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, looking up at the window. Water pouring against it, a gaping wet void. Her uneasy mind once again flickering with images of a man. The titular ‘him’, Acheron assumed. He tilted his head, trying to piece it all together.

“You’re using your powers on me, aren’t you?” she said accusingly, shooting him a warning look. “I can feel it, you know.”

Acheron's face contorted in a grimace at being caught red-handed, then he shrugged. “Sorry,” he offered. “Just wondering. What made you come here, you know. Who is that man?”

She frowned, looking down at the blanket in her lap, absentmindedly fiddling with a loose strand of textile. “Just. Someone I used to know.”

“You don’t need to share. If you don’t want.” She wanted to. Acheron could feel it, the need to be known tucking at his powers. People didn’t realize, he came to find, how much of their mind lended itself to others. She licked her lips, pausing, considering.

“You can’t share it. With anyone.”

“Who would I share with?”

She shrugged, then nodded. Then leaned back on the couch and started talking. And what Acheron learned that night, well, it was very interesting. This other Nachon, who existed somewhere within Erast, living under another name. The things he had done. They had more than a few things in common, him and Acheron. Both despicable people. After that night, the girl would often stay to sleep on his couch and Acheron would learn more. Like how this man worked for the EFA now, living under the guise as someone charitable. An imposter. A possible source of income, too. Perhaps Acheron had found himself a stable way to make rent? It seemed fair, then. He had hurt Lucy once. Now, the least he could do was help provide for her.

[Acheron]

Day 10: Use the title: Promises made, promises kept - POV Acheron
Slight TW for fucked up power dynamics, human trafficking rings

“What did you just say?”

“I want out.”

For a moment, Jonathan stared blankly at Acheron, then he  laughed in disbelief. “You want out?”

Acheron swallowed the lump in his throat as Jonathan's eyes narrowed. Once, he had had no issue standing his ground and standing up for himself, even to the point of bringing him trouble. But that had been before this arrangement. He hated to admit it, but Jonathan scared him. It didn’t matter if Acheron went around poking his brain, the air around him was always thick with bad intentions regardless.  He wondered how he hadn’t noticed that the first time they had met.

“You want out, huh? Well, you’ve got some nerve, kid.” Jonathan looked amused as he propped his chin up in his hand. “And what’re you gonna do instead, exactly?” he smiled as Acheron avoided looking at him. “Go on, tell me. What’s your plan here? You quit and go back to the street? Think I’d just let you walk?”

“I just. Can’t do it anymore.”

“Can’t do it anymore, huh?” Jonathan nodded in faux pity. “You poor thing. Life must be so tough for you. The free housing, free food, free clothes. I see. Things were so much better before, weren’t they?”

“That’s not– look, I am grateful for your help and all, but…”

“But?”

“It’s just– I… the memories. I can’t-“ His job – if one could even refer to it as that – was removing the memory of the ‘merchandise,’ as Jonathan and his business partners would call them. Though he had only handled one shipment, he already couldn’t let go of what he had seen. The images kept him up at night. “I can't do it.”

“Can’t do it.” Jonathan repeated again. “What you’ve seen has been that bad, then?”

For just a moment, Acheron thought that the man in front of him actually did understand. He nodded. Jonathan clicked his tongue.

“But then, if what you’ve seen has been that bad. Then you should know, kid,” he finally said. “That you should be grateful. If anybody else told me what you just told me, I’d snap their neck in an instant.”

Jonathan watched Acheron, weighting him up. Acheron could hear the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He didn’t dare pry to see what was going through the man's head. “So what to do about you. I could teach you some manners myself. Or I could sell you to some real bad people. They would do worse to you than I ever could.” Acheron’s blood ran cold. He knew what that sort of person was capable of – he’d seen the memories. “Or you could get back to work, keep your end of the promise and the two of us could simply forget this conversation ever took place. I’m feeling nice. I’ll let you choose. Still think you can’t do it anymore?”

The anger that flared inside him was kept at bay by the fear of the man in front of him. Acheron wanted to retort how this wasn’t fair, but held his tongue.

“Come then, Acheron. What will it be? Still think you can’t do it?”

Acheron’s lips pushed into a thin line. He was stupid to even begin to think he may have a choice in this matter. It wasn’t fair, but then again, nothing in his life had been up to this point. Why should that change now? He nodded. “ I’ll do it.”

“Great! Just what I wanted to hear.” Acheron jumped when Jonathan suddenly clapped and rose from his place on the lushious couch. Acheron trailed his movement across the living room over to the small bar, to pour himself a drink. Then the clinking of glass and the pouring of liquids and a satisfied ‘ah’ as the man took a sip, before turning to look at the teenager. Another moment of tense silence before he spoke again. “But just so we’re clear: you deserve it. To feel bad.” Acheron averted his gaze from Johnathan. “After all, you still choose to do that to those poor people.”

“Go on. Tell me you deserve it,” Jonathan continued when Acheron didn’t respond. “I want to hear you say it.”

Acheron clenched his teeth and reminded himself not to lash out at the man, whatever weird powertrip he was on now.“I-I deserve it.”

“Now, look at me.” There was something nauseatingly satisfied in the man's eyes. “And say it again."

Acheron swallowed and looked up. “I deserve it.”

“Of course you do, you fucking demon. Now, get out of here.”

[Acheron]

b]Day 15: This isn’t even a prompt on the list
I have not written anything of value these last two days. BUT here’s some words I refuse to proofread right now <3[/b]

Being homeless was easier when you had a phone. A phone offered entertainment and a small escape from reality, which was important as to not go absolutely insane. There were games, there were movies, budding online communities. And sometimes the occasional posting for an odd-job could mean at least some income. Of course, that all required access to wifi. But that hadn’t been at all hard for someone like Acheron. There was a gas-station behind the abandoned warehouse, which he had dropped by anyways in order to get his first decent meal of the day. It hadn’t taken much prodding into the mind of the clerk to figure out the password. At least now with the money from Cadmus, he was able to pay for it without scraping change together. Although, he would have to figure out how and where to exchange the bigger paper currency for something a little safer to carry around.

So there he sat, in his make-due camp inside the abandoned warehouse, making a prioritized list of how to use his newfound wealth. He had to put a fair bit aside, on the off-chance that his plans ended up coming through. He would hate to be indebted to some very dangerous people. But he had asked for way more than what was strictly necessary on purpose. He needed a better sleeping-bag than the one he had found in the charity shop, as the one he had barely kept out the cold. Maybe a bigger backpack too?  Then, a fitness subscription. A fitness subscription meant access to a shower and utilities. If he remembered correctly, the chain Epic Fitness still didn’t require an address for sign up – otherwise he’d have to lie and give Lucy’s, who was already pissed at him over the stunt with the diary. Next on the list was food. For relatively cheap, he could get a small zeal-powered burner that didn’t need access to an electrical outlet. That could come in handy. But then he’d need a pot too. He also didn’t have a reliable way of doing the dishes afterwards. Though, it definitely beat the fastfood and quick-fix meals he’d have to make due with for the last couple of weeks. His stomach growled in protest as he looked over at the abandoned greasy bag that had once contained his food. Then his eye got caught by the garment bag that hung on one of the pipes.

His eyebrows furrowed as he pointedly looked away. He hadn’t tried it on yet. But the fabric seemed much more expensive than he had anticipated. He wanted to be clean when he did put it on – maybe a one-time payment would lend him access to a gym-shower?

He sighed and put his phone away, wanting to conserve what little battery there was left in case he lost his shit during the night. It was late, anyway. This part of town was secluded enough in order for him to at least get a little sleep. Tomorrow, he would find a cafe so he could charge his new phone and set a game-plan in motion. He was in a better position this time around than he was the last time around, he reminded himself. Last time he had relied on pick-pocketing, intruding on people’s thoughts in order to access their pincodes. That had been risky. All things considered, he was sure Cadmus at least wouldn’t turn him in to the authorities. If he did, he’d be fucking himself over.

Acheron also wasn’t as naive as he had been the last time. Meeting and taking the deal from Jonathan had to be one of the biggest mistakes of his entire life. A mistake he was still paying for to this day. He shuddered at the thought. Somehow, he survived it. And somehow, he would survive to see another day. That thought didn’t give him the comfort it probably should have. He knew it would catch up with him one day. But for now, he could make damn certain that he at least would take all the bastards he could down with him.

[Acheron]

Day 18: Use the title of the last song you've listened to “I dropped out” (lol)
Oh boy its late. Anyways. Here's that time Ache escaped an institution. It is not proofread at all cuz I am tired
TW: Child abuse, abuse of power, vomiting, uh. Ache's past in general

When Acheron had arrived in Ilomar, he had barely known the language. He had been taught some in school, of course, but a year of first-grade education hadn’t prepared him for the real thing. He could barely communicate with his new family upon arrival in a suburb outside of Domaware. As if he hadn’t already disrupted the suburban peace in the household. Credit where it's due, the family had paid for language classes. But as fate would have it, the mandatory trips to the testing center – because his mother had been a Nachon, after all – would eventually come back with the one result everyone had feared. And thus, he was once again sent away.

By the time he was sent to the The Thelmian Educational Institute, he had a better grasp on the language. Of course, that wasn’t enough to not be punished if he mispronounced or misspoke during loud reading of the holy texts. Or even worse yet, used his mother-tongue. At the institute, he quickly learned there was little sympathy to gain with the guardians and teachers: there was only discipline and obedience. Those who kept their head down, didn’t resist, didn’t stick out, those were the kids who would be left alone. Though they were still Nachon and they would be treated accordingly. And once they were adults, if they even made it that far, that was when their fate would be decided. A lucky few might have the privilege to live on in relative freedom. For those with a record – and that was most of them – it was right to jail. Acheron knew, after a year, that he would have to escape somehow. But it wouldn’t be an easy task.

There were the Enferi teachers, the priests who had taken upon the charitable task of teaching the young Nachons their place within the religious hierarchy. They were the least trouble, when it came down to it. They were only there during the days and the ceremonies and usually wouldn’t personally dish out punishment. No, it was the Godia guard that was the problem. They enforced the rules with a heavy hand and there would always be someone on duty, no matter the time of day. In the start it had seemed you couldn’t even blink without them noticing. But as time went on, the cracks would inevitably start to show within the regime. The guards weren’t infallible and they had their favorites amongst the students – and those students would inevitably be treated better. They had more leniency, better chores, sometimes they even got out of activities such as the multiple mandatory daily prayers. Halfway through his second year, the inkling of a plan had started to form.

And thus, Acheron started working harder. If he was set to mop the floors, they would be sparkling by the time he was done. He wouldn’t complain when they were set to do physical labor for hours outside in freezing weather. Nor would he any longer cover for the other students when they misstepped. I didn’t make him popular. But it made him noticed by the superiors. And soon enough, he’d be running errands for them. Fetching them their tea or making sure the Enferi teachers would not notice their internal affairs. By his third year, he had become something of a private assistant to his floor's main guard, Erik Davies. By this point he had been hated by the other students. He’d be called a traitor and a bootlicker. They had scoffed at him, some even spit at him. He supposed they were right to. But, assuming he wasn’t smothered to death in his sleep first, he had a plan that was going to lead to freedom. He hoped. That, or he’d never see the light of day ever again.

As fate would have it, he got his opportunity in his fourth year, shortly after he had turned fourteen. It was Godia Warriors Day and the amount of guards on duty was low, as most were out to join the celebrations. Davies, as at were, had been scheduled for this day and thus, he was in a sour mood. So, he sat there, reading his newspaper while grumbling commentary to himself, while Acheron was on his knees scrubbing the floors. Davies was an aging man for a Godia warrior still in service. It had left his mark and with time, the man had grown to care very little about his work. Time had left many occupational injuries and the man would often complain about his pains, when it was only Acheron there to hear it. As such, he was more lenient with his division in general and often wouldn’t dish out punishments unless absolutely deemed necessary – the man simply didn’t have the capacity to dish them out anymore as much as he once had. He took lightly to the rules pertaining to Godia warriors, too, Acheron had noticed. “A free man is allowed to indulge  once he reaches a certain age.” He would often tell Acheron, when he was sent to fetch his secret stash of scotch and cigarettes from the shed in the courtyard. This day was one of those days.

“Hey, kid,” Davies said, looking at Acheron over his newspaper. “Go to the yard and fetch my stuff, would ya?”

Acheron’s heart almost skipped a beat. Was today the day? Did he have enough stock? He stood. “Yes sir,” he said, vibing his hands in his already dirtied uniform. Then he asked casually, trying to will his heart to stop beating so loudly in his chest. “Can I have a permit?”

Davies sighed, reaching into the drawer and pulling out a small slab of paper. He hastily filling out the required boxed  before handing it over to Acheron with a half-hearted. “No loitering.”

“Thank you, sir,” Acheron said as he took the paper, glancing at the signature and the filled in box next to the word ‘courtyard.’ His hands were sweating. “I won’t, sir.” He folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket as Davies returned his attention to the newspaper.

Acheron left the office, heart pounding. He reached into his pocket and counted. What did he have, 12, 20? When he reached the door that lead to the outside, he produced the permit and showed it to the guard who shook his head with a laugh. “Good old Davies. Be quick, kid.” Acheron nodded and croaked a small “yes sir” as the man opened the door.

Stepping out into the November rain, Acheron shivered. Placing the permit back into his pocket, he started walking across the lawn. He crossed his arms, bracing himself against the strong winds. Was this a good idea? Where would he even go? He shook his head, shutting the thought out. This might be his last chance before Davies was sent to retirement, and who knew if he’d ever be given the opportunity again. It had to be today.

He entered the shed. It smelled of old wood and mold. As he turned on the light, rows of garden tools became visible. Acheron walked to the far end of the room and pulled out the old rusty toolbox from underneath a shelving unit. He opened it and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He unplugged it, before picking out a handful of pills – the kinds of power suppressant they were all handed each morning – from his pocket, letting them plop down into the liquid one by one. 19 in total he counted. Was it enough to knockout a grown man? Acheron was shaking, perhaps this was a bad idea after all. Voices sounded outside of the shed and, hastily, he plopped the cork bag in the bottle and placed it back into the toolbox. He closed it and got to his feet, exiting the shed. The sound of feet running away and Acheron realized it was just two fellow students who had tried to hide from the work ground. They would be found soon enough. Acheron wouldn’t. Taking a breath and steeling himself, he once again walked into the pouring rain and towards the towering building.

Once back in the office, he immediately went to pour the Godia a glass, as was the usual routine. He didn’t pay Acheron any mind as he served it, along with placing a pack of cigarettes on the table. Nor did he ask for the permit back, exactly as he had expected. But still, Acheron’s heart only pounded harder as he returned to his work station, watching and waiting for the man to take a sip. He almost forgot to scrub, when the man grabbed the glass and slowly brought it up to his mouth. Breathe stopped in his throat. The man took a sip. Then another. Then downed the whole thing before letting out a satisfied ‘ah’ and leaning back in his chair lighting a cigarette. Acheron sat, frozen, as he watched Davies with wide eyes as he returned to read his newspaper. Then. Nothing. Acheron’s heart sank. Has it all been in vain?

Then, the man put the newspaper aside and nearly fell off his chair as he caught his head in his hand. “Wauw’strong stuff,” he slurred. Acheron’s eyes widened. “Perhaps you should go lay down, sir?” He suggested.

“S’perhaps,” The man started a sentence as he tried rising from his chair, but immediately fell to the ground and started vomiting violently. Acheron sprung to his feet, this was his chance. He produced the permit from his pocket and went to the desk, grabbing the pen and filling out the small box that said he was allowed to leave the premises. “What’d you do,” the man heaved from his spot on the floor, lying in his own vomit. Acheron shuddered as he paused. “I…”

He frowned, then folded the paper, pocketing that along with a pack of cigarettes and Davies’ wallet before he went for the door. “I’ll go get help.” he said as he exited the office, the sound of retching sounding all the way out on the hallway. Acheron prayed that no one would find him like this, not before he himself was long gone.

He went to the guard by the door, who raised a brow as Acheron returned once more. “Already back?”

“Forgot something.”

“Hm…” The man looked suspicious, but opened the door anyway. “No loitering, now,” he warned.

“Of course not, sir.” Acheron stepped back into the pouring rain, his heart pounding as he considered his next steps. Did he head straight for the gates or would the man at the door notice him taking the wrong path? Or did he take a detour to the shed, risking that someone found Davies before he left? Acheron decided to risk the gates.

The guards at the gate eyed him suspiciously as they held up the permit. “And he has sent you out into town unattended for what, exactly?”

“Pain medication, sir. Davies is old.”

“We should send someone to verify,” the guard said, looking at his partner who was currently eating lunch. Acheron’s heart sank.

“H-he needs it fast. It’s kind of urgent. He gave me this.” Acheron pulled out the wallet to prove it.

The guards narrowed. “Seems an awful lot of trust to put on a Nachon,” he mumbled. The partner shrugged.

“‘Tis Davies for ya,” he countered. The two watched Acheron, who swore they must’ve heard his beating heart.

“Ah, what the hell. Mans’ probably desperate.” The guard clicked the buzzer and the gates opened. Acheron looked with wide eyes out on the world ahead. “You know where the pharmacy is?” Acheron nodded. “Good. You have 20 minutes, kid. Cooper, go check on Davies.”

Acheron knew, as he stepped out into freedom, that it wasn’t over yet. He still wore his uniform. He had nowhere to go. He had to get out of town fast. But for the first time since arriving in at the Thelmian Educational Institute, it felt as if the future might just be something he could hope for.

[Acheron]

Day 17: Write about a car ride… or is it day 19, summary for a book? Or day 20, new piece of lore? Day 21?? IDK I’m just gonna write more Ache backstory

Two days. That was the amount of time that had left since Acheron had run away. That was two days of no food, no rest. Just aimlessly heading down country roads, out in the middle of nowhere. Still in his uniform, soaking wet and so so cold. In the start of his journey, he had been filled to the brim with paranoia that he would be found and brought back for his punishment. Now, he was starting to wonder if that was preferable to passing out on the side of the road from pure exhaustion. On the verge of giving up, he leaned up against a tree to finally give himself a breather as tears started gathering in his eyes. He started slighting down the trunk as his own weight started giving away underneath him. His feet and ankles hurt so bad. He was tired of shivering. He had been so focused on the how of his escape that he hadn’t even stopped to think about what he was going to do after. What had he expected? A warm living room and a nice cup of tea? Laughable. Such nice things were not extended to Nachons. He felt the warm wet trail starting to slide down his cheeks but he didn’t care. He also didn’t care if he was found anymore. Or if they would kill him. Perhaps he deserved to be killed? He had poisoned a guard. Killed him, maybe? Regret started churning in his stomach and if he had eaten anything that day, surely it would be on its way up again. They were right to think him a monster, he decided.

In the same moment, a truck was on its way down the road, on a long journey back to Ilomar City. Behind the wheel sat Rachael Peters, cigarette in hand as rock music played from the car radio. The truck was filled with random trinkets and memorabilia – the truck was like a second home to her, it was where she spent her days and she loved the freedom that came with it. Though the pay was shit and the hours were long, she still had it better than so many other Nachons like her. And it gave her the privilege to help in ways that most others could not. So what if she never got the family or the dreamlife she had imagined when she had been young and naive? She had her truck and she had the open road. Lost in her music, her cigarette and her thoughts she almost completely missed  the boy on the side of the road in the uniform that brought goosebumps down her spine. She hit the break without a moment to consider her approach and exited the car. The boy looked up at her with big frightened eyes, red from crying. She frowned and paused, before steeling her resolve and approaching.

“Say kid, didn’t anybody tell ya it’s a bad call to go hitch-hiking in mid-november?” She joked. Acheron just stared at her, muscles tight and ready to run. Was this it, had they send her to kill him? She winced and crouched down so that they were at an even level. “Hey, relax, I’m not gonna hurt you,” she reassured, eyeing the wet uniform. The nearest institute was a long journey away and it made her wonder how long exactly he had been on the road. “Runaway, huh?” The boy paled and she knew that had been the wrong thing to ask. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she repeated, holding a hand to her chest. “I’m Nachon too. I’m Rachel. What’s your name?”

He licked his dry lips nervously, but visibly relaxed a bit at her reassurance. “Acheron,” he croaked out after a moment of consideration. She nodded.

“Acheron,” she repeated, before smiling reassuringly at him. “I’m heading to IC, Ache. Want a ride?”

Acheron stared at her. He had always been told not to take rides from strangers, who knew what kind of person she actually was? But then again, he wasn’t much in a position to say no: he’d surely die out here. But she said she was Nachon. If that was true and it was true what they said at the institute, and it might be because he may very well have killed a man just a few days earlier, then who was to say she wasn’t some kind of sick twisted person as well? But didn’t he deserve it, if she was? He didn’t know what to respond and simply stared at her.

She frowned then sighed. Then tried again. “Surely you’re hungry. Lemme at least buy you something to eat.” Before Acheron could decline, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. He looked away, embarrassed she smiled at him. “Come on, kid. You look like shit. Lemme help you.” She held out a hand for him to take.

He stared at it, then stared at her some more. He was hungry. And the thought of getting out of the cold was tempting. He decided that even if she had intentions of hurting him, it certainly beat another night of aimless walking. Reluctantly, he took her hand.

[Acheron]

Rewritten version of: Day 6: Write about a blackout
TW: Explicit abuse, death, Acheron is having a VERY bad time in this one you guys

January, 2019
Acheron would later struggle to recall the events that lead up to Jonathan’s death. He remembers that the complete wiping of a lifetime of memories was a delicate tightrope to walk. At which point did you stop, satisfied that an identity was truly gone? Was it when the love, the heartache and friendship was gone? Every lesson learned and every person known? The names of even those closest to you? Go too far and you end up with a person whose confusion is so permanent that they keep forgetting – then you’ve done damage that can’t be undone and that person is now useless. Go even further and, well, that was where it had started. There had been a young boy, stubbornly refusing to forget. And Acheron had been pushed further, to take more. Until the delicate tightrope broke and the boy had died. That was the first step of the decline that would eventually lead to Jonathan’s demise.

━━▲━━

The water in the tub was ice cold. Like millions of tiny pins and needles stabbing at Acheron's face as he thrashed against the hair holding his head down. Water was everywhere, invading his lungs, his mind, filling him inside and out and it burned. He needed air. Ironic, when it was an air-kirscha holding him under. Panic started giving way to acceptance that this was the end. And then it stopped and he was pulled up. His chest heaves as he fights for air.

“Do you know why you’re being punished?” Acheron looked up at Jonathan with wide, frightened eyes. He knew why. But as he gasped for air, his lips formed no words. Jonathan sighed. “Come on, now, Acheron. It’s no use if you don’t realize why.”

“I-… I can't...”

“Well, it’s simple,” Jonathan said, running a hand through Acheron’s wet hair. Mockingly affectionate. “It’s because even after all this time, you’re still finding ways to spite us. You deserve this. After all,” Acheron winced as the hand in his hair suddenly turned to a vice grip. “You’re a murderer now too, aren’t you?” Then, a splash, and Acheron was under water again.

━━▲━━

After that, Acheron was locked in what was supposed to be his room. If one could refer to it like that. Barely bigger than the size of a closet, a madras on the floor, a dresser. No windows to tell the passing of the days. Just dirtied white walls. Acheron didn’t dare turn on the light. In the darkness, laying on the floor, he could pretend not to exist at all. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could even will himself to believe that he wasn’t what he was. A murderer and a demon. Barely better than a wild animal.

But he was. He had killed a young boy, whether he had intended to or not. Someone was dead and it was his fault. Even if the boy's fate would have been dreary regardless. For that alone, Acheron deserved the abuse. And for every other soul he had doomed, even if he had only done so at the will of a man who was undeniably evil? It reminded him of the scripture back from the institute. The story of Makas and Acheron, from which they had named him. He hadn’t always been called that. It didn’t bother him anymore. The other name belonged to a child not tainted by the same hatred that Acheron was. It felt appropriate. He tried to remember it, how the verses went. He closed his eyes, muttering into the darkness.

“Terror gripped Acheron's aching spirit but Tarron put him at ease speaking: “Fear not child,” spoke the false icon.” Had he not too been approached by evil in his darkest hour? That cold winter night when he had met Jonathan. He hadn’t thought he would’ve survived that winter. He had accepted a deal with Tarron himself and this was the price he was paying. And now he had killed. Like Acheron had in the myth. The name he had been given, it was perfectly appropriate. And what, then, happened with Acheron, after he had killed his brother? Sentenced to death. What then? What were the words again?

“and Iosta, too, witnessed this senseless act of violence: and Acheron, was for his transgression against what is whole and good, then forever exiled from Her holy  light. For he who has chosen Tarron shall be forever corrupted by his darkness.” Because not even in death would Acheron find peace. That was right. If it had been any other way, he would have ended it by now. Maybe this was what Iosta had intended all along? Maybe he truly was Acheron. He probably was. Almost most definitely, because if he wasn’t, then he wouldn’t have ended up here. If that was the case, then Jonathan he had to be–

━━▲━━

“I think you’re Tarron,” Acheron spoke, voice hoarse and frail from lack of use. Sitting at a table, looking down at a plate with eggs and toast that had been served. He had no idea how long he had been rotting in that room. Long enough that he should probably be hungry by now but he couldn’t find the will to eat. He wasn’t even sure if any of it was real. If the eggs before him were actually there. Or if he was imagining. He just knew that the man on the opposite side of the table, he was evil

Jonathan looked up from his phone, brow raised in confusion. “What did you just say?”

Acheron swallowed, looking at the man. Had he spoken out loud? “Nothing.”

Jonathan kept his gaze locked for a moment more before dropping it. He returned his attention to his phone. “Eat your breakfast. We’ve had a shipment of three while you’ve been on your little break.”

A shipment of three? Acheron nodded, slowly moving his trembling hand to grab the utensils. He had three people on the agenda. Would he kill any of them? He didn’t want to. But neither had he wanted to kill the boy.

February, 2019
The complete wiping of a lifetime of memories was a delicate tightrope to walk. One that required a somewhat precise and lucid mind. And Acheron continuously failed. To wipe anything, to even enter the spirit of his victims sometimes. Beatings, punishments, nothing worked to get Acheron back into shape. And Jonathan didn’t have a use for him anymore. Acheron already knew that his time had come to an end. Maybe it was better that way?

━━▲━━

“Yes– Well, I suppose it’s hard not to get a little attached. It’s sad, but it is what it is,” Jonathan spoke into his phone, turning towards Acheron’s struggling form. “We’ll find another method – what was that? Oh,” He laughed at a joke being said on the other end. “Well, I guess we’ll have to see. See you soon, Jacob.” He hung up, crouching down to the choking Acheron, tilting his head up and caressing his chin.

Acheron, gasped for air that would not come. Jonathan had taken it all. Like a crushing pressure deep in his chest, the powers of an air kirscha. Was Acheron afraid of death? He had narrowly escaped it many times by now. He found himself fighting it, the crushing pressure as Jonathan said his final goodbyes. The world was going dark. Then a dizzying, tunneling sensation and then something familiar. A spirit. Jonathans. Images flashing before his eyes, too fast for him to process. Children crying, his wife and kids, business dealings, Acheron himself freezing on the street. Acheron didn’t think twice as he started violently ripping at the seams of Jonathan’s being. The nausea turned to euphoria as he sucked in all the energy he could. Memories, emotions, everything. Anything but delicately and he vaguely registered the noise of a man screaming in pain somewhere far away. Then, a blinding light and then it stops. There's a lifeless corpse on the floor.

Acheron’s throat is raw but he doesn’t remember screaming and tears fall from his eyes to his chin to the floor, but he doesn’t remember crying either. His chest heaves for air as he looks at the body in front of him. Jonathan was dead and Acheron was a murderer.

[Sponsoreret inhold]