Gurney Devries
Oct 1st, 2001, 10:28:55 PM
... save for one man, who found death all too easy to come by, yet managed to keep on living. On his knees, with his head bowed, he looked almost serene. That demeanor truly belied the underlying turmoil which constantly raged within him.
It was when he was alone that it truly got bad; When he couldn't ignore the screaching voices in his head any longer. Sometimes, it was her voice. But more often than not, it was his own voice, berating him for every fault, every flaw and, more importantly, every mistake he'd ever made. Sometimes, he wondered how a man could continue to cling to sanity under such an assault. And the conclusion he came to was always the same: He couldn't.
Silently, not even bothering to lift his head, Gurney reached into the his left sleeve. His hand brushed against the cold blade which he knew was there. Gingerly, he wrapped his meaty fingers around it's hilt and withdrew it slowly, placing it on the floor.
Gurney allowed his fingers to linger on the knife for a minute, caressing the blade softly. The weapon was a true rarity... at least, in his hands it was. Had it been it the hands of it's former owner, it might not have looked so strange - Mistryls hardly ever relinquished their prized weapons, after all.
Touching it was like opening a psychic floodgate, allowing the voices to start their assault anew. He scrunched up his eyes in a vain attempt to try and block them out, like he had done so many times before. Tears began to well at the corners of his eyes from the effort, and he could feel the warm trickled down his cheeks shortly after.
<font size="1">"I must not fear. Fear is the Mind Killer. Fear is the little death that brings total oblivion. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye to see it's path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing: Only I will remain."</font>
He chanted his matra in a dry, husky voice. Over and over until finally, mercifully, the voices quieted. In silence at last, he began to meditate, falling into a semi-sleep.
It was when he was alone that it truly got bad; When he couldn't ignore the screaching voices in his head any longer. Sometimes, it was her voice. But more often than not, it was his own voice, berating him for every fault, every flaw and, more importantly, every mistake he'd ever made. Sometimes, he wondered how a man could continue to cling to sanity under such an assault. And the conclusion he came to was always the same: He couldn't.
Silently, not even bothering to lift his head, Gurney reached into the his left sleeve. His hand brushed against the cold blade which he knew was there. Gingerly, he wrapped his meaty fingers around it's hilt and withdrew it slowly, placing it on the floor.
Gurney allowed his fingers to linger on the knife for a minute, caressing the blade softly. The weapon was a true rarity... at least, in his hands it was. Had it been it the hands of it's former owner, it might not have looked so strange - Mistryls hardly ever relinquished their prized weapons, after all.
Touching it was like opening a psychic floodgate, allowing the voices to start their assault anew. He scrunched up his eyes in a vain attempt to try and block them out, like he had done so many times before. Tears began to well at the corners of his eyes from the effort, and he could feel the warm trickled down his cheeks shortly after.
<font size="1">"I must not fear. Fear is the Mind Killer. Fear is the little death that brings total oblivion. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye to see it's path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing: Only I will remain."</font>
He chanted his matra in a dry, husky voice. Over and over until finally, mercifully, the voices quieted. In silence at last, he began to meditate, falling into a semi-sleep.