Thursday, July 10, 2014

Day Seven-Thirty-Nine: The final story

I've been telling stories for three days. I'm out of stories to tell. Except for one.

I don't know if I can tell that story. I've never told it to anyone before.

I... I'm afraid. I don't know what'll happen if I tell it. 

It's a story about a phantom. A phantom that has haunted my dreams since... ever. I can't remember a time when it hasn't haunted my dreams. Gods know my dreams are already bad enough without the extra help, though... I guess this is what got them started in the first place.

That story. In almost three years I haven't even written it down in this diary. I've hinted, I've suggested, I've... fretted... but I've only mentioned one concrete detail of it before.

The bandit.

I avoided the bandit for an entire year. I can't believe that, but I think it's true. I haven't referred to the bandit since I was mayor. I guess the stress, the excitement, the weirdness of being on the road... I guess it all pushed him to the back of my mind. He was always there, of course, always brandishing his blade at me from the dark corners of the back alleys of the scummy sections of my memory, but I ignored him. Somehow.

I can't ignore him now. I've pushed myself into a corner. I... I think I have to tell that final story. But I don't know how.

Maybe it's something I can't write. Maybe it's something that can only be told. Verbally. Something I dislike so fucking much that it can only come at the end of things, when there's no hope left, and no ink left for writing. 

Yeah. I'm almost out of ink. I only brought so much. I thought we'd find Iko weeks ago. No such luck. He's still dancing somewhere outside my grasp, eluding me. Probably mocking me. And now I'm about to lose the only consolation I have, because this old bastard refuses to come out and play until I'm left with nothing. And even that much is an assumption.

The bandit. Only Kierkegaard scares me more than the bandit, these days. And it's a rather stiff competition. Hell, after all I've been through, would Kierkegaard still frighten me so much as he did in Pagan's manor...? I wonder if I'll ever find out. Not that I'm anxious to meet the penguin again, but... the point stands...


The bandit.

I'll tell him tomorrow. Tonight... I need to think long and hard on how it should be told.

This is the end of my diary. Whether this entry will be the last I ever write, or simply the last before I learn what I came here to learn, I don't know. I'm out of ink either way, and I'm not so desperate that I would use bodily fluids to keep going. I'm feeling a bit too dry to go that route anyway. Heh.

Thank you, Nagi.

Thank you, Logan. 

Thank you, Celine. 

Thank you, Daena.

Thank you, Jeffrey. (Though maybe not right now.)

Thank you, Grylock.

Thank you, Plato.

Thank you, rat.

Thank you, Fynn.

Thank you, Libby.

Thank you, everyone I forgot to mention. I know there are so many more who brought me this far. But I'm almost out of ink, and I need to write sparingly.

I'm sorry. This trip was the worst idea I've ever had.


Dragomir the Wanderer

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