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Shalem noticed it one morning in the bathroom, getting ready for work. He happened to glance sideways at the mirror, and there it was: a dark crystal centered on his shoulder blade. He reached out to touch it and was struck by an idle thought—it’s beautiful.
There’s always been something beautiful about death, particularly in the things that teeter a person over the edge. Originium is unassuming, dark and lifeless at first glance. It’s out of place on someone’s skin; a blemish. Here, however, it shows itself in a new light. It’s cool to the touch, and he swears he can feel something fluttering to life under his fingertips.
It’s the image of a vulture tearing away at the corpse of one of its own—it’s morbidly fascinating, and Shalem finds himself enraptured.
He pulls his shirt over his head, swears he can feel it burning a hole through the fabric, and continues on with his life. He tells the medical department, of course—he doesn’t care, truly, but it’s what the average person would do, and that is how he dictates himself—and keeps living.
Nothing much changes. All Shalem sees of late are phantoms of his childhood.
He sees himself in the empty hallways. He sees a child running, sitting in class, acting on a stage. He sees himself idly, simply experiencing the act of existing. Shalem doesn’t long for that time of his life, he’s sure—he told himself he would never long for it the moment he left it behind. During those times, in the dead of night, he would tell himself that as he thought about running away. That he would never regret his decision. That there was no going back—and that was simply a fact.
He knows that he does not yearn for that life, logically, simply by knowing himself—and yet he thinks about it, inescapably. He dwells, reliving his childhood in his every lonely, waking moment. He’s forced to wonder—is that not the same thing? Is it not a similar enough act? His past disdain has simmered over time, and now he scantly remembers the taste. He remembers the colors, the action of it, but never the feeling. The contempt has not disappeared—it never will, he knows—but simply taken a different shape.
He grapples against it, helplessly.
There’s no room for forgiveness in his heart, and there never should be. He experienced nothing but hurt at the hands of the Crimson Troupe, and so did many others—and yet, they were all he knew. He hates them, then clings to their memory. The hypocrisy clogs his throat. There will always be stray cobwebs clinging to his clothing. He can bathe as many times as he pleases, rub his skin red and raw in an effort to clean himself, but the dregs will always remain.
The orginium in his body throbs at every broken memory dragged to the surface, sickly and burning. He ignores his past and simply makes a note to talk to the medical department about inflammation.
His time is limited, marred at the hands of the Troupe. He’ll live for a few more years—maybe half a decade, if he’s lucky—and then this disease will eat him from the inside out. He finds it hard to feel any particularly strong or discernible feelings about it. This was always what his fate was; he’s been running on borrowed time ever since he was a child, always procured by blind luck.
As it is, oripathy being the thing to take his life isn’t a much worse fate than a death at someone else’s hands.
He breathes. Originium grows through his skin. He continues existing, on the verge of something called ‘living.’