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🖤 Cloned-Eye's hauntingly hopeful Echo 🖤
My memories from before are…fragmented. I remember the ocean. The number five was significant. I had brothers and a sister.
I remember my brief childhood and being thrust into war. I was a good soldier. No one doubted my honor, loyalty, or bravery. Every man I fought beside knew I would die for them and for our cause.
And then I did.
There was an explosion. Pain, but only briefly. That’s when the nightmare began. I was the nightmare. It was worse than being dead. I was death. I killed everything I touched.
Wat Tambor created me. He turned me into this…this abominable creature. I was forced to forget the ones I loved. Those who loved me. I killed them. I killed them as they tried to save me. But I was beyond saving.
You would not think one man could be responsible for so much death. But I can no longer call myself a man. I am a monster.
Tambor’s monster.
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Sometimes, I wonder why I still draw breath.
Twice I was cornered by the authorities. I tried to explain. I am no longer that creature. No, that’s not quite right. I am still a monster, but only in body. My mind, and the control of this patchwork of bone and flesh, have since been returned to me. I no longer answer to the real monster, the Skakoan villain who attached pieces of my dead brothers to my broken body and turned my mind against everyone I loved.
The guilt! The crushing guilt! All the people I killed! I could not stop it. My limbs were not my own. My mind was not my own. I was told what to do and I complied, apathy on my features yet agony in my mind. I could only come to my senses for mere seconds when my master fumbled the strings, long enough to give my poor victims the final dignity of closing their eyes for them before succumbing to the horror once again.
That was months ago. Freedom followed. I found a mountain range near Pabu very much to my liking. It became my refuge, a place I could be alone and at peace. At least it was. A new torment found me in the form of you. You unknowingly entered my meadow to pick berries. You were so beautiful. I tried to remain hidden, but the twig beneath my foot betrayed me, alerting you to my presence.
Oh, but your scream! To hear the voice of another after so long was like music! Naturally, you ran. How could you not? I am a man made up of several men—stitched and stapled, bolted and riveted—my skin no warmer in hue than the lichen on the trees. My mind wandered. What would your voice have sounded like had you spoken a gentle word in Basic rather than a scream of revulsion? How would my name sound on your lips, tenderly uttered in friendship? No. Such things are all but forbidden to me now.
I was lucky to have received the gift of a scream.
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I did not think you would return.
If anything, I expected you to alert the authorities. It’s what you should have done. It’s why I didn’t retreat after you left that day. I had hoped they might find a way to end it. To end the suffering. To bring a large enough force that the monster might be brought to justice once and for all.
Your basket, left timidly at the base of a nearby tree, was the last thing I expected.
I watched you. Your steps were so careful. Barely a sound, but I knew you were there. You looked so frightened, and yet there was a strange determination in your terrified eyes as you entered the clearing. This was something you wanted. Something you needed to do. But why? Why had you come? The moment the woven handle was clear of your fingers you ran, and I emerged from my place of hiding. The basket! What a bounty you had left—dried meat, fresh bread, and a meiloorun.
How long had it been since I had seen a meiloorun? I held the fruit to my nose and cried. How pitiful am I, that a fruit brings tears? I believe I set a record that day for the longest time ever spent eating a meiloorun. It must have taken me over an hour. Oh, how I savored it. I wondered fleetingly as I ate if it was poisoned. Had they sent you to finish the monster? I ate the food even more gratefully at the thought. Perhaps you were no mere angel. Perhaps you were my angel of death. But I did not die, and that realization confused me more. Why had you shown me this kindness?
I wanted to thank you, but who knew if you would ever return? I placed the empty basket precisely where you left it. But I could not leave it empty. If you came back, you deserved a gift for your thoughtful deed. I thought to fill the basket with berries. There were far more than I could eat. No animal would come close enough to where I dwelled to eat them, but there was no way of knowing when you would return. You might return to find a basket of decomposing berries. It would be fitting irony.
No. Your gesture deserved one of equal beauty. I spent much of the rest of the day searching the nearby woods. Hours passed. Finally, as I stopped beside the nearby river to quench my thirst, I saw it. It glinted in the late afternoon sun as if it were meant for me to find. It was a stone—clear, pale, and golden. A selfish part of me wanted you to have it because it was the color of my eyes; the eyes you would never dare venture close enough to see. It was a good substitute.
Imagine my astonishment when you returned! I smiled when I saw that you owned another basket, an even bigger one. You swapped the baskets with the same care and trepidation as before, but this time you lingered, looking out over the meadow as if searching for me. I remained hidden. I did not want to frighten you again lest you never return.
Again, you ran.
This time, salted bantha and joguns sat atop a thick woolen blanket. As my hand ran along the fabric’s scratchy surface, I knew I would be warm that night. Not from the blanket, but from the knowledge that someone cared that I not freeze. That night, my belly was full, my mismatched limbs were warm, and for the first time since my previous life ended, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.
Your daily visits were a balm. Something about you made me feel a little more alive and far less alone. Another healing stitch was added to my badly torn soul every time you entered the clearing. I repaid each kindness with something beautiful or useful from the forest: a unique stone, foraged nuts and seeds, an abandoned bird’s nest. And once I knew you would visit daily, I collected berries and bundled flowers and wild herbs. Your smiles when you peered into the basket caused my heart to soar.
After a fortnight, I decided I could no longer stay hidden. I resolved to thank you for all you had done. Unfortunately, my voice was a sad croak when any sound came at all, so weak from disuse. For a full week, I taught myself to speak again. One of your kindest thoughts was to include a book in one of your daily baskets. It was a well-loved volume of poetry, and in between practicing the pleasantries and formalities I remembered of my former regimental life, I recited the verses aloud to the forest. It wasn’t long until my voice was restored to its prior volume and quality. If only I could restore my appearance as easily.
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The day we officially met will remain with me forever.
You no longer ran from the clearing with your empty basket, yet I knew there was still the greatest chance that you would again flee, possibly never to return. It was a risk I knew I must take. You were the one person in the galaxy who cared. I had to let you know what that meant to me.
I watched as you emerged from the shadow of the trees as if by magic, the sun shining on your face. It was a small relief. The sun in your eyes would prevent you from seeing the details of my hideousness. Perhaps you wouldn’t run. Perhaps you would stay long enough to speak a word or two that I might recall at night when I tried to sleep.
The full basket slid from your fingertips, and I knew the fated moment had come.
“Don’t go. Please.”
The empty basket fell from your hand as you took a step back. Your chest was heaving deep breaths as your body prepared itself to run, to save itself. But I would never harm you. I couldn’t.
“Wh-Where are you?”
Your voice! I closed my eyes tightly, hoping with all my might that the thickness of my throat would stay out of my words. “I’m here, behind the widest tree. I won’t come out. I mean you no harm.”
“Who are you?”
Wait. “Who? You think me a man?”
You took a step closer to the tree, but only a step. “Are you not?”
“I, I don’t know anymore.”
I heard you take another step, and then it was my turn to be afraid. “Please don’t. No closer. I don’t want you to see me. I only spoke out today because I wanted to thank you for your kindness. Your visits, they—” I needed a moment to compose myself. Saying the words aloud was so much harder than I thought it would be. “They have meant a great deal to me.”
“It wasn’t kindness.”
“Then what?”
“It was guilt.”
“Guilt? I don’t understand.”
“I was so afraid when I first saw you. But I shouldn’t have screamed. I shouldn’t have run. Your wrappings and tattered clothes told me that you were at your lowest. You obviously needed help, and I showed the worst possible character by running instead of staying to help you. I am a shameful creature. Even now, I feel I should run. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Forgive you? There is nothing to forgive. I’m a monster.”
“You’re not.” You took another step, bringing you so close to where I stood panting in fear.
“STOP! Please. I-If you see my face and run again—”
“I won’t. You have my word.”
“Don’t say that. You may still run.”
“Then I promise to return if I do. I don’t mean to be such a coward, but I am not accustomed to someone like you. Let me see you.”
My voice, which I had practiced such long hours to make strong, fell to a whisper against my will. “You are no coward. You are the only person brave enough to approach me.”
“Then let me.”
I don’t know what gave me the strength to walk out from behind that tree. I never intended on showing my face, but somehow your insistence ushered me forward. Maybe it’s what I wanted all along.
You didn’t run. To this day, I can’t believe you didn’t run.
Instead, you drew closer, inspecting me from a closeness I never thought I would experience again. The acceptance implied by your next words brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes.
“Who did this to you?”
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It was the first of many such conversations. Those summer afternoons were spent with me telling you all I could remember of my life, of my demise, and of the madman who turned what remained of my mortal shell into an instrument of death. To your credit, your shock abated quickly. Curiosity won out over common sense, and you returned day after day, always with a basket to sustain and comfort. You brought the books you loved, teaching me everything from how to safely forage for mushrooms in the coming months to the language of the flowers you grew in your garden.
I ardently thanked the Force every night that I met you after my mind returned instead of having your face be one the many victims whose vacant eyes haunted my nightmares. Your face became the subject of new dreams. Dreams I knew could never come true.
Summer gave way to autumn. You regaled me with stories of your family, lost to the war, though thankfully not by my hand. I found myself sharing the most difficult of confessions. Your capacity for kindness was unfathomable. You uttered the words I did not dare to think; that I could be forgiven. You made me see that none of this was my fault, that he made me do those things, and that I was a monster no longer.
When it all became too much for me to bear, you did the unthinkable. You touched me. Your hand found the coldness of my cheek. And I…I had forgotten that a touch could feel like that. I had forgotten that skin could be warm, that the fingers of another could touch me without the barrier of thick gloves. And when your loneliness broke through and tears fell at the recollection of your family, you didn’t flinch when my hand instinctively reached for yours. The image of your fingers closing over mine is one I will cherish until my dying day.
My next dying day, that is.
You grew to worry over me. The coming winter had you fearing for my safety. But I do not know the cold the way I once did. I insisted that my small shelter in the woods and the blankets you had gifted me would be sufficient, yet still you schemed that there may be some way to smuggle me into your home without the rest of your village becoming aware.
It was a tempting thought, to be welcomed again into a home. Your home. To be able to spend unlimited time with you. To live among your books and a fire and the smell of bread baking. But I could not allow myself such privilege. If the village were to discover me, the danger would be to you as much as to me.
Such selfish thoughts. Your visits were enough and more than I deserved.
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Your second visit today was a surprise, though not at all an unwelcome one.
“It is very cold. I’ve brought more blankets.”
You turned as soon as the basket fell. But I could not let you go so easily.
“Must you go so soon?”
“A storm is coming. I need to get home. I’ll bring bread in the morning, and the preserves from the berries we picked this summer. Would you like that?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Good night, Echo. Only good dreams?”
“I will do my best. Good night.”
Watching you walk away was always painful. But tonight, you seemed in a hurry to do so. Perhaps it was the fear of the approaching snowstorm like you said, though there seemed to be more to it than that. You seemed uncertain, anxious.
It wasn’t until I approached the basket of blankets that I realized the reason for your odd behavior. Atop the folded promise of comfort was a sight so unexpected it stole my breath—a single red rose. Why would you present me with such a thing? You yourself told me its meaning. Why then—no. No, you could not possibly mean…
Could you?
I stared off in the direction you had fled as tears began to cloud my vision. For once, they were not tears of anguish or fear. They were tears of hope. I think I know now why I still draw breath.
I draw it for you.