Starlit Samsara (on hiatus)

A Birthday Memoir I

Loneliness.

It's a concept Joachim has dealt with his entire life. Seems his afterlife isn't particularly different, apart from the occasional visits Stella has with him and The Whale's daily visits just to make sure he's still where he's supposed to be, he never interacts with anyone else.

I mean, he did think it was a lot better (or, as he likes to put it, "a hell of a lot better") than the fiery pit he was told he was going to burn in when he was younger. But still, he'd enjoy some company.

Just like every other day, he sat alone in a cell carved from bone, but at least the view he had was enough to entertain him. Not like there was much to see at this depth, besides creatures that looked like cthulhu himself.

The only sources of light down here were from the anglerfish passing by, the volcanoes that shot out magma every now and then, and the candles and lamps stationed around the prison as a whole which burnt an eerie pale blue and ghastly light purple. There was some supernatural force around the entire place, preventing water from acting as it usually would. It acted more like a void, an empty space, the type of feeling you get when the air outside at night is static, and nobody else is around. That's how he guessed the candles worked.

The agitating thing about not being able to see the sun was not being able to know how many days had passed, and in turn, he had no way of knowing the time.

He didn't change much in appearance, either, besides the fact most of his body was covered in some sort of ocean ivy. It stretched all over his arms and chest, but it didn't really cover his face. Only up to his right eye it grew, but the rest of his face remained untouched. And despite the fact it was basically a part of him now, it didn't hurt. Not one bit, even though he knew deep down that's what he deserved.

He dragged himself out of the resting place given to him. It was old, stained with something, and whenever he asked The Whale about it, she always ignored him, much to his annoyance.

Everything about this place seemed more annoying than painful. He just needed to wait a little longer, then hopefully, she should make her way down here, keys in hand...

He must've zoned out, because by the time he came to his senses, the clacking of her boots was drawing closer.

"Hey, uh, Miss Whale." he greeted, rather awkwardly, "Mind telling me the date?"

"17th of July. Why do you need to know? Are you plotting something? I won't hesitate to move you into one of the less pleasant rooms if need be."

"No, no, it ain't nothing like that." he sighed, perhaps a little too dramatically, "it's just, how many years have I been here?"

"... 8." She wasted no time getting away from him, walking at a rather brisk pace, to the next cell.

So, today's his birthday, he supposed.

Simon should be 27, now, then.

7 years and something months in an asylum, how impressive.

Simon was someone he thought about often.

He didn't want to, and he always tried to justify his actions in his mind. It wasn't entirely his fault, and to an extent, he could be prove himself right. His parents were far from nice to him. He can't recall a single time he ever enjoyed being in their presence. And that stupid kid, too. What the hell was up with him? How did he manage to convince him that he should kill Stella, an innocent and perfectly wonderful lady who had nothing to do with the plan in the first place? It's not his fault he got tipped over the edge.