The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

A Return

Other than the horrid and forbidden knowledge of Meadow's single undergarnment, that was a lovely expedition. I got to teach ancient things. Show off my expertise. Fight the orcan and win. Pet a goat. Truly, all the halmarks of the finest archaeological practice.

It was just strange when we returned, I guess.
    And things came forward
And the serenity of the wilderness gave way to the bustle of the city,
         the threats and the secrets and the intrigues and the dust and the screaming and -
                                          -and he whispereed:

"Nice poem"

And I didn't quite know whether that made me happy, or sad.
     That nice poem, and all it meant, and why I wrote it, I smiled through it-
                       We went to the gardens and I translated for him what we'd found
              though I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by a few too many things, a bit elsewhere, and-
                                          -and he whispered:

"Thanks for taking me along"

And there I was, hesitating, a bit overwhelmed by the tangle of my heart when I realized
                                                                       I had something else,
                                  something of more value to him than to me
       and I suppose someone else could give it to him (and I said so)
                     and I suppose Amelie or Aurelio would find it less strangely uncomfortable, to gift such (and I didn't say so)
    and I guess it was something I had done a dozen times, for a dozen different men, for a few different reasons (and I also didn't say so)
                          (For some reason, to say so would've felt mean, and I never like being mean)

"Here", I said
and I put the Rose in his hands

And I gave him my last one, for his book.
                 Keeping only the one Armis gave me.

                                                     And I suppose it was,
                                                                     in a way,
                                                                    a return to an old classic

                                                                (and a goodbye).

[Don Nadie]

Asterabadian Praxis

Today, I finally had first-hand experience of Asterabadian praxis when a Voiced scholar declared he wanted to teach Scorpioids about democratic values. Some thought he intended to enact a personal vendetta, but I doubt it. After all, who would use the cause of Democracy for their own goals and/or the conquest of territories and/or the extraction of wealth? He had a box labelled "DEMOCRACY" and everything!

Of course, some people hadn't read their Asterabadi, and had weird questions like "Do Scorpioids speak Common?", "Does democracy always jingle and clatter in a box?", "Does Scorpioid culture present the social and economical development that makes the emergence of true Asterabadian Democracy a historical-necessity?". Obviously, Asterabadi has already answered all these questions. I'm, like, 70% sure.

Anyways, we got to an outpost of Democracy in the Scorpioid territories and followed the very simple instructions:

1) Salute the Flag
2) Take the key
3) Open the box
4) Assemble Democracy by inserting element A into element B
5) Survive.
 
Truly, the tricky part was the last one. Democracy, according to Xon, was a "sonic bomb", which apparently was "attuned to nonhuman frequencies". Obviously, this is described in some Asterabadian book, I think. I am fairly certain that Asterabadi speaks at some point about the importance of a sonic bomb of speeches and patriotic anthems. Maybe this Democracy had translated Domhnall speeches into Scorpioid? If so, poor ones.

Regardless, we soon were attacked by the regressive forces of oligarchy, monarchy, and skittering accumulation of capital. I think. They sure seemed very skittery. We defended the outpost from wave after wave as Democracy hummed and make the ground shake and tremble. At one point, the anti-democratic oligarchs sent two extremely big scorpions along with an enormous mass of little ones! Thankfully, Marcellus and I managed to hold the line, each against one of the big fellas, while the rest of the patriotic warband realized that Democracy was in danger from the southern flank.

Finally, the forces of oligarchy and oppression defeated, Democracy claimed it had done its work, and that it was the time to self destruct! This was, of course, something I am almost sure Asterabadi described in his works, so we ran away.

And then we saw, in the distance, a sky beam of white light and soundwaves.

An Asterabadian sky-beam! As described, I'm fairly certain, in some of his works!

It was good to spread Democracy, but I am a bit surprised. I never expected democratic praxis to involve this many stabs and viscera!

[Don Nadie]

Meaning & the Art of Astral Fishing

I was making for the Assembly, when Xon requested my help. Initially, of course, I was going to deny him. Not out of ill will (as ever, I have nothing against most Nadiris) as because I wanted to attend the Assembly. As I mentioned to Athelia, why couldn't one of the Apothars make sure his apprentices were safe? Then again, she pointed out that the Tower not caring for Nadiris isn't exactly news. Regardless, I was going to let it be, and then... The Banda Rossan Bellows:

"Some warlord called Ar-Patu"
"The Corpse-Grinder"

Say what you will about me, but I'm not the kind of man to leave a bundle of dorks in blue robes who don't really know how to navigate the Nusrum get hurt, corpsed, or ground. So I left the Assembly in a rush and ran to the caravans. All for the better, considering none of them had the slightest idea of how to navigate the orcan warbands, the battlefields, or territory. And they only had another swordsman to protect all of them...

Now, if I had known what we would be dealing with... Well, I probably would've had even more reason to go and protect them. But I also would've made sure to be extremely drunk beforehand. We got to the star-circumference and they set on their ritual, creating a... How did they call it? Pearl of unreality?

I saw Xon transform several times, his eyes being wound and tried and dealt with in ways there are not really a lot of words for. Then we were Elsewhere (?), a misty landscape that was both a distant star, and Xon's psyche, and our imaginations. If I understood correctly.

Truth be told, I was mostly there to keep them safe. Which I guess I did. Those evil astral fishes, specially the big one, were quite a threat. The other swordsmen got quite hurt, and I only managed to hold the line because I sang swords arround us... But in the end, besides protecting them, I'm not sure of what I saw.

What was the meaning of that strange Presence? And the meaning of Xon's words? And the meaning of the Omniscope he extracted from the -a scratched word-? What was the meaning of all of it?

"It allows to see the Information everything is made of", he explained.

That was it: information. That's what his machine would find. The scroll of knowledge, spread out for reading. Every inch of information, every composite element, every grain of Truth, certain and absolute.

"Is that meaningful, though?", I asked.

And I do not think he got what I was getting at.
But the grain of sand, reduced to its tiniest particle, in all its detail without the rest of the Desert... Like the poem, defined by the number of letters, of syllables, and the rhyme without the poet's heart... Like the astral carp, I suppose, defined alone by its size and movements without acknowledging the strangeness of its presence...

...Is nothing.

[Don Nadie]

It Got Weirder

I really thought, when I returned, that astral carps would be the weirdest things of the day. Part of me, perhaps, wishes they had been. Instead, things only got weirder.

Once, there was an eel.
Oh, how slippery it was, slithering from danger to danger.
Saved from his own mistakes, here by guile, there with help.
Always dribbling his poison.
Always escaping the fisherman's net.

"He brought the corpse of Lucia"
"Then the Jannisaries caught him"
"And Koji got a distant look, for a moment, before he..."
She didn't need to say more.

But this eel was selfish (as some fish are bound to be)
So those who stood by his side did for the vicarious power he provided.
And all other grew more and more bitter at his abuses.
Until the clownfishes whispered into the ear of the swordfish.
As the eel was slithering out of another fisherman's net.
His mouth filled with bait; his smirk, self-satisfied.

"The way Mae looked at the body", another explained.
Whispering arround the pilgrim, as the pyramid shone eerily red.
"It was unsettling".

"You can cut it down", said the clownfishes.
For they were too weak, too scared, and too cowardly to face the eel themselves.
"Else, he will escape again"

I saw her again. She seemed taller, so beautiful.
So weak, too. So self-deluded. A stab to the heart, to see her.
"Once, the Rose was united", she declared. She seemed, mostly, irked. 
"Once we had Rossans fighting valiantly"
"Sisters to guide us with Vision and wisdom"
"And bold Balladeers to inspire, in us, nobility"

And part of me wanted to cry, at the sincerity of her nostalgia.
And part of me wanted to spit, at the lie it was.
(The Orentid children, their tiny heads cracked open)
(The gash, a banquet for flies)
But then again, I left the cloak.

Thus it came to pass that the swordfish charged.
His blade sharp, to the heart.
The smirk of the eel, frozen forever.
His wounded corpse, taken above by the net.
To be consummed, and forgotten.

"He was a villain", declared the Balladeer.
(Murderer? Hero? Both?)
"You shackled us to these thugs", added Aurelio.
To ourhis very Grandmaster.
"And Koji did what he had to, to save our souls"
He then threw his cloak on the ground.
I've never been more proud of him.

"I die", declared Koji, sword and death before him.
The roar of lions in the distance.
"The Rose is freed of a cancer"

And so it was that the eel was killed.
And for his crimes the swordfish was, also, condemned.
But he did not fight it. He welcomed it.
There's something to be said, about dying for the right reason.

"I was wrong", said Aurelio.
"Balladeers did wrong to the Rose, in a moment of passion"
"But we shall right it and purify the Steele"
His tone was, what? Resigned? Distant? False? Drunk?
I sighed. How little it lasts, the defiance of a Balladeer.
How briefly can they call a thug a thug, and a child-killer a childkiller.
But then again, I left the cloak.

And the blood of so many stained the waters...
That sharks came, with hunger.
To take and posess and break and devour.
For it had been proven once more:
Some things, you can only solve with violence

We cleansed the Steele with ritual and prayer, and all was well, even if it had been, for some time, defiled. Shorter than the last. I wondered how many times that sacred object had seen blood. How many times had the compact been broken.

"Disdain the sword", it is written.
If only it was that easy...

And many died, and many endured.
And many lived happily ever after.
And all, eventually, forgot the slithering eel.
For, who remembers those that were never loved?

[A little note has been added at the bottom. A haunted afterthought]

I saw the corpse, too. I felt... Relief? Sadness? A deeply haunting peace? I am not certain, exactly, but I know I do not lamment his passing. There are so many people that die for nothing, and his has joined their number. Already, his actions are dissipating. All his plans and efforts, evaporating slowly. What did he leave behind, really? A series of small crises and betrayals which will all heal slowly, without him to keep the wounds open. All his threats are becoming an ever-weaker echo. In a week, it may well be like he never existed, and I will sleep easier for it. When I arrive at these events in my history, people will need to be reminded of who he was.

A shame, Vico, that you didn't take my deal.

[Don Nadie]

Honest, for Once

                        Out of nowhere,
                                 a lightning made of spite.

"How does it feel like", she seethed, whispering
"to watch a real hero?"

Took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me,
    and even then, I wasn't sure of what she meant. Of whether she meant to hurt me. 
           I wasn't even certain, until I asked her the next morning

"Was that for my sake?", I asked.
"Yes", she answered.
Not an inch of self-consciousness.

     Out there. The sky was red, the Pyramid was shaking. The Wyrm's name had been spoken.
            And yet, she still found time to be bitter.

I think I didnt feel angry. Just saddened.
She kept finding ways to dissapoint me. And her, I suppose. By the banks of the Edutu.

"She'd be dissapointed", I admitted.

And she scoffed at me, dismissive of all I was.

"So weak...", she said. Her tone, poison.
"So feeble...", she insisted. Her glare, hateful.

And I dont think she understood I was being honest with her.
                                              For once.

(And though the temptation was there)
(to wield truth as a knife)
(I let it pass)
(And went elsewhere, instead)

A question rang, though, as I thought of Vico.
                                Gone Vico, power-hungry Vico.
        I wondered: who will miss her when she's gone?

[Don Nadie]

If You Only Knew

Dissapointment is, by now, a habit.
And it is a silly thing to care about. I know that much.  Mostly, symbolic.
(Whatever one might think, I'm not that self-centered)
But I also don't think they know just how hard it is,
                            to feel your life's work is on a knife's edge.

"I'm always one bribed Legate away from danger"
"And that is exhausting"

I suppose I could smile, and nod, and feign and take the leash.
But I also hate that idea. I hate the submission.
    I don't think they know just how humilliating it'd be, to bow
                                               to those who are but parasites to your efforts.

This is not a priority, I get it. I just also get what Al'Rashid keeps saying.
About the Lillies, and how they pay my efforts.

"You're decent enough", I said.
"Decent enough", she smirked, "Isn't that high praise?"
I nodded, thoroughly serious.
"If you only knew"

[Don Nadie]

Sleeping Better

We were alone, for some reason. Before the murmur of the Pilgrim.
Above, the stars. And between the stars, a lot of things.
Memories and plans and nightmares and love.
Each slowly forgotten, erased, eroded. To give us peace.

"You look like you're sleeping better", he said.
He paused, for a moment. He was close enough that I could enjoy the scent.
"A lot of things suit you well", he added, softly.
"Not baggy eyes"

I chuckled, I shrugged.
I felt lighter, in a way. Not unburdened, but lighter at least.

"I am", I said.

I did not say that I still wake up screaming.
Because, during the day, being so often with friends?
I feel as though I had, indeed, slept better.

[Don Nadie]

By the Fountain

She needed a quiet place, for a quiet conversation.
So we sat by the fountains. Their soft murmur, a lullaby.

"I need your help", she said.
And I chuckled. Ever-ready to be ever-helpful.
"I convinced Akna that our plan was the best"
"and everyone got angry at her"

Ignorance is bliss, they say. It is so.
I was reminded of this truism, once again, when I asked.

"It's the Gutter Beast", she explained, and I felt my ears ring.
"We want to capture it again", she added, and I felt air left my lungs.

It is a good thing that we were in that garden.
Lonely as it is, peaceful as it is.
Because, as I tried to explain to her why I couldn't help her,
why I didn't want it captured again, studied again, months on end while people died,
I felt, slow but unavoidable, the slipping of my masks.
Until no masks could be held, when she got annoyed at me for not agreeing.
As though I was being a stubborn child.

"I saw it happen for months, nothing gained, wormingers dying"
"Until I carried the broken body of a friend"
"And when I was at the Pyramid? Blood-covered? Crying?"
"Demanding that we fix things? Your Apothars..."
My tone had freezing, but I couldn't find softness within me.
"They called me drug-addict, and hysteric, and Gellemende."
"They dismissed me, so as to not admit fault", I seethed.
I swallowed. There was a knot somewhere in my throat. A tangled scream.
"I've lived through this before".

She watched, she listened. She couldn't quite believe me.
She reminded me of myself (and I said so)
when I still thought a Sister could do no wrong.
Faith, such cheap narcotic. Blinding her to her master's cruelties,

"Mourning broke her", I said. Then, I reflected.
"It broke all of us"

There were birds (sparrows? doves?) chirping in the palm trees.
There were stars, dawning slowly above us.
But I wasn't quite able to hear them, to see them.
Because as we spoke, and she didn't understand,
I felt like I was falling somewhere within myself.
I needed to leave. I stood up to to leave, her hand reached out.

"Wait", she pleaded, "wait please".
"I need to hear it the right way", she explained.
"Please don't think I am deaf to your words"

And I waited. Ever-helpful, not quite able to move either.
I talked and I explained and I heard from afar. Feeling distant.
Seeing myself talk as though it was someone else, behind the thin layer of a mirror.

"She mocks my struggle with addictions", I admitted.
(I heard myself say it, meekly. Like something broken)
"But it is how I've dealt with the loss. Harming myself."
(As I scratched the back of my hand again and again and again)
"She chose, instead, to wither. To harm others."
"To demand that they chose her, and her alone. Wanting surrender"
"Until I, too, was left bitter...", I added. Ashamed.
(Though not yet bitter enough to be truthful)

I fell quiet, unable to move. Trapped in my own feelings.
The gardens, so peaceful arround us, so perfect,
that I almost felt like screaming
as she talked. Her experiences, her burdens.
(Beneath all of it, her kind and respectful disbelief)

And then, a prophecy: Ghadarnoprex, the Wise.
A truth, perhaps, for that vile woman to clutch to.
At least, listening helped me calm down, as did the scratching.
The skin, broken. Pain helps refocus the mind.

"No prophecy", I said, as I left, "justifies cruelty"
"It is part of why I quit"

[Don Nadie]

Further Reflections on the Nature of Historiography

"Mizzar?", she offered.

And the back of my hand bit harshly, so I took it.
Because I needed it.
To dig arround, and ask questions. The past, biting.
And in its bite, many things to know.

"I got Domhnall his Voice", I said.  We were discussing Act III, now.
She smirked, sarcastically: "Thank you for that"
And I winced. I think she noticed.
"Of course, he didn't start off mad", she added.
(Did I detect a hint of kindness, to her severity?)

Honestly, it wasn't even him, that made me wince.
It was a realization, about the nature of historiography:

                         History is about finding the wound
                                                                              and digging into it.

[Don Nadie]

Emotionally Unprepared

I don't think I was emotionally prepared. Maybe I cannot be, anymore.

The call rang out of nowhere.                                                                   The horror!
                         The dread, the freeze of my spine: It was upon us.         
                                                                                                                                               Children cried!
                                                    Widows screamed!
                                                                            Horror, horror!                 Oh, the cruelties!
                                         Dandies fainted!
                                                                                                  "Spokes protect us!", scream the masses.
"No!", plead the People. 
                                              As doctors prepare headache cures
                                                                                                      And panicked families abandon their homes.

For it is upon us once more, announced by the Scribes on the Bellows:

E   L    E    C   T   I   O   N   S

"You know", she whispered, "I would prefer if my own League..."
"Didn't sound like they'd rather step on nails than vote for me"
I grumbled, a tad annoyed.
I said: "It's about the system, not you, my friend"
Because she is carrying a lot on her shoulders, and trying her best.
I think. In her hesitating. In her tending to the Accord.

I didn't say: "It's not my fault"
"that you tend more to your foes than your supporters"

That said, I probably am a bit dramatic.

[Don Nadie]

A Nemesis (Historiography)

So I was sitting all relaxed and stuff, just chatting and scribbling, because Act II is trudging along and almost finished... And then, a weird man in a toga came to be insulting and dismissive. What's wrong with people? Well, in his case it was quite clear: he was Hamton Grimwald, and he was a terrible historian. He is now my Nemesis (subcategory: Historiography).

Now, I've said before and I'll say it again: mathematics are for the wicked and/or ugly. And this supposed "Professor" was another example. He said that history is all about dates and obscure trivia. DATES! What are we, PALM TREES?! Dates are the WORST and MOST BORING thing in history! You got a whole collection of chaos, murder, famines, love, unbridled lust, envy, kindness, heroism and villany...

AND YOU CARE ABOUT DANG NUMBERS?!

Weird thing is he kept quizzing me about stuff from recent history (Caliphal and such), as though that proved anything. Apparently, I got 8 out of 10 correct, which is honestly a bit embarrassing (I should NOT remember all of these dates), and also surprising, because I've always been way more interested in Colossal history. I  kept arguing that history is about narratives: character, forces, great ideas, and so on... Which is why I had organized events in my History arround thematic headers, rather than strictly chronologically... I think he almost got a heart attack?

Anyways, I hate him now. I shall show you and your unpublished Great Timeline of the Great Ash Desert, Adjunt Professor Hamton Grimwald!

(Also, I'm a bit annoyed because one of my unfinished projects is a timeline. But I'm definitely not telling that fool!)

[Don Nadie]

Μστεριος

She was quiet. A rustling thing, of wind and black cloth.
Under the moonlight, she seemed to wait. As Hypatia watched.
(Protectively. I was not afraid, but I was thankful for it)

                                                            Then she opened those lips 
                                                                                                      --the very same lips that--
                                                                --and for those lips came--

Ασιρυ. Βετ Μεσιρι.

--the words were burning because knowledge burns--
                              --and so burn her lips, too, they burnt--

Παριρσυ.

                    --the words (the words, on her lips) strange and thorough and true--
           --the tone (the tone, on her lips) ancient--

᾽Ασιρυ. Αἰαλυ, αἰαλυ. ᾽Υρ-Συλγι.

                 --the knowledge, ancient; the vision, ancient--
                              --truth, the Truth which--
                     --(on her lips, the Truth)--

᾽Υρ-Συλγι. Αἰαλυ

                                                                    --It was of the Ages--

And then she stared. In silence.
Awaiting.

"I may perhaps translate it", I whispered.

                 Was that a promise?
                                         Or my own hope?                      For it is whispering, tenderly.

                                                            Like the words of a lover (his words?)
                                                                                                        Whispering on my ear.
                                                                                                                                                                        After the day, long. Laying, resting.
                                    Our breaths onto one another.
                                                                                                    The couds of mizzar coiling arround us both.
                                                                                 
                                                                                        It is whispering just as tempting as any lover.

Μστεριος

[Don Nadie]

Old Friends

We had been left alone. Were we speaking in silence?
We were speaking in a quietness that cannot usually be reached.
Not by the living.
"Do you think she will ever be... Warm again?"
I paused, uncertain.
(How does one answer, when the answer is made of thorns?)
"I do not know", I said, opting for sincerity.
"I have stopped trying to warm her"

                                                                              Later, in her halls - smoke curling, chants echoing.
                                                                              And the voice of a Sister. Tallest of them all. Ever at the entrance.
                                                                              "Alejandro, you have always been our friend", she said.
                                                                              "It is us who did you wrong", she said.
                                                                              "Please, forgive us", she said.
                                                                              And I found it so eerie, their smiles. Like the endless reflection, between two mirrors.
                                                                              Their apologies, too. As though shared, between all.
                                                                              But still, I accepted it. What else could I do?




"You are now my oldest friend", she declared, earlier.
The moon above us, glistening. Within, perhaps, the body true.
"And you, mine"
We both paused, at the silence. Then, I added:
"I wish that more lived, still..."

[Don Nadie]

Old Enemies (?)

Sometimes, when people return, unexpectedly, it's a joy.
Sometimes it's simply surprising.

"You look rested and tanned", I smirked.
"What brought you back? Zarat?"
He scoffed. "Yes".
"And not being able to let things go"
Then, he chuckled. "Always thought they'd bury you in that cloak"
Say what you will about him, he know how to stab right back.

What an odd return, really. Considering right what I was working on.
A bit of a godsend, too. Another direct witness.
And an important one, too.

"So, I guess you've not come to be interviewed for Act III?", I asked.
"Actually, I'm here to set the record straight, for whatever's worth"
"Not that I have a lot of faith in whatever it is you're doing now", he added.

As ever, a man without faith in his fellow men.
Part of me had missed him.
His words, interesting, too. A different context. It gave me pause.

"Still not sure if he was honest. Or just performing"

I scratched the back of my hand. Such memories.
(Wanted a cigarette, but I could very much imagine Elias annoyed.)
(And I was fine. Within reason, I was fine)

"Truth be told, I don't know what he was doing", I admitted, softly.
"Whether he was really a hero..."
"Or just performing an elaborate form of suicide"

I paused. I sighed, scratching the back of my hand, further. Deeper.
The hum of pain bringing the mind back from any brink.

"I suppose the same goes for every Balladeer".

[Don Nadie]

The Forgotten

Once, a truth got lost.
It wandered the desert as Pra'raj burnt its skin.
And wandered deeper and deeper.
Until it was all but forgotten.

"You have written much of this city and its atrocities"
"You will write also of Red Hill"
Her voice was the shroud of a corpse. Her voice was the gong of a funeral.
"You will conduct many interviews for your work", she added.
"I offer my own"

And in deep places the Truth remained.
Awaiting the reaching hand. Any reaching hand.
Even the most vile.

"We were winning", she seethed. Bitterness.
"As we pressed forward - the sky turned red"
"It shattered"

A shiver ran down my spine, a haunting, a growing of shadows.
Truth. She cared for Truth. Everyone says they care for Truth.
But nobody accepts that Truth is made of facets.
Nobody is brave enough to see it.
I do not blame them.

"We tried to escape", she said. Her words had grown deeper.
"We were overwhelmed by Blood Horrors and flame"
"We died"

And rescued by vile hand, this lost truth saw the open sky.
And breathed in the dusty wind; air, to speak with.
Then, it made its way home.

"No one faced any consequences. No one faced any justice"
"As hundreds burn, moulder, or are reanimated"
My quill, running swiftly down the page. Notation, for this truth to breathe.
"Beneath the pile of dead", she added,
"Your Lyrist is buried beneath melted bodies"
My quill, held in its tracks. A splotch of ink, the mark of mourning.

And yet at home, who heard it?
Not the powerful and the mighty. Not the guilty.
For to know it was to know that there was no justifying the horror.
It is easier, to believe there was an excuse.

"It was necessary", said Akna.
Cowardly, cautious Akna. Too eager to kiss the mouth that bites her.
"It is not normal to believe falsehood, mister Alejandro", said Ashley.
Kind-hearted, perhaps. Yet not kind enough to see what cruelty she's tied to, either.
And the words of that vile woman? Of that horrid man? Best left out of these notes.
They were written, deep enough, in my skin. As I hurt myself, so as to not hurt her.
Cruelty. How horrid, her cruelty. How horrid, the cruelty she awakens in me.

However, the thing about truth is it doesn't care about who is listening.
It just exists. It just breathes. It can be sought.
Every perspective, awaiting just the reaching hand.

"Do you think she told the truth?", he asked.
His soft hands tending to mine. Bandaging the self-inflicted wound.
"I think she told what she believed", I admitted.
"Do you think you can get proof?"
I frowned, thoughtful. Proof. Evidence. Hard things to come by.
"The only places where I could find it, are places that scar"
He smiled, as he tightened the bandages.
"I hear girls like scars", he jested. My own joke, repeated.
Despite everything, it made me smile.
(There's a value to smiling, when one's drowning)
"How about boys?", I asked, amused.
He chuckled. "A scar or two doesn't hurt, either."

And so this truth spoke and spoke and spoke and spoke.
While there was breath in its lungs.
Terrible, in its content.