Friday, August 29

spinning the clock forwards

The drink was horrid. I'll spare you the description in case you're eating at the moment. I doubled over from growing pains as my bones began to lengthen. But my mind was in worse shape.

Being aged a dozen years in a matter of minutes was like someone ripping open the picture album of my mind and flipping through the pages blindingly fast and buffeting your face with them. The good memories leave barely a kiss before you can savor them. The traumas assault you before you have time to dread.

My senses recalled everything like stacatto succession as my nerve endings continued to grow and spread. My father's withering rebukes drilled my ears along with the sting of wood and leather. There was a momentary respite from the feel of soft fur withing to the harsh chemicals and smell of electrical burns. A brief cloistering from the past with the musty aroma of forbidden books and the cloying scent of formaldehyde. This gave way to the (even sorer) muscles of basic training and the smell of cordite, accented by the taste of cheap beer and cigarettes gilded with a touch of perfume and powder.

Ash helped me to my feet. "Darien. You have aged. You seem to be twenty-four or twenty-five."

An odd age. Halfway to my true birthdate. Last time I was like this, I had graduated early from Miskatonic with my M.D. and served as a medic with the Capper Brigade. Hurriedly I readjusted the clothes I borrwed from Ash.

"Interesting. Now let's get Marcus."

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