My brain is wrapped in bandages
I cannot think or dream
My brain is wrapped in bandages
— Kellar, Cerebration And Other Poems
Boy runs through the shadowed forest.
His heart beats like a menacing warmdrum, loud and quick and advancing. Louder, louder. His eardrums will burst, he just knows it. He has to escape.
There is no one else around for miles upon grey miles. The shadows are moving, snarling. Menacing teeth gleaming in moonlight. Insatiable hunger dripping from warted lips.
Keep your sword high, Boy. You will need it. Keep it high. Do not let it drop. Once you drop it, they will pounce on you.
Hear the shadows roar. Hear them screech and hiss and mock you.
“Sad Boy! Sad, sad Boy,” goes their terrible chant.
Boy is scared. So scared. And alone. He is cold with fear, wet with sweat. Every bone inside his oily skin shakes and quakes. He must not be scared.
You must not be scared, Boy. You are Marcus the Rogue, Hero of the Valley Kingdom. You must live! The monsters have slaughtered the King’s legions. Now you must slaughter them, Marcus, brave warrior from afar, bastard-Rogue of forgotten realms.
The monsters are coming, their webbed claws digging into cursed earth, their leathery wings churning the air. Where is he? Where is Marcus the Rogue, the King’s Hero?
Where are you, Boy? You cannot hide, hide. The monsters smell your tears, tears.
Something leaps at him from the trees. Boy’s face is slashed, strips of wet bloodied flesh hanging from his cheekbones like torn fabric.
Boy screams. Boy cries.
Die! Die, enemy of Marcus the Rogue! Die!
Do you live, Boy? Have you killed the monster, Boy? Have you cut its heart out, Boy? Will you eat it, Boy?
Run, Boy, run! Something big stomps your way. Fire and smoke and sulfur and three heads and an Inquisitor’s mace and rows of fangs in its stomach.
Crash, crash, crash, crash goes the demon, this infernal baron from circles even Dante has never seen.
Run, Boy.
No, stay. You must do your duty. Stay and fight.
Run, Boy! Save yourself.
He is our noble Hero, defender of the Valley Kingdom, the greatest and purest knight of all. He must stand his ground.
Boy must run if he is to escape the forest. The forest, the forest, alive with worming flesh moving through its oaken cobwebs coming to kill, coming to feast on Boy’s skin, in the forest, the forest, the shadowed forest.
You are the King’s Hero. Stand your ground, Hero!
You are Boy and Boy must run, must escape, must flee, flee, flee.
“Boy, Boy, scared little Boy, come on out to play, play, and your skin I’ll flay, flay,” the infernal baron sings, sings, the infernal baron sings.
Boy jumps out of the way in horror as the baron’s mace misses his skull by a quarter inch. He falls back and twists his knee. Oh! Boy, Boy, dear Boy, what will you do now?
“Boy, Boy, sad little Boy, if only you could fly, fly, but now you are about to die, die,” the infernal baron laughs, laughs, the infernal baron laughs.
It is all over for you, Boy. Why did you stay?
He is Marcus the Rogue.
He is Boy.
He is the King’s Hero.
He is a mother’s son.
He must slay the enemy.
He must get help.
Boy screams, screams, wounded Boy screams.
We live in your head, head. We will not stop, stop.
You are Marcus the Rogue, Rogue. You must kill the beast, beast.
He will die. His knee is cracked like an eggshell. Boy will die.
He is not Boy. He is Marcus. Call him Marcus.
Who are you, Boy?
Don’t die, Marcus. Use your sword, Marcus.
Yes, do not die, Boy. You must get out.
Your sword, Marcus, use your sword.
Boy lifts his knightly sword, defending himself from another mortal blow. But it does no good. Poor Boy, why does it do no good?
The sword is made of ashwood. The mace, the infernal baron’s mace of iron smashes it into splinters. Boy’s hand bleeds from shredded ash.
Marcus, get up! King’s Hero, kill the demon!
Boy is lost. Boy will never be the same again.
“He’s over here, here,” the infernal demon cries, cries, “lost Boy is ours tonight, night, lost Boy is ours tonight.”
The shadowed forest rattles and hoots and drools and wretch, wretch, wretches the trees with rotten skins.
Marcus, why have you lost?
Boy could never win.
The monsters prick, prick, prick his skin, nice little slashes and good long dashes, nails in the skin, skin. They peel him like an orange, like an orange, his skin comes off like a freshly plucked orange.
Boy, dear Boy, you scream so loudly.
Marcus, you are no longer Marcus.
He never was Marcus. He is Boy. Boy could never win.
They pop his eyes like grapes. Poor Boy. Blind Boy. Crying Boy. They hang your skin on a tree, on a limb-torn tree, on a ragged, bloodied tree. They leave your bones, Boy. Your bones are too small, Boy.
Boy cannot see. Boy cannot hear. Boy cannot smell. Boy cannot touch. Boy can only scream.
Look, Boy! Help is coming. A boy and a girl adorned with wings of gold and robes whiter than snow, coming from the sun, coming toward you. The monsters cower and flee, cower and flee.
“We will help you,” the girl sings. Oh, her voice is soft as silk and as beautiful as a mother’s smile.
Boy’s bones crawl back into his skin. His eyes sew themselves back into his sockets. Do you see her, Boy? She’s smiling over you.
Boy covers his face with shame.
Why are you ashamed, Boy? Why do you blush, so?
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispers. “You can come with us, now.”
“Come with us,” the winged boy sings, his voice a soft harp playing beside cool rivers flowing from the mountains. “We love you. Take my hand. We will bring you to where we are now.”
“Won’t you take my hand?” the girl sings.
Go, Boy. Go with the winged children. They are leading you to paradise. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.
No. Boy will not go. Boy cannot go. Boy must get out of the forest by himself. He does not take her hand.
A strong wind carries the winged children away. They disappear into the air like mist. The sun is gone. The forest howls again.
Boy’s wooden sword hangs by his side. The ash sword Boy made. He made it in autumn when leaves are red. He made it in rain when raindrops are dead.
Boy runs through the shadowed forest.
His heart beats like a menacing warmdrum, loud and quick and advancing. Louder, louder. His eardrums will burst, he just knows it. He has to escape.
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