Pure Requiem - Aja James Page 0,1

only influence and maneuver.

Lately, Ere has appeared less and less, as far as I can tell. I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. Also lately, I’ve been having more and more of his dreams, some so real I can almost taste and remember them.

But the real reason I’m a monster is the ugliness of my soul, the jagged edges of all its gazillion broken pieces, and the oozing darkness that fills the gaps.

The things I’ve done…

The wheels I’ve put in motion…

Maybe this is why I’m not eager to end my own life (even if I could)—in case Heaven and Hell truly exist as humans have described them, I’m certain where I’d end up.

There’s no redeeming me. I’m my Mistress’s Monster.

But yesterday…

I discovered that everything I thought I knew was a big, fat, fucking lie.

Chapter One: Colors

*THE CREATURE*

Dear brother,

(Who is not really my brother, but more family to me than anyone else I’ve ever known.)

I hate you as much as I love you. I’ve treated you badly in the past few years, but…that’s what families are for, right? Chalk it up to harmless, sibling rivalry. Like two little boys trying to drown each other in the swimming pool. Come on, you know you hate-love me too.

So what if I tortured you to the edge of death repeatedly to get Medusa’s poison to take? So what if I did it with a thoroughness and relish that went beyond the task at hand? You didn’t die, did you?

Sure, you’re stuck in the prison of your own body, which obeys the Mistress’ commands and not your own. Sure, your soul is encased in ice so thick, a solar flare won’t melt through it. You may still feel ravaging pain, but your body has been amped up to ignore it so that you can carry out your orders like a terminator machine.

Maybe that’s what I’ll call you from now on. The Terminator. Or do you prefer Robocop? Mr. Smith? (It’s a Matrix reference, you dunce. I just know you won’t get it). I aim to please.

The point is: you’re still there. I’m still here. All’s right with the world, as long as you’re in it.

Your soul remains, whole but comatose. Who do you think preserved your soul? Medusa always rips her soldiers’ original souls into shreds for the turning. But I saved yours. You can thank me later.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say when I started this never-to-see-daylight letter in my head is—

I remember you, Dalair.

I remember why I love you as much as I hate you. The fragments of my shriveled, blackened, broken soul remember you. Reminding me that once upon a time, I loved you most of all.

I love you still.

I miss you.

Hasta la vista, baby.

C

It happened thusly, my stupendous revelation.

(But take a deep breath for patience, because I’m not going to get directly to the punch line. Don’t you know me well enough by now to wait for it?)

I’ve been “detained” by the Pure Ones for a few weeks now, not exactly sure how long. But honestly, it’s not like I have anything better to do (evil machinations take time, and there’s really no rush), so who cares. I was wrapped up in a prison of hair—yes you read right, hair!—in the beginning, but at some point, the overly trusting do-gooders decided to let the freak (me) out of its cage.

I spent a few days wandering around the Pure Ones’ complex, exploring, observing, listening. Creeping along like the slippery little…well, creep…that I am.

Most doors don’t open for me, but the common areas do—the kitchen, dining hall, various chambers for entertainment like the study, the theater (someone really likes to play video games), and a few studios for art, music and dance.

Next time I’ll bring my leotard and practice some Pilates, because I just know those eight-pack abs are hiding beneath the skin of my stomach somewhere.

The library is where I spend most of my time when I’m not hiding and plotting (and mostly twiddling my thumbs waiting for visitors) in my own chambers.

I begin to think of the apartment I occupy as “mine,” because people tend to knock before entering, and it even has a lock if I want to keep visitors out. Granted, the privacy and seclusion may only be an illusion. I’m sure my “hosts” can open any door they want whenever they want in their base. For all I know, the place is bugged and I’m on candid camera twenty-four-seven.

Well, if that’s the case,