The Catharsis Theory

"Tell me mind, why are you creating such annoyingly audible phantoms?" pondering this as he treads forward, he can't help but receive flashes of the woman's memories, sigh, a familiar pinching burn being picked up by his nose.

Splattering muddy footsteps become creaking of rotting wood, the presence of someone at the front door, the skinny, frail boy scurries from the dining table in the kitchen set in darkness, taking up father's blade, leaning against the lit fireplace.

Creeping toward the front door, both hands steadying the heavy straight blade, aimed at the door, trembling. Silence fills his ears, save lunar nature's hymns.

He takes a deep breath, gripping the handle, remaining prepared. "Got any food?" The arrival of the sudden voice cutting through the quiet darkness startles the boy, "Agh!" Shouting and rotating, in an attempt to swing the blade.

A strong grip seals his frail arm in place. He, with one hand, holds the boy's forearm, who releases the blade. Echoing, it clangs against the planks below, sparking a slight amusement.

Looking up at his face, the boy, with the illumination of the fireplace's flaming light, showcasing half of the Liminal's head, half of the hole within his forehead partially visible, the other half, along with the rest of his head, set in the shade.

The soothing smile of calmness, which leads up to his descendant gaze of serenity, observes the boy.

"What do you have to eat?" His voice and demeanor were as soothing as ever, and even the boy felt this.

"Eat?" The boy startled in confusion, shaking. "Yes, eat, like food. Loaf, potato, rice, fruit? My stomach is agitating me, I can feel, like a surge, do you understand? Quickly rising, I can only describe it as a desire for food."

 "I have no food, I have no food!" The boy's response was one of anger and fear, erupting in the Liminal's mind in quick, loud flashes of her memories in rapid succession.

"Oh wait," he says, releasing his grip on the boy.

Taking up the blade, the boy aims it at him again. "What about a map? This wilderness is full of wild beasts and dangers, far from any recognized towns, so I doubt you live off anything not of this land. There is no suitable ground nearby for farming, and I did not see any such garden near this place. You harbor weapons, you clearly don't live alone, the ground and trees bordering this cabin are doused in 'Corpse Piss', which keeps the wild away. Give me a map," he says, his soothing manner not changing.

"Leave, now!! I live here, I don't have anything for you!" Swoosh! Blood trickles down, the crimson red of gore pulsing out from the slash of the blade, stretched diagonally across from the collarbone to the side of his neck. The woman's memories come flashing back, momentarily blinding his mind, veins erupting on his forehead, as if the memories were to burst out from his skull.

"What is feeling? This is from you, woman. So reviling, so repugnant, what is this repulsive attraction? Who are you, woman? Why am I experiencing this from your merely your corpse?"

"What?" the boy stepped back.

Unphased, unwavering, not out of some extraordinary toughness, but through the nullification of liminality. The boy pivots back, holding the blade, pushing it against the Liminal's throat.

"You haven't listened to a word, have you, boy? Cast your blade to the side so we can speak without volatility," he commands calmly, observing the boy's light blue eyes, stretching out his hand to stroke it through the boy's light brown hair.

At this, the boy revolts in disgust and fear. "Get away!!" The boy's shouting fills the cabin, swinging the blade once more. Creeping in once more, her memories abruptly cease, dissipating.

His soothing smile does not waver, this front remaining while its meaning gravely transforms. And thus, the boy's blade will never touch skin again.

Much later, the morning sun rises above the forest's flowing canopy, singing birds enriching the warm and wet forest. Treading their way through the forest, a man of large stature, standing around six feet tall, wide, and carrying the carcass of some unfortunate game over his left shoulder.

Next to him walks a young girl, around ten years old, from his observations as he walks up to them from behind them.

"Good morning." His greetings result in the man quickly turning around, the young girl going for cover behind his large physique.

"You alone?" The Liminal is slightly surprised by such a question, sudden and abrupt, almost too plain. "Yes, could you perhaps provide me with some shelter, temporarily, of course," his soothing smile carrying the gentle sweetness of his request.

"Who are you? Why are you alone here?" The man's questioning remains brief, the head of a large axe reflecting light from its steel over his shoulder, some braided strands of the man's brown hair stretching down to the axe's head.

Though the large man has encountered someone so apart within this nature like the Liminal, he seems to be genuine in his words, without deception or any further motives that could be sensed, continuing to observe with his wide head and large face, somewhat covered by his thick beard.

"Hm, guess I'll just decide on one for now," he thought to himself before speaking out to the large man. "My name is Artemis Crowley, I originate from Thai, I don't seek to bother you, but I do require momentary shelter, direly," Crowley says, the large man observing his forehead.

Tracing the man's eyesight, Crowley too looks at his own forehead, his gaze then shifting back toward the large man. "Traditions, they bond us, truly," Crowley says, the little girl peeking out, glancing at the beautiful and large Azure orchid covering his forehead.

"Follow me," the large man says, turning and walking, the girl in front of him, close.

"Much appreciated," Crowley says, his soothing smile and gentle demeanor not having weakened or wavered for even the slightest moment.

She quietly continues to observe Crowley. Her imagination was captured by his flowing and messy black hair, and smoothly clean face, whose sharp jaw always held up that serene, soothing smile.

The face of a single large azure orchid stuck out beautifully from his forehead, covering most of it, but still leaving perfect space for his eyes, the petals casting a light shade around them along with his hair.

Though his attire was dirty, stunk, and was for the most part ruined, his lean physique partially made up for it. "And what is your name?" Artemis asks of the little girl.

"She does not talk," the large man simply says. "And yours?" Crowley asks. "Peter Walker,".

"Then I thank you again, Mr. Walker." Crowley's demeanor does not change, observing the little girl's long flowing light brown hair, and indifferent face, which has not uttered a sound or itched in any shape or form, save for her blinking eyes.

"This isn't good, I'm already scheming their deaths." Crowley's mind changed after the events of the previous night, as if a foreign force was breaking into his self-character built within his mind as his identity, taking use of his body and soul, reaping his gifts for carnal use.

"I already know it's you, woman. You've been the biggest schemer since I ate your corpse, that's whose memories I receive, that's whose voice I hear, that's whose Carnal Catharsis I felt with that boy in the night. Sigh"

Crowley's mind continues to ponder, "I didn't escape Azure Orchid just to be trapped again in another prison." The thought is tiring and repulsive.

Walking, familiar scenery comes into view, Artemis looks out all around him quietly, with his eyes, until the familiar cabin comes into view. "This is it," Walker says, Crowley looking ahead at the cabin with the same smile.

"Huh?" Walker's eyes contract, focusing on the front door, which hangs open, giving sight to the darkness within the home as they make their way to it.

Crowley's eyes shift, secretly observing the man's realization. He steps in front of both the little girl and Crowley, taking the lead as he holds out his enormous axe.

"Stay here." Walker went forth, prepared with the axe, approaching his cabin. "Leaving me here with her?" Crowley scoffed through his silent smile, "How confident."

With his search concluded, the man invites Crowley and the girl inside. Stepping inside once more, Crowley's eyes scan the room. From the unlit fireplace to the small dining table, three chairs around it, now clearly seeing the bear rug in front of the fireplace.

"He left it open," Walker mutters with a slight sigh. "Will you take note of the boy's absence?" Crowley asks himself, glancing at Walker.

"Set the table, I will make soup," Walker says, heading into what Crowley knows to be a storage room of sorts, from his explorations of the home previously. "Soup?" Crowley thinks to himself, confused.

Both he and the little girl begin to prepare the small table, placing the pewter, lead plates on the table alongside rusty silverware. Crowley seats himself, feeling the plate in front of him. "Ah, this takes me back to a study I conducted some time ago."

While in thought, he looks over his shoulder, the blade remaining where he placed it, leaning against the fireplace. Feeling her stare, he turns right, the girl seated next to him looking up at him.

"Do you have a name?" Crowley asks, and as expected, she responds with silence. "I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I did not want to kill him, but the catharsis was too great." Crowley says within his heart, gently glaring down into her eyes.

Memories of the woman's life flash cascade within his mind, "I enjoyed killing him." His eyes widen slightly, bearing witness to an array of female arms extending out from him, wrapping around the girl's body, carrying a bloody mist with them, narrowing his sight on her throat, where two of the hands ensnare. "I'll enjoy you too."

"Who the hell are you?" Crowley's heart races as white hair expands out from behind the girl, flowing and beautiful, lighting a divine white glow in contrast to the bloody mist emitted from the arms.

Those wrapped around her neck tremble, crimson cuts manifesting, covering each set of arms, from which, simultaneously, slow streams of blackened blood flow out, trailing down, painting her body in the gore trails.

Creeping up the girl's back and rising above her head is one head slightly larger, from which the white hair flows, smirking deviously as she presses her head against the girl's.

"For what reason does a mere corpse have this much influence over me?" Crowley's heart sweats, tensing his fists.

She looks at him with her face of indifference, unaware of the constructions within his mind. Breaking eye contact, she turns, slipping her hand into one of her pockets, holding a folded paper.

Unwrapping some of the edges and reconstructing them, a light in his eyes widening to the view of the woman's hold, and her arms, collapsing into pieces, fading with each transformation of the paper.

As if the morning sun, piercing through the windows, intensified, he perceives the paper boat in her hand, which she holds out for him, a gift.

Reaching out to grab it, she blinks, her gaze widening slightly, shifting its focus to behind him, the muffled creaking of the planks unable to warn him, the reflection within her eyes casting his mind into a rushed disarray.

Clanging of metal wrestling and writhing against itself steals away his attention, not fast enough to escape the noose of metal lassoed around his neck from behind, the weight of the chain slamming down atop his shoulders.

With great force, the chain is yanked back, "Ack!" Saliva soars from his open mouth, the cold metal yanks his body backward through the air, slamming his head against the boards below as the metal tightens.

She watches him being dragged out of the sunlight's grasp, the last of him she sees, his feet dragged backward, the door to the storage room shut after him.