Alan Bayman [Bayman - Jorm

It was raining again. My eyes where above the water level, so I could see the splashes ripple on the canals surface, mottling the grey skys reflection. When the rain paused, and the ripples grew calm. I could also see things in the reflections edge; towering buildings of grey stone and the occasional silhouette of a person passing by.

I was standing in the water, concealed by the edge of a bridge that passed over me. I did not remember anything before. I had been there, I think, for a very long time. I have watched the water rise and fall, and day to flicker into night, then day again, countless times. I watched the moss gather, creeping along the canals edge, covering every surface save the water, only to be devoured as herds of small rodents, in a squeaking cacophony swept in, chewing on everything green, leaving behind only droplets of waste, that the insects feast on, which calls the fish, swimming and gliding around me, to feed.

I liked it when my eyes where under the water and the fish came about. I liked the bright colors painted on some of their sides, and the way they would dart at the surface to catch an insect or at each other when they fought.

It was their brushing or bumping against me that made me realize (or remember) that I have a body. I did not know if I could not move or if I had just forgotten how to. I could turn my eyes but not my head. Things crawled over me. Moss grew on me, and things slithered over me to eat the moss, but almost nothing tried to eat me. Once a fish tried to, nibbling on me with a strange stabbing sensation. After it began to float on its belly at the waters surface, and the other fish began to eat it, only to die themselves, bobbing gently away from me downstream.

On this day, I was contemplating one of the few things that has ever caused me no small amount of loathing; the Stick.

Many things have come floating in the canal. Pieces of crate, rotting food, mostly. Once a man floated by, pale and bloated, his blue eye staring up as the fish devoured him from underneath. My favorite was a cork-less bottle, its crimson contents swirling around as it bobbed along, carried by the current. My least favorite was the Stick.

The Stick was small, about 6 inches in length. Smaller than other sticks. There was nothing remarkable about the Stick, really, except that instead of floating down the current like all the other sticks before and after it, the Stick floated up to the left side of my head and stayed there. When it rained, it would tap against my temple. Constantly.

At first it was curious. I tried to find patterns in the tapping. Time passed, and it became tedious, a distraction from the rain. More time passed. My irritation grew. And grew. And grew. It came to be that rain brought only irritation, thanks to the Stick. My thoughts where consumed by it. By that day I had driven me to such rage that something in me changed.

The Stick had suddenly stopped poking me. Looking over, I saw a pale grey hand just peeking out of the waters surface, clutching the Stick so hard that it had broken in half.

I had moved. I didnt know if I ever had before, or even if I could.

After I figured out it was possible, moving came (relatively) quickly. At first, I had to channel my irritation in order to force movement. I thought about the Stick and channeled that annoyance onto whatever part of my body I wanted to shift. I noticed more things then. Touch. The water current gently pressing against my skin. I had always noticed the drops of rain that tapped against my face and head when the wind shifted so that a storm would bring droplets down under the bridge, but now I could turn my head up and watch them fall.

And so, I did. From day, until night, and then day again, until it stopped raining. I then reached out and touched the gritty stone wall underneath the bridge, just within reach. It was hard and coarse yet covered in something slick that left a dark smudge on my fingers.

Moving my legs took some time, as I was buried in earth up to just above my ankles. I climbed out of the canal. Some memory stirred in me that this was too easy, that lifting myself should not have been so effortless.

The sun was setting as I pulled myself over the canals edge, feeling the water slide and pool of my bare skin for what felt like the first time. I stood and beheld the riot of orange and crimson splashed across the cloudy sky. It shown in sharp contrast to the blackened and dark masonry of the buildings around me, save for where the rain drench reflected the evening light, like embers on coal.

Who owns you? A voice jolted me out of my reverie. I looked down from the rooftops to see a man facing me near the base of the bridge. The bridge arched sharply from one side of the canal to the other. I had never noticed that from underneath. A few people were walking on a street that led to the bridge. Two of them stepped into buildings, shutting doors behind them. One woman, dressed in drab whites and carrying a cloth bundle, slowed and grabbed onto the bridges railing as she stepped on, trying not to slip.

As she did, the man facing me took a few steps closer. He was wearing a dark cloak about his shoulders clasped with a silver insignia. His tunic and trousers were an even darker color, and looked, soft, clean, and expensive.

Velvet , some wispy, half-forgotten memory told me.

I said, the mans voice was cold, but his eyes were nervous and excited while trying to look stern. His face was young, with only hints of a beard to mark him as an adult.

I said, he repeated, stepping closer, almost within reach. Who. Owns. You.

He was talking to me. Could I talk back? I opened my mouth to try. I felt my chest squeeze and water flowed out of my mouth and onto the ground. He looked surprised for a moment but quickly recovered.

Well, he said looking around. His nervousness and excitement seemed to heighten all at once.

Fresh meat, he said, looking back at me. He grinned suddenly, reached into his cloak and pulled out a long slender wand. It was solid black with a silver tip, and I remember thinking how well it matched his clothing.

He pointed the wand at me and said something that I could not understand. Suddenly, there was a terrible sensation, as though my thoughts where being squashed down and swept away. I felt frozen and locked, unable to do anything except for what this sensation bid me to do.

This sensation came from the tip of the wand, that was now resting on the center of my chest. The man was now standing directly in front of me, still uttering strange words. Within the sensation I felt his mind seep into mine. The first and last thing it said to me was now you are mine .

I responded by doing what I did before when I couldnt move: I summoned my rage. Thinking of the Stick started to get me moving, but this man had given me plenty of extra motivation. My thoughts where still scattered but my sudden rage took him totally off guard. For an instant his presence faltered, and my hand lashed out, grabbing him by the throat. His carefully crafted words turned into a strangled choke, and things began to change.

The sensation of oppression, from the tip of the wand resting on my chest, changed to a feeling of burning. Both hot and cold at the same time, and strangely, not all that unpleasant. The man tried to struggle against my grip. The wands tip felt glued to my chest and flickered with a blue and white fire. The feeling of oppression vanished, replaced with the burning sensation, that mingled and suffused with my rage. Instead of pressing hid mind into mine, his mind seemed to be dragged into the flames inside me.