Since arriving on Earth, I have
existed as an amorphous being. My name is Scín.
Tonight, I listen to the wind
whimpering and the gurgling sounds around me as I lie inside my host, a noble
steed whose soul senses my presence and wishes for me to leave. I will remain,
but I feel the storm outside will pass by tomorrow.
“Hey there, boy. It's a big day
ahead with the parade.” A bulk of a human male, around thirty, strokes my
horse’s nose.
I can almost sense the creature's
joy from my position deep in its belly; it whinnies, and the vibrations wash
over me like a soft sheet billowing in the breeze. The man's emotions seem
restrained by his exaggerated movements.
My horse is saddled, and a dull
weight, like pressurised air, presses down on me. The man wears a military
uniform. His fur helmet threatens to drown his features; it obscures his eyes,
and I squirm. He mounts the steed, and my work will soon begin. My task
conflicts with the horse's purpose: while we both exist to serve, my steed’s
King is earthly, while mine is something else entirely.
It is late morning, and the sun has
begun its quiet journey from the east. The air is fresh; the sky is a spectrum
of greys. The roads have been cleared, and apart from my rider, there are few
people to perceive, so the music of my strings is delicate and flows
unobtrusively as we trod along.
The parade begins, and humans gather to watch. I feel a knot
of unease forming inside me. The Royal band’s drums assault my senses, and the
human screams are confusing. My instinct is to interpret the screams as a
threat, but the crowd shouts, “We love you.” “Long live the King.”
My horse has no choice, and neither
do I. A rumbling comes from inside the steed’s body; it travels through its
intestines toward me, plucking at my entangled strings and creating a song. The
music is my master, my comfort, my lifeblood. Today, it is my tormentor.
I find no relief from the
excruciating sounds of the day except by reeling against
my inner music, the constant plucking of my strings.
Meanwhile, the horse wraps its mouth around a human arm. Its teeth nibble but
do not bite. The rider pulls on the reins. There’s grunting and whinnying in a
battle of wills—the three of us contend for control. I can taste the stagnant
shadow emitted by the human. I devour it.
There are innumerable souls around
me. A girl in a yellow raincoat approaches, wanting a picture taken beside me.
She has the sweet scent of icing around her mouth. Her soul glimmers and evokes
a beautiful melody within me. When she rests her head against my horse, his
ears twitch, and I feel a glow dampening my inner fire.
“Wow, Mum, his coat is shimmering.
He’s sparkling. Look.” The girl runs over to a woman in a blue coat.
“Oh yes, I see. Lovely, " the
mother says, but she does not look at me. To her, I am just a black horse,
nothing more. Why can't she see me burning, shimmering inside its belly? I am a
mound of consciousness, more than strings entangled in a creature's being.
My fire turns blue.
Look at me, I want to say.
Blue
flickers against the walls of my horse’s gut; his head nods feverishly.
“Wow, easy, boy.” The rider says.
A man
with four dark shadows approaches. I feel his corruption as if it already
belongs to me. My strings contort in a terrifying song. My horse’s teeth sink
into the side of the human’s coat. A brief tug-of-war occurs. The man scuttles
away unscathed, complaining and pointing, but not before I swallow his shadows.
The metallic taste only amplifies my hunger.
Overwhelmed by the darkness I’ve
absorbed, my song distorts further; the rhythm has become demented. More
people, more pictures. People with placards. People are shouting; a beer can
bounces off the side of my horse’s nose. Blue lights flash, and the sound of
sirens feels like an onslaught of arrows attacking me. There’s a fire inside
the people—orange, red, and blue fire—my horse charges. I pull against my
entangled strings; the excruciating music continues, and the steed kicks and
bites the fire and darkness from these humans. I absorb more shadows; I consume
the evil. My hunger is insatiable. The rider falls. The girl in the yellow
raincoat holds her arms up toward my horse's head.
“Stop.”
A spooked hoof strikes her mother’s
temple— liquid crimson oozes.
When her mother falls, the girl’s
wide oak-coloured eyes look straight through me, and my strings play a forlorn
tune just for her. But she does not hear the music. Nobody hears it. All they
hear is the gunshot. My host falls, but soon they'll feel the shimmer.
My name is Scín.
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