[CONTENT WARNINGS:]
Body issues/judgement
Mental illness/obsessive thoughts/unsettled thinking
Skin picking
Talk of 'fixing' people (in a creepy doctory evolution way)
Discussions of death
Depersonalized view of the self
Possible allusions to body horror
Possible other things in this kind of area.
If you have body issues or the concept of reading the journal of someone who views the mortal body as a badly made construct unsettles you, this isn't something you'll like!
[In a small notebook, written in tiny, unreadable handwriting, are, amongst other things, the following journal entries:]
BLOOMBURROW 3, 1642
We’re almost there. Unless one of these fools wants to stop by another market, I should be in the Spire within a week.
Shopping is fine to a point, I understand that these people desire silly things. The merchant looking for ‘gold’ amongst all the rubbish in these stalls. The woman who wants to try every dish. The man who wants a ring for his wife. She pretends she doesn’t know, but I can see her giddiness. She talks to anyone who’ll listen about him, and he does the same thing. Says she’s the most perfect woman he’s ever met.
If she’s perfect, then why can’t he see that she hurts? She limps, complains of her knees hurting in the morning. Staggers out of the wagon. I want to set her back the way she’s meant to be, or something even better. Take it apart, put it back together.
Affection makes you blind, and my eyes are wide open.
There’s another blemish on my face; a small pimple, rotting on my skin. Under it. I noticed it today in the mirror. I knew they would ruin it by disrupting my routine, and I was right. I can feel it there now, a stain.
Not for long. I’ve heard about the Spire. I’ve heard rumours about what happens there, back at home and again from that cheery idiot we met near Mariza. Monsters, magic, mutation. The ability to take something of yourself and change it. It’s silly that they thought their talk of losing myself would deter me, when that’s exactly what I’m looking for.
I’ll get there, and I’ll find it. I’ll pull the rot from my skin and fix everything wrong with myself. With those around me. Erase the scars, mend what’s broken, pull it all apart and put it back together better.
I hope all the stories are true. It’s better that way.
I’ve been reading through Father’s journals again, but I still haven’t found a breakthrough - not the kind he’d been talking about before he died. So either he didn’t write it down, or he hid it. Maybe I can get Marshyll to search the lab again…I’ll send a letter when I reach the Spire.
He was so sure he was close to something. Fixing Mother? Fixing me?
I don’t believe he can hear me anymore, so I’m not going to promise him anything. But I’ll promise it to me: I will finish his work, whether it kills me or not.
BLOOMBURROW 5, 1642
Another day, though more productive than the one before. The man with the bad eyesight - Eric, he said his name was - is finally feeling well enough to travel uninterrupted.
Something as simple as miscooked seafood…so boring a way to temporarily disable a man, resigning him to a day of misery. So simple. For a species that’s built mighty kingdoms, holding the world in our hands, you’d think we’d be less vulnerable to bad meals.
Another flaw in our bodies. Something broken in us.
I’ll add it to the list. Something new to fix.
We’re put together so…badly. Ill created constructs, like the kind Alastair’s roommate used to make. Scrappy things, misshapen from the forge. Whatever put us together, be it the Fables of foreigners, simple growth or something greater…I know I could do a better job.
A different leg shape, better for sprinting. A second breathing system to handle water. A longer lasting model, like that of an Arsa Sidhe, but more reliable.
Putting together the best parts of bodies until it clicks.
Vomiting can stay until the introduction of a less unpleasant system for toxins. It does its job as an expellant, but it’s a bit horrible. Something more akin to a filter, maybe, paired with a more efficient detection system for such things. Higher sense of smell, perhaps, like that of a hound, but that wouldn’t account for poison.
Maybe I’m getting too complicated. I could just implement a stronger tolerance. A stronger stomach.
I’ll add that to the list, as well.
We are nearly there, however. We have made good time, and the wheezing man at the front of the carriage - a filtration system would help his lungs - has insisted we’ll be there within a few days.
Eric and his wife are getting off tomorrow, among others. I will not miss them.
The only one going to the Spire is me.
BLOOMBURROW 7 1642
As I’m writing this, the wagon is rapidly approaching the Spire.
Almost there - almost done with this wretched journey. It’s just me and the driver now. He asked me early into the trip why I wanted to go there; end of the road, he said. Nothing there for someone like me.
Maybe if he’d listened a little more when I spoke, instead of sucking on that pipe of his, he’d believe me when I said there was something far more valuable there than he would ever realise.
It is hot, though. Even in my lightest outfit, I’m absolutely boiling. Temperature regulation is somehow not something I’d wanted to add to my list before now, but I’ll definitely add it now.
Something like a layer of shedding fur for the winter, or a more effective coolant than a layer of sweat. Something less sticky. I hate it. It makes something in my mind twitch.
If I had to guess, it’s something to do with the fire. Just because I can barely remember it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
The pimple on my cheek is starting to go away, but more will come. They always do.
On another topic, I’ve been told that the Spire is by the ocean. I’ve never seen a nice beach before. Maybe I’ll collect some sand. Find a crab. I could learn to fish.
Or…maybe not. My hand wouldn’t like it, and it’s not like I have the patience for it. And there’s no time for distractions until my work is done.
I can’t deny, though, that the thought of a peaceful ocean or a trickling creek excites me right now. It would definitely cool me off, at least.
We’ll see. For now, however, I’ll rest as best I can while we travel over the rough roads, the coughing of the driver in my ear. If I could just finish my work, I could pull the rot from his lungs, the sickness and the cough, and overwork his mind to keep us driving through the night. The journey would have been far quicker.
Still, the mental toll might not be worth it. If the mind has no time to rest, without improving the stability of the self and the thoughts in our heads it could lead to madness very quickly. There’s no point in efficiency if all sanity is lost along the way.
I can’t wait to be out of this wagon. It feels like I’m losing my sanity.
