I stir from my sleep. The darkness outside informs me of my suspicions. I was up for the vast majority of last night, but I still wake up earlier than the sun rises. I don’t sleep more than 4 or 5 hours every night, but my mind is clear, and my body still feels strong. I...think I’ve been hallucinating recently...I keep seeing darkness take shape whenever I feel emot-Knock!Knock!

A very quiet noise quickly forces me from my reflection. I unwrap my covers and walk downstairs. I open the door to see Atticus waiting. He has a dark robe on, and hands me a piece of paper. I lean towards him and whisper, “You keep up the good work...I can promise you far more.”

I see a slight glimmer of white form on his face, and he nods. He walks away from the courthouse and I go downstairs to my workshop. I open the letter and read it. Exactly as planned, Atticus is proving more and more competent...I walk to the fireplace near the middle of the house and burn the parchment.

I head downstairs to my workshop to start working on the final touches to a very important piece of machinery. It’s the last thing I need for the final step in my industrialization of Tauss. The complex set of molds and machinery are placed next to a large pile of different raw materials.

The set of machinery is needed to produce printing presses. I need them in order to start education on a massive scale. I begin hammering away after I close the door to upstairs.

Several hours pass and I wipe away the pool of sweat from the final thin piece of metal. I begin placing it into another set of wooden instruments to form the last piece of a line of machinery. The row of machinery is about 20 feet long, and each one of them has a finely crafted edge. Most of the pieces are made of steel, but several pieces of refracted red light glimmer through the room.

I smile, wipe my forehead, and sigh before saying, “Now I can finally start making them. Seems like it won’t be too long before the people here are smarter than me...”

I chuckle at the statement before I walk upstairs. The sun is starting to rise when I notice a person standing outside my door. They are wearing a robe, and I don’t know them. I answer the door while cracking it cautiously while saying, “Hey! Do you need my dad?”

“I only seek to follow your decrees Nox. Please help me obtain a ‘job.’” says a woman’s voice.

“Are you one of the cultist?” I say while opening the door more and pouting.

A knife comes from her coat and pierces my stomach. Cold steel fills my stomach and blood enters my mouth. I attempt to pull away but the knife is turned sharply. Pain racks every nerve in my body, but I stare her down and try to grab her arm. Anger forms in my body as I miss her arm.

The knife comes out, and my face contorts into an angered grimace. I reach out for her robe and the knife slices through the air. I watch as my fingers fall off. My footing becomes unstable as I step on my own blood, and I slip. The ground comes rushing to my face as I fall.

Squelch! I hear the sound of the knife piercing my side once more. Seconds later the hooded figure runs into the distance, and leaves the knife in my side. I cough. Blood comes rushing out in droves. I try to think but my mind feels heavy. Seconds later a pressure picks me up.

The completely new experience of not losing my consciousness this close to death envelops me. Every second is a fight with rivers of pain pouring from multiple places on my body. My eye twitches from the exertion, and I spit out, “stop….bleeding...pressure...now.”

A force pushes a bandage onto my sides, and the pain changes to sharp icy tendrils from my wounds. Several minutes pass and my hearing and sight return in differing levels.

I see another robed figure crying above me while several others stand somewhat close by. I hear them murmuring about faith, and hope. My dad barrels through the group and lightly checks my bandages. Pressure forms and the weirdest sensation of my stomach being filled forms. I barely manage the words, “Alcohol...Disinfect...” through the blood in my mouth.

A time period passes that could have been decades or centuries, and I see my dad lifting the most viscous liquid in the entire planet. He puts leather in my mouth, and I sadly accept the future.

A second passes and a liquid softly caresses my side. Another second passes and the liquid changes to visceral pain. I convulse as the pain becomes too much, and then I feel another liquid cover my face. Tiny droplets form as I take the piece of leather out and say, “every wound….Alcohol...I….fine.”

The leather gets placed in my mouth as a strong hand grabs mine. It tries to comfort me through the pain. I turn and smile at the blur with leather in my mouth. I’ve been through worse.

My stomach feels the familiar cooling liquid, but this time instead darkness covers my vision as I convulse heavily. The straining of every muscle fiber in my legs continues for years, maybe even the rest of my life, and I pass out.

--------------------

I wake up to the familiar sound of Nox’s voice. The boy could work more than two men, and barely slept it seems. I shake the grogginess from my head as I hear a thud outside. I ignore it and go downstairs to check on Nox.

I scan the room of ever increasing clutter to find no Nox...I look upstairs in his room and he is also missing. I walk towards the front of the house. A large velvet streak forms around the creaked open wooden door.

Ice fills my very being. My stomach and throat collapse deep into my stomach as I run forwards. I scramble with feverish movements to open the door. A group of hooded figures all stand outside, and I hear them talking as I rush forward.

The velvet streak thickens to black as I rush off of the front porch. I step into it on my way, and it carries my foot forwards. Splash! A hear the sound of water as I land inside of the extended puddle. Dull pain spreads to my side, but I quickly launch myself from the laid down position forwards.

The crawling motion keeps me moving forward. I finally stand up and push violently through the crowd forming around something. Inside the middle lay the most unholy sight possible. My beautiful baby boy is clutching his side as a robed figure pushes on a large stomach wound.

His form is like a rag doll laid out on its side. Blood covers his young form, and I see his chest barely moving. He has his arms on his stomach, and I see trails of red flesh stringing from his wound. He barely twitches his hands as he tries to slowly push his organs back into his stomach. I see his eyes twitch as he struggles. The hooded figure looks left and right for guidance, and finds none.

Instead with a swift motion from my feet and side I launch my fist into the robed figures head. The person is launched to the side, and I quickly step forward to analyze the situation. My son stares blankly forward as his rag doll like figure lays still. I hear a fizzing sound as he breathes, and look at his side. A knife lay gouged into his upper rib cage on his right side.

I hold back tears as I yell, “Get some badges. Now. NOWWW!”

The group of people sprint to the surroundings structures. Each of them head in a different direction, and I hear my son whisper. I jerk my head forwards to his mouth to hear, “stop….bleeding...pressure...now.”

I instantly act by placing my hands and scooping up some of the organs back into his stomach. I grab a random robed figure, and stare into his eyes with something blacker than death when I say, “Do NOT stop pressing where I put your hands.”

The hooded figure readily cooperates, and I place their hands over the open skin of the stomach. The skin and wounds lay ravaged, and I put them all together to form a wall between the outside world and his stomach. I replace the person’s hands onto the wound and push them just enough to hold everything in place.

My son twitches every now and again throughout the process. Sorrow and determination flood every crack in my unstable mind. I see his face start to open and I jerk my head forwards again.

He says as blood pours from his mouth, ““Alcohol...Disinfect...” I catapult myself and sprint towards our kitchen. I slam the door open and a window breaks. I grab rush forwards and open a cabinet. I slam my hand through a variety of goods to the back and pull out the alcohol as a variety of food and goods fall on the floor.

I turn around and run with even more speed back outside. I jump forwards and land on my knees next to my son. His twitching has slowed and I lift the red glass bottle of vodka my son made. I think about the hurt it causes and take off my leather boot. I push it into my sons mouth and push his tongue out of the way. I grab his hand as I pour the alcohol over his stomach.

The adolescent shakes violently with his legs as the liquid pours over his stomach. I reach back with the vodka. I set it down and start to softly pet his head. Water wells at the sides of my eyes and torrents downwards onto his face. I see him move his arm slowly to the boot, and I move it out of his mouth for him.

“every wound….Alcohol...I….fine.” he whispers incredibly softly.

I put the boot back into his mouth and pet him softly and say, “I love you. You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, I promise you’ll be okay.”

I grab the handle of the knife with both hands and pull it out. Nox does not shake. Instead he smiles ever so lightly. I look in horror as he again stops and stares emptily forwards.

I see blood rush from the wound, and I quickly push down on it hard. I get another person to clamp the ribs close together from two different angles as I slowly put the alcohol back onto his stomach.

This time he convulses much softer, but for a longer period of time. The spark of life drains from his eyes, and I stop pouring. I grab his head and whisper softly, “You can do this….I know you can… Please...I...We need you...I need you...I...I love you son...”

The crowd backs away except for the two holding my son’s mangled body together. I hold his head softly and stare upwards. Tears drench my shirt as I yell, “Ahhhhhhh! My sonnnnn. Please don’t take my sonnnn.”

At this time I notice the entire group around me is crying as well. Each one of them has varying levels of grief streaked upon their faces. Our collective sorrow reaches a peak and lean down closer to my son’s head. I hear a voice call me, control me. It pulls the strings controlling me and forces the words from my mouth, “We need you Braxton. Kinslee, Luke, Angelica...You can’t leave us....Ever.”

My son stirs ever so softly. A landslide of relief crushes my soul. The crowd begins to smile and cheer. I grab his head and start weeping as I say, “I knew you could do it…Son...My precious son...”