Koriol Celestheryne's Journal

Celestheryne Records

A testament to all I've ever experienced, not that it needs to be in writing. It just... brings me out of my own head occasionally.

It's really just proof to other people if I ever find the need for it. Simply a mark that says, "Hey, I was here, these things and people and places existed at some point. Don't forget us."

Do I really want people to read this? Well...

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The Graveyard Shift

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Downtime

Merry-Go-Round

I dream of you tonight.

There you are, basking in the golden glow. You've always flocked to all that glitters and glows - it's your second nature. Your passion is bright and I can't help but draw near as well.

There is a look of childlike longing as your hand hits a glass wall. It's a world you've never been able to touch, dangling just beyond your fingertips. You reach upwards nonetheless, as valiant steeds catch your gifted eye. It's cruel, how you're made to see everything and yet you're still held back from the little bit of comfort you'll ever scrounge. Would you forgive me if I tried to help?

The ticket lies before you now. Some twisted part of me hopes that if I have what you want, what you need, then I will in proxy become the one you want. Your gaze stares past me. Of course it does - how could I ever blame you? A tragic tale it is, that if I ever spoke up, I'd be deemed spoilt and selfish. All I wanted was that little bit of happiness they promised on TV. I'd never expect you to solve my problems or fix me - I just want you to be here.

Talk to me.

Look at me.

Know me.

You don't have to understand. You don't have to feel the same.

Just let me help you be happy. Just this once, I beg of you.

Your smile is all I could ever hope for - I know you still have it within you.

You're sat upon the horse now, kitsch turned miraculous. Your crimson hair is a complement, but really, I just like the sight of you. A knight in shining armour, like that seat was meant for you. Faux gold reflects within your eyes and I can only imagine what I'd look like in them too. The gold is for my hair, the gold is for I like you

Look, no hands, is what I think I hear. You spread your arms wide like wings to the sky, you've always been meant to fly. So fly, why don't you, as deathly screeching halts the tale. Porcelain shatters beneath you and suddenly you've fallen. Down, down, far into the abyss, and all I could do is watch in abject horror. Gears gnash and creak and crush, and my heartbeat falters at the sound of squelching flesh and shattered bones. Did it hurt? Did you know? How long did it last? Have you died by my hand? Would this have happened had I not given you that ticket? Or did you choose not to fly, just so you could be that much farther away from me?

...I get it. I understand. I wouldn't be friends with me either.

I just... wish you didn't find the need to die to prove a point.

All I can do is thrash and scream, knowing in worlds beyond that these words couldn't feasibly reach you:

"ZEPHYREN. PLEASE. COME BACK."

I wake up. There is darkness.

...I'm cold.

Downtime

Connections

They called me.

Jimbo, was it? Chuck? Goro?

Doesn't matter, they can raise and shed a name with the snap of a finger. They play dumb about the 'jobs' but it's more of an unsaid truth by now. No one seeking magical artifacts could possibly be a regular person, and that includes them.

There was another guy too, didn't catch their name. Just seems to be along for the ride. I can respect that.

They wanted to meet at my place, but I know better. I'm still concerned that Goro has given me this much seemingly without an expectation for returns.

There's so much to know, so much to learn, too much to do, time is slipping my grasp and I can hardly think straight. Am I straight? Ha... shouldn't have pulled that all-nighter looking into...

Him.

Jacob Cruz.

Let's start from the top. Order of operations:

Goro called me. Said they wanted to eat gyros together and give me something.
Went to Oliver Crescent. Taxi.
Introductions. They looked like Linus Tech Tips. Said they were Linus Touch Tips.
Ate food. It was pretty good. Don't get the fries, apparently.
They had wanted to see Jacob Cruz instead, but the guy wasn't picking up. Dead? Unlikely.
Chatted for a bit. Goro knew Zeph. Shocker.
Gave me an address. Jacob Cruz's residence: Arbutus Residences South Tower, 4288 Yew St, Vancouver, BC V6L 0C4
Gathered some things.
Retrieved a thing. The Knobbler spoke to me. Kept chanting about misery and strength and having nothing to lose and goals and achievement. Kept changing their own narrative each time I called them out. Suspicious, but could be useful. I'll see where that takes me. Doesn't change the fact that I'll leave soon enough.
Went home.

That should've calmed me down. It didn't. Didn't know I could make this face. Shame from looking in the mirror doesn't even dispel it. It's not my place to tell myself I'm wrong for feeling this way. This guy took advantage of Zephyren. How old is he? Like, 30? Zeph was 19 up until a month or two ago. Wallowing in self-pity when all the things he's done are by his own hand - he has no one to blame but himself.

I have his papers.

Nothing's stopping me from exposing him the moment I find him. Now, to decide whether he gets to live...

But Zeph... I... I don't know. I don't think I want to know? God, I just... What am I supposed to do here, with all this information and leverage and power and-

I never wanted this. I just wanted to know what happened and how I could possibly save him if he were in trouble. Jacob is the missing link here, I'm sure of it. He knows. I'll decide what to do with him after I've gotten what I needed.

GIVE HIM BACK.

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Gotta Catch 'em All!

I can't tell if I'm not me.

Pokemon.

I remember it from my childhood, I remember it from simpler times when I still felt like me. Feels like it's been ripped away to leave twisted entrails behind. Putting it back in the palm of my hands hardly brings it back, but for a moment in that place I could feel... lighter.

Like I'm still confident in what I wanted to do. Like I'm still aware of what I have to do.

It was nostalgic, don't get me wrong, but every part of it was a million knives through my chest. Doesn't help that Thalassia was trying her best to be friendly - she tried to give me several handcrafted gifts. I feel horrible about accepting them because of how much I'd much rather spend this time alone instead. I'd sooner abandon it all for the sake of my goals, and having more to hesitate on only hinders me.

I would've been a lot more receptive to these gestures last month. That's another thing - I look at myself and all I can see is the ways I've changed. Forget the one forged from hours of absorbing pop culture, I can't even call myself by my real name without dwelling on how much of a lie that is.

Koriol.

Doesn't sound like anything meaningful in the first place, does it. Just a made-up word with no thought put into it at all.

Stan told me I'd be better off leaving a few jobs in, but the more I think about it the less I want to leave. There's nothing to go back to. There's nothing worth returning to. I'm sorry.

I can't take myself seriously with all the choices I've made.

I've said it before, but the one that heard those words is gone. I'll say it once more: people that know the lengths I've gone to fulfill a goal will rarely stick around.

Am I... really doing this because I want to, or is it all just for other people because it'd somehow make them happy?

Downtime

Memorial-to-be

[Dirt and debris cloud the air, upturned by the iron shovel. The rustling of leaves dampens infrequent coughs and sputters.]

Is this enough? It should be enough.

Thank goodness I have a bore now, otherwise I'd have spent weeks trying to carve into this.

[Something heavy slides across the uneven ground. It scratches and chafes until it rests almost perfectly in the shallow mark made in the earth. The shovel solidifies its final resting place.]

It's not my best work, but he'd be uncomfortable if I did anything more. He'd be uncomfortable with all my decisions thus far. There's no surprise there - I would abhor myself if I weren't so distracted with everyone else's problems.

Carving into wood is slightly more bearable - I've brought tools from the studio. Does this do it any justice? Hardly. I designed this stuff. I've drawn it a million times during the plane ride to and from the job.

I drew him too - it was flawless the first time, as though he were looking back at me. I couldn't do it again. I wonder what that says about me and art and the world at large. The image of his face must be slipping my mind even though I've been born not to let that happen. I can't convince myself that the face in my memories is truly accurate either, but I only have the odd photo from rare selfies. Why am I questioning it now?

Birds chirp from above. ...Hm.

What is this feeling called? I can't quite place a word on it. Always feels this way when I visit cemeteries - I suppose I've succeeded, then. ...Or this is simply what mourning is meant to be. Just me and... this representation of someone from the past. I don't think I've ever spent enough time to dwell on just what this would mean for me.

...I... I guess all I can do now is... wait. You wouldn't mind if I hung around, right?