This is a short piece I wrote for a collection of Halloween stories on a fiction site. It's not a terribly fluffy story, which you might have suspected given the Halloween theme, so be warned. There is torture, and violence, there is mutilation, and there is death. Despite that, I do hope you enjoy.
Transgression
by Morwen Navarre
Kofiri woke up dead.
That, in and of itself, was not the problem. Kofiri was not in the Antechamber, and that was a problem.
As a Disposable, waking up dead was just part of the routine. You were Summoned, you were Used, and you were Discarded, until the next time a Summons arrived, and the Concierge fitted you with a corporeal form suited to the needs of the User. Once you were Discarded, the corporeal form remained behind while you returned to the Antechamber.
It seemed simple enough in theory, and it had worked quite well in practice for Kofiri, at least for the past ninety-odd cycles. Only a few more cycles, and Kofiri would have served out their sentence, and they would be allowed to stay dead.
Kofiri’s current Summons had been to serve a User who removed strips of skin and portions of flesh to create images of people and places. The User told Kofiri they would be part of a gallery show, to be called “Portraits in Flesh.” Kofiri was far too busy trying to hold still as ordered to appreciate the dubious wit of that title. The actual physical pain was brutal, but ultimately would be transient. Once Kofiri shed the corporeal form, only the memory of the pain would remain. Kofiri had clung to that knowledge while the User worked, until they heard the User intone the Rite of Discarding.
Kofiri, however, was still in their most recent corporeal form, and they were still experiencing a considerable amount of pain. Corporeal forms were designed to take a great deal of abuse. Disposables were, after all, paying a debt to society, and pain was the only coin the dead possessed. Kofiri’s only scrap of solace was that they did not need to breathe any longer, which eliminated one source of torment.
The final bit of frustration was that it was dark. Not dim, or gloomy, but absolute dark. Pitch black, without a single glimmer anywhere. That was bad enough, but it was not silent. Kofiri could hear slight movements, things shifting, the faintest muttering that stopped the instant they turned their head to listen. The movement itself was an exercise in endurance. If Kofiri was still able to breathe, they would have screamed.
Perhaps the User had erred in the recitation of the Rite. Kofiri struggled to remember the words, but the muttering was too much of a distraction. It did not matter anyway. Kofiri could not by law perform the Rite. They were not a User. The only way out was to search, which meant moving.
Kofiri could see nothing at all. It was a complication, given that they had no way of knowing what lay ahead. For all they knew, they were a step or two from the edge of a precipice.
Kofiri was not afraid of dying. Being dead already made that irrelevant. Kofiri was afraid of plunging into some abyss and being stuck in a broken, immovable, corporeal form. They were not at all sure the Concierge would waste so much as a thought on looking for a Disposable, but they were very sure they would linger for a long time, perhaps even past the end of their sentence.
Kofiri was equally afraid that they would touch something. They had never before felt such a revulsion about corporeal contact, at least not that they could recall. Kofiri wondered if they had been as repulsed before they became a Disposable, when they had been just another living, breathing User. But this was not the time for such thoughts. Kofiri needed to move.
Sliding one foot forward took every bit of courage Kofiri could muster. The muttering ebbed and flowed around them, sometimes so close they thought they felt hot breath on their ear. They tried to ignore that, to block out the whispers and the sound of shifting sand beneath unseen feet. They slid their other foot forward, moving with maddening caution. They would not—could not—listen to the murmurs, to the words that were so nearly audible, to the shattered bits of language which mirrored their own broken form.
Kofiri flinched as a draft slid across exposed muscle. Soft as… The thought sputtered and died, and Kofiri reached out to push the words away. Their hand touched something unyielding, cold and smooth and sharp. Pain flared anew, but they inched raw fingertips along the surface. Whatever this boundary was, it could be followed. This form was already ruined; that was its purpose. Its lungs were still, and its heart had ceased to beat the moment the User finished the recitation of the Rite. No blood would flow despite the new wounds.
Time ceased to have any meaning as they moved forward, one hand keeping contact with the wall. Kofiri dared to lift a foot, to step forward instead of skiing their foot along the sand, and ignored the sensation of their fingertips being shaved away with every step. It hurt, yes, but most of this corporeal form had been damaged by the User. A little more damage did not matter in the least to them.
The monotonous rhythm of their exploration left Kofiri with nothing to do but think, and that was not an improvement on the situation. It had been many cycles since they had tried to remember what life had been like, before they were made Disposable, before they had transgressed badly enough to make true death a blessing. That brief glimpse, the fragile bit of thought which had crossed their mind earlier returned with renewed vigor. Soft as… They tried to think of things which were soft.
Flesh, of course, was plump, and soft, and easy to peel away, but that was not the sensation those words invoked. Once, a very long time ago, a User had made them sit on a rug that was soft against the corporeal form they had worn, but that, too, was not what Kofiri felt when they thought about those words.
There was a flutter in the darkness, and something brushed Kofiri’s face. It was gentle, almost tender, and if it were possible, they might have shed a tear. Feather. They had no idea why that word had come to mind. They knew what a bird was, in the abstract, but they had no memory of ever seeing a real bird. Certainly, they could not recall having touched a feather.
The murmuring was insistent. Feather.
Kofiri wanted very much to shout but of course they did not. They could not muster so much as a sigh from their still lungs. Instead, they turned their head to see if they could determine where the murmuring originated. It did little to help. In the absolute black of this place, direction had no meaning.
Soft as a feather.
Kofiri felt the fingers of their hand stutter against the wall as bone was ground away. They had wanted to understand the murmurs, and now all they wanted was silence. The words made no sense and yet there was a yearning wheeling up inside. Kofiri flexed their shoulders, ignoring the pain from ruined tendons. The corporeal form was so damaged, and their wings would not open.
Wings.
They shook their head, ignoring the new wave of agony. This corporeal form did not have wings. They had never been in a corporeal form which had wings. The murmurs were clearly insane, or perhaps it was Kofiri who had crossed that threshold. Perhaps that was the purpose of being Disposable, to be Used until the last bits of sanity were washed away. But some things could never be washed away.
White wings.
Kofiri opened their mouth in a silent plea, a scream that would never be heard outside their own thoughts. What did the murmurs want from them? What was the reason for them to be here, in this dark, lost and—
Afraid.
Kofiri was afraid. The murmurs had that much right. They wanted to go anywhere but here. The Antechamber, to face the Concierge and find out why this form had not been shed, or back to the User who had mangled the Rite of Discarding, or even…
Home.
Kofiri sank to their knees in despair. They were Disposable. They had no home, other than the Antechamber. They would prefer madness to this incessant murmuring, words hinting at a past they no longer had a right to know. They had transgressed.
Kofiri lifted their face up, a reflex they thought forgotten. They had always knelt and raised their face to bathe in the light, when they were blessed to be in the Presence. But the Presence had turned away while Kofiri was made Disposable. These thoughts—or memories, if that was what they were, did nothing to help.
Kofiri dragged themself to their feet again, and reached for the wall, setting off once more. Each step seemed harder than the last, but they forced themself to endure, to take another step. The murmurs were indistinct once more although Kofiri did not delude themself that it was any form of mercy. Time sped up, and slowed to a crawl, and neither pace made a bit of difference.
In the absence of any light, the mind will begin to create input. Kofiri noticed the first flash of light with dispassionate calm. The light was red, bleeding away at the edges until it merged into the blackness and vanished. They froze in place, listening for something, or someone. Out of the corner of their eye, they saw a line of light, thin and bright, but when they turned their head it too was gone. It might have been a door, they decided, and turned slowly in a circle.
Feathers brushed Kofiri’s arm, and they shied away, panic flooding them. They could see the wings, as white as the featureless walls of the Antechamber, no place to hide in all that blinding brightness. They were unmasked, revealed for what they were, riddled with guilt for a crime they could no longer recall. The wings—soft as clouds, sharp as razors—were red at the tips, sanguineous and lethal. If Kofiri could have screamed, they would have shattered walls with the volume of their terror.
State your crime.
This was no murmur. This voice rang out like a knell, measuring Kofiri’s sentence in three hard syllables. They had to speak, but no sound emerged from their lips, not so much as the softest susurration. To remain silent was an affront, and in the depths of their thoughts, Kofiri answered: I do not remember. I have been dead too long.
Again, that dreadful voice filled every particle of space around Kofiri, vibrating through them like an earthquake.
What will you give to know?
They shuddered as the words rolled through the broken flesh, bone fracturing in the wake of that dreadful voice. What did the dead have to give that would have any value? They knew only one answer: Pain.
The response was swift. Kofiri had thought they were experienced in pain, accustomed to all the nuances of it. They were wrong, for this surpassed anything they could have imagined. Agony scoured them, boiling flesh while freezing bone, shattering tendons like fine-spun glass and shredding organs in its wake. In less than a moment, in the space between life and death, Kofiri saw their crime revealed.
They watched the mortals below, scurrying to and fro, oblivious to all but their fleeting existence, blind to the watchers above. Kofiri marveled at these imperfect beings, these creatures who were so beloved of the Presence, the one who had created Kofiri and all those who dwelt with them in the Halls of Light, eternal and unchanging.
Kofiri turned to their companion, rejoicing in the androgynous beauty beside them, made in the image of the Presence. “I do not understand what the mortals have that we do not.”
The companion smiled, and Kofiri wept for joy at the sight. “Peace, younger sibling. The mortals change where we do not, for we are merely reflections of glory while mortals are given the gift to create glory.”
“How is this so, elder sibling? What is this gift?”
The companion settled white wings more comfortably, their smile undimmed. “Mortals have something called a pneuma. Their forms are fragile, and decay with the passing of days, but the pneuma is eternal, and will return to the Presence to share all it has learned of glory.”
Kofiri felt their wings flex as they listened to the companion’s words. “Do we not have this pneuma?”
“No.” The companion stretched out one wing to envelop Kofiri in a tender embrace. “The Presence chose to give this gift to mortals alone, and it is not our place to question, younger sibling.”
Kofiri rested in the embrace for a time, until the companion kissed their forehead gently and left. They remained to watch, trying to catch a glimpse of this pneuma as they pondered the words of the companion. They felt the unfamiliar sensation of frustration when they could not see the gift of the mortals, no matter how intently they observed the fragile creatures below.
The mortals built buildings, but none were as beautiful to Kofiri as the Hall of Light. The fragile beings painted, and sculpted, and sang, but the colors were flat, the sculptures imperfect, and the songs held dissonance to Kofiri’s ears when compared to the paeans they sang with their siblings in praise of the Presence. They were puzzled by the words of the companion, and by the behavior of the mortals. They were moved to do more than merely watch.
The mortal cried out in fear when Kofiri swooped down, extending a wing carefully to let their feathers brush against the naked flesh before them. The mortal uttered words in a language they did not understand, but Kofiri heard the fear, and they smiled to show benevolence.
“Do not fear me,” Kofiri said, their voice overlaid with a melody meant to soothe. “I wish only to know this pneuma you carry.”
The mortal covered flat ears with trembling hands, and dropped to the floor. Perhaps they needed to look where the mortal was exposed, Kofiri reasoned, and extended a wing once more, the feathers shifting at the tip, razor sharp and subtle as they explored the mortal. They pushed aside bone and organ alike, but there was nothing of glory hidden in the fleshly form, so plump and soft, alien and repugnant. Kofiri rose from their stoop, white wings dripping with red, and in an instant they were not alone.
Kofiri sank to the floor, oblivious to anything but the memory coursing through them. They had not known the mortal was so fragile. They had stood, and the trumpets had sounded, and for the first time in their eternal existence, they had known fear before the Presence. Their siblings had turned grieving faces away, and they were alone. And still, that was not the full extent of Kofiri’s new understanding.
This punishment was as eternal as Kofiri themself, the anger of the Presence unending. Kofiri had crafted their own fate with every stroke of a feather, with every drop of blood, with every scream torn from a mortal throat. Redemption was a false hope, for their debt could never be repaid. Who could say what works the mortal might have crafted to please the Presence? What songs might the mortal have sung, lost now to Kofiri’s search for a thing which could not be held.
Kofiri sank into themself, wrapping arms around the broken flesh they wore, embracing the pain until the blackness became absolute again, and they sank into torpor. The murmurs withdrew until all was silent, and emptiness rolled over their huddled form until an eternity had passed.
Kofiri woke up dead.
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