Saturnalia

lypophrenia

(n.) a vague feeling of sadness seemingly without any cause

I was never one to kill, nor was I one to judge those who did. How could someone who has never been presented with the misfortune of having to take another life. Sometimes, in the bars I would find myself in, men spoke fondly of their homicides, of the many women they ravished, the many men they slaughtered without a second thought, the children whose lives they had ended.

No, I was never one to kill, until then. I remember it. The body. The body of a man’s, lifeless and dull. Then, I had not realized what I’d done. The only thing I had focused on was how cruelly he treated me. I felt then my anger was justified. Only after I was finished washing the blood off my hands did I realize the gravity of what I had done.

…

I was never one to kill, but anyone can, really.

The war was hard on those who were soft and faint-hearted. Those who took their chance sat on a throne of blood and skulls, and those who didn’t were among those same skulls. Incidentally, I was one of those people. I had slaughtered, I had killed, slashed until their eyes looked up at me, somber and colorless. Before I knew it, I had become a murderer. A soldier. I worked tirelessly as one of them, spear after spear, arrow after arrow after arrow. It was almost soothingly repetitive, a mundane lifestyle, for those who killed. I became a puppet.

I soon began to fear what I had become. What would become of me? A story, a story of a soldier who killed for men who were arrogant, those who were prideful, those who were doomed to lose, starry-eyed rebels, visionaries, and soon, I had forgotten who I was. My sense of self was buried beneath hazel visions and dazzling red spots. And now I wandered the earth, the nameless warrior.

For a period of time, things died down. The wars were put on hold for reasons I did not ask for. And I had no purpose for several years. Friendships were made. Empires were built. And there I was, part of a growing empire’s army. And that’s when I met him.

“You need a name.” He had said this to me on our first meeting. Calliope, that was his name.

“I didn’t need one last year, or the years before. Why would I need one now?” I responded.

Calliope thought. I had always liked this part of him. I think his thoughtfulness is what drew me to him in the first place.

“I suppose.” He paused, thinking over his next words. “But what will I call you?” Calliope grinned.

At the time, all I wanted to do was roll my eyes.

“If you are so desperate for me to have a name, give me one.” Bold words.

Calliope smiled.

“I will call you Lethe.” I snorted at his words.

“You are naming me after a river?” I tried to sound incredulous, but I very much liked the name.

“Yes.” He saw through my disguise.

I am Lethe. I will never forget that name, no matter what.