The Free

      13th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Good Doctor,

      I recognize your name in the more sinister spaces of Neovia. It seems I’m unable to turn my troubles to any of my companions without having your notoriety run through the atmosphere. Thus, though as a proper Neovian I should be avoiding this entirely, I have decided to conspire with the forbidden.

      I am not a bad man, Dr. Xadum. I realize you aren’t, either, but we both tread different paths, different lines—you have decided to fight nature in all its glory, and I have decided to succumb to it. I have become the faerie Acara I was made to be. Despite everything, I’d like to think that I have been good. I’d like to think that I’ve studied, the way the scholars have taught me to, and that I have made a life for myself. I have dedicated myself to medicine, as you have, and only occasionally treated myself as the lesser creature I am.

      Do you feel yourself to be less, Doctor? Is that why you are unable to accept the nature of your disease? Why you’ve went against our laws, our traditions, simply to prove that you are more? Would you like to live again, Doctor? Do you want to see those bright cheeks, those open eyes, the complexion of a breathing Aisha? Is that what you want?

      If so, you will understand my reasons. You may think being (arguably, though some have said being a faerie was more a blessing than anything) plain is a blessing rather than a curse, and indeed, after the events of these latter months, I have found you’d be right. But before, being plain was a curse. It seemed everywhere I go, our Haunted Woods urge us deeper, deeper into the darkness, holding our hearts like they’ve held our lives. Doctor, I find myself wanting to be the very monsters I am supposed to hate. ‘You are a flame in the black, dear Malcolm,’ my mother once told me, her eyes fiery. ‘Many things will try to extinguish you, but you mustn’t give in to them.’

      Oh, and I never did. I never gave in to any of the outside temptations. But my mother, my beloved mother, she did not teach me how to fight myself. She did not teach me how look into the empty, infinite abyss at the back of my head, prompting me to walk a little closer. She did not warn me about the pleasures of evil, the freedom one is given once they enter the cold embrace of the shadows. Woe, is me—woe! I have fought monsters, illnesses all my life, while ignoring the beast inside.

      But I couldn’t ignore it for long, doctor. On the greatest, most ordinary day, I close up my clinic, sending off one of my more frequent patients. Just as I am about to close the door, however, a figure slips through the gaps. ‘Oh, dear doctor,’ the wicked thing said, holding his chest in pain. It was a blue Blumaroo, at one point, before transforming under the shade of his top hat and becoming something else. ‘Would you help me, doctor?’

      I opened the door, letting the creature in. I sat him down on a bed, candlelight springing out on the nightstand. “What happened to you, sir?” I asked, pulling off his hat.

      As soon as the hat came off, I was looking at my face, my own features, and my smile. But there was something wrong. The eyes, they were all wrong. Like someone tried to replicate my image, only to forget to fill the two holes where I should’ve been looking out. “No,” I whispered, pulling away. “No, it can’t be--”

      But it was. The thing was staring back at me, plagiarizing my form. “Dear, dear Mayflower,” he said, approaching me. “I thought I’d never find you.”

      “Who are you?” I asked, leaning on the nearest oak wall. “What do you want from me?”

      “Me? Why, do you not recognize me? I’m you, Mr. Mayflower,” he said, his voice an echo with mine and someone else’s. Something else’s. “And I’m not here to ask what you could do for me—I’m here to ask what I could do for you.”

      “Leave, cruel beast,” I told him, “Leave me be!”

      “Oh, what’s the matter, Mr. Mayflower? Aren’t you glad to see me?” he looked at me, tilting his head. “Aren’t I the answer to all your wishes? Aren’t I the one thing you’ve been searching for all your life?”

      “I’ve never asked for you,” I said. “I never wanted you.”

      “Really?” he leaned forward, touching my hands lightly. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Mayflower?”

      And I swear, Dr. Xadum, I swear to my father’s grave, I didn’t mean to do what I did. But I looked up into his eyes—those deep, empty, wanton eyes—and I felt the oddest, yet realest sentiment of longing. For what, I am not sure. But I felt it. And the creature, feeling it as well, said to me: “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Mayflower.”

      I have forgotten everything after said event. I woke up the next day in my office, feeling several years older, with a bad back, aching teeth, and insufferable urge to throw something against a wall. The sunlight slipped past the blinds, glimmering off every object in the room, with the exception of one: a jar of strange, blackish-purple liquid.

      I have since attempted to experiment with the strange liquid, only to receive strangely ordinary results. Be it apples or Weewoos, whatever thing I inject them into, it doesn’t seem to show any detrimental effects. That was until I noticed something...peculiar.

      You see, it seems they’ve all lost their shadows.

      There is more to the story, Doctor, I assure you. I am sure there is. As of right now, I’ve lost sleep pondering over where these specimens’ shadows have disappeared to, what nightmarish corner they’ve compiled themselves into. My mind has been blurred, my career wasting away, and I’m starting to believe that my own shadow has gained several others, shaped like Petpets and fruits.

      I plead for you to reply soon,

      Malcolm Mayflower.

      15th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Dr. Mayflower,

      Your story’s been on my mind since I first read it. I have allowed a close friend of mine to examine it, and decide if she’s recognized the case—she’s said she hasn’t, but from the look on her face, I believe she has.

      I do not think of myself as a bad man, either. I have no doubt in my mind you aren’t. I believe it is in our design, as intellectual creatures, to go against our original natures. To fight the roles that have been fitted for us, by invisible hands, unseen tailors. I’d like to think the vacant hole you’re experiencing is a part of our original natures, as well. We were not made to be good, Dr. Mayflower. Just like everything else that have made us great, we chose that burden.

      I have consulted several witches and warlocks, and it seems to me they’ve all said the same thing: what you have is either unknown, or unspeakable. Do not touch the jar. Do not do anything with the jar. Get rid of the jar, but do not put it in any body of water where it may infect others. Do not bury it in the ground where it may grow into anything horrible. Burning it would be the best solution, but wear a mask as smoke might be poisonous. If need be it, do away with all your specimens as well.

      There is an air of magic to this, and so I cannot instruct you any further on what to do, as I am but a plain country doctor.

      Yours truly,

      K. Xadum.

      20th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Dear Doctor,

      Something terrible has occurred inside me. I have begun sleeping as I have before, but with—unfortunate consequences. I wake up every single morning, light slipping into the blinds, objects thrown about me. Vases shattered, papers tossed far from the desk. And every morning, I think the oddest, most corrupt notion since my younger years; that I am, and have always been, completely free.

      There is something wrong with me, Doctor. Something dreadfully wrong. After meeting what was either a hallucination or the monster crawling from the corners of my mind, I’d immediately tried to burn the jar in my fireplace, as you’ve told me to. But, while the jar itself cracked and melted, the liquid completely soaked the fire, coating it in a frozen, ashy black.

      I can’t tell you exactly what had occurred, but—doctor, it moved.

      It moved, and it moved towards me. Crawling, a gelatinous blob of consciousness and disaster. I took a few steps away, watching as its pace increased, steadily, until it jumped unexpectedly onto my face. I’d felt its teeth-like grip, digging into my eyes, inventing images from my most recent nightmares.

      I’d lain on the floor for hours, at first writhing, fighting the beast that had devoured my face. After some time, however, I’d stopped. In my head, I was no longer in the parlour, being attacked by something I’d been trying to destroy. I was—somewhere dim. Not frighteningly dim, no, not at all. In fact, it was comforting. Not even strangely comforting. Just...soothing. Soft. A little cold, yes, but inexplicably soft. It was like waking up to pillows and the fragrance of dust motes, both at chaos and at peace with oneself. Willing to accept one’s design, surrender to cruel tendencies.

      “You don’t have to lock yourself away, Mr. Mayflower,” a voice whispered to me, in my dream. It was my own, echoed out with the monster from my first, but I was no longer afraid of it. I was no longer afraid of anything. “You don’t have to hold yourself back for ideals. This is who you are. This is what you’ve always been. How many masks must you wear before you realize it?”

      “I am free,” I’d told it. I wasn’t sure if I was agreeing or disagreeing. “I am free.”

      “Then act like it.”

      And I woke up, the next day, the same way I’ve awoken; with everything in pieces, except an untouched jar filled with black liquid.

      Mayflower.

      29th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Bella,

      I have found the letters this individual has sent me, as I said I would. There are two more letters I have yet to discover, but from these two we can conclude that the pet causing Neovia distress these last few nights might be (as I’ve said before) a fairy Acara named Malcolm Mayflower. I am not aware of where he lives now as, according to my messenger, the address I have been sending letters to is now an empty lot.

      In hopes you find your suspect,

      Kal.

      23rd Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Xadum,

      You have not replied to my last message, and I do not blame you. After rereading what I wrote, I believe that I am slowly losing myself.

      I am thinking about moving away. Somewhere far away from Neovia, or any other place with civilisation close by. I have woken up today, finding a door sitting beside me. I am not sure whose home it belongs to, but it has broken hinges and a tapper that resembles the mouth of a Draik.

      The door was not the only odd item that didn’t belong in my home. The other day I woke up in my clinic, surrounded by apples and someone's hat. On the walls, carved by some claw on the wooden surface, was ‘An apple a day keeps a doctor away.’ The most frightening part is that I, for some reason, laughed.

      In all actuality, it was a little funny, considering I was in my own clinic. What do you think that means, doctor? I mean, I’ve always found the saying ridiculous, as obviously a pet can’t simply live off of apples. But now I think I may understand what it’s trying to say. There is no reason for doctors to exist, is there? It isn’t as if we can solve all of Neopia’s problems with a few oddly mixed herbs. And what is there to sickness, anyway? We’re all sick, in our own ways. Sick, lacking of something. Why do we not embrace our illness? Why do we think of our plague in such scorn? Be it mentally or physically, we should be embracing our weaknesses, not putting them in contempt. They are a part of who we are. They are a part of what we’ve become, after all these years. What we want to be.

      I have reread my previous paragraph, and I do not remember writing them at all. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear. Dear, Doctor—what has happened to me? What—what have I become? What have I—

      (letter ends with dash dragging across the paper, before ending in a torn section at the bottom.)

      24th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Malcolm,

      I know how you must be feeling. I’m not sure what had occurred to you, but it seems to me it’s gotten you into some sort of issue. I can’t help you if I’m not able to see you. Meet me tomorrow at midnight on the bridge, if I am not there I shall send a white Usul in a red coat for you. Her name is Bella. Let her help you, no matter how unorthodox her methods might be—in my time of need, she helped me more than any of my years as a Brightvalian scholar ever will.

      If you do not decide to meet me, I shall send you the address to my actual location instead of the address you’re writing for now.

      Sincerely,

      Kal.

      25th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Kal,

      Oh, how I wanted to see you tonight, doctor. My sleep has been delayed once again, and my mind overrun by thoughts not owned by myself.

      (Written in sloshed, conflicted handwriting) Or perhaps we did own them. Perhaps, after all this time, I have only been a shadow of my true self, a picture of myself in the eyes of others. Perhaps these thoughts—our only true friends, other than you, as it seems—were always there, but we’ve never allowed ourselves to call them ours.

      No, no, no, that’s wrong, that’s wrong, that’s wrong.

      Dear doctor, I do not know how long I can fight this insufferable urge to succumb. Was it this hard when you first did it, doctor? Was it this hard when you struggled not to eat the brains of others, as the zombie legend may state? Pain, suffering, how odd it is to be both familiar and disgusted by them. I want, I want, we want—

      No. We—I am a free pet. I must remain a free pet, until the end of time. I cannot be a slave to my wants. I cannot let others suffer if we—I ever do become one.

      Good doctor, sweet doctor, don’t let the words from my first letters hurt you. I was wrong. I was horribly, horribly wrong. Being this way, fighting this entity inside myself, I have realized that you are braver than any of the talk will ever make you out to be. We are now outside of the forest, it is nearing midnight, and I possess only a satchel containing the wretched jar, a Weewoo and this letter. I will walk for as long as we can manage. I intend to be swallowed by what is inside the jar, succumb to whatever it is that is taking me, in its fullest extent. I have chosen this path for myself, as I have now realized I--we are unfitting of the world here. If we ever come back, please know, it was not in our intention to

      NO NO NO NO NO YES NO NO YES NO—

      (the letter is ripped.)

      30th Day of Collecting, Y17.

      Kal,

      I have examined the letters. My informants tell me that the suspect has rampaged several houses last night, and I’ve finally deemed it a priority to capture the pet. After assessing the ink and figuring out the leaves left inside the envelope of the last letter, I think I may know where Malcolm Mayflower is—I shall tell you when I get to you. We go to hunt tomorrow.

      Bella Chorsicks.

      The zombie Aisha closed the letter, looking out the window. A figure limped towards the Meepit Oaks Sanatorium, trotting through the pouring rain, engulfed in darkness. Lightning struck in the background, revealing his complexion—a fairy Acara at one second, with wet wings and glowing onyx eyes, then a mutant with indescribable features the next.

      They had no shadow.

      He could hear one of the nurses standing from her desk, approaching the door. The other nurse’s ushered patients back into the halls. “No,” he said, waving the first nurse’s hand away. “Let me.”

      He opened the door, sprayed by a bout of heavy rain. The mutant—no, the fairy Acara panned up to him. He wasn’t sure if he—they were grinning or scowling. “He told me you were here,” they said, without specifying who ‘he’ was. “He told me you’d be here.”

      “Mayflower did,” Xadum asked, his voice competing with the rain. “Or something else?”

      They shook their head. “We don’t know anymore,” they said, voices ringing in unison. “It feels as if we’ve been lost for ages.”

      Xadum closed the door behind him, approaching the figure. He put his hand on their wet shoulder, looking them in the eye. “You,” he started, slowly, “are free pets.”

      They stared back at him. Then, slowly, they nodded.

      “You are free, powerful pets,” Xadum continued, “And one day, you will fight nature, just as I have, and become one pet once again. But for now,” he frowned. “For now, you are no pet at all.”

      He plunged the syringe he’d stored in his pocket into their neck, waiting for a reply. They stood still, simply, before crumbling down. He heard the door open behind them, silhouettes of male nurses carrying the creature onto a stretcher.

      “Good job, Doctor,” a voice called to him. Bella walked to him, carrying an umbrella. “I’ll call Sophie and several of my companions from the Order of the Red Erisim to study the thing. Hopefully, we shall find out what new curiosity took this one.”

      “And treat him of it,” Xadum reminded, sombrely. “Yes?”

      Bella dropped her smile. “Of course, doctor.” She said. Only time could tell if she was lying. “Of course."

      The End.