Planescape: Torment is one of my favorite games, yet so complex. In an effort to make something short, that I could actually finish, I tried my hand at writing a small reflection piece, based on the main character’s defining trait.
You may have to play the game to get the story, but that is true for almost all fanfics. Just hope its passing.
Another Wasted Life
I… I have no clue who I am. I only know I am here, staring at a dark, dusty ceiling, cold stone on my back, and the smell of death all around me. With great effort, I lift my head, ignoring the pressure behind my eyes, the weight in my skull, asking for me to rest. But, I cannot. I want to, but somehow, I know rest is never possible.
My weary eyes look upon my body, and take in my features. My skin has taken a greenish hue, and my skin looks like an artist tried to etch an abstract painting into my features, with a dull, yet long life. If my head didn’t hurt, I would of thought I was dead.
Dead… just thinking that word brings painful longing throughout my being, like its something missing. Curious… why would anyone want to die? Did I want to die? I shake my head of such thoughts, and stagger around, trying to get the most of my surroundings. I see scalpels, knives, saws… covered in blood, but not my own. No, the red on these instruments had crusted over; whoever was cut by these was long gone.
I look at my reflection in the scalpel, and see a face to match my body. Worn, like he lived a thousand lives. Scarred, beyond all recognition, and stitched like a zombie. Maybe I really was dead… but an ache reminded me I was still living.
I spied an apron in front of some papers, both splattered in old blood. A quick glace through the documents confirmed my thoughts. I was in a morgue, most likely assumed dead. I just nodded, almost wistfully, and continued my journey, my senses, if not my memory, returning.
But, I just got out the door when I heard a scream. I turned, and saw another creature… human, perhaps, clothed in a dirty, brown ragged robe. Even underneath the torn hood, I could see the fear. I tried to calm him down, but that only seemed to make things worse. “No! You’re supposed to be dead!”
Dead? I really was dead? But… no, I… I just stared at the man in confusion, with a puzzled expression, and asked but one question. “Am I really dead? Is this… the afterlife?”
The fearful man’s gaze turned from fear to compassion, and he just breathed. “I see… you are denied true death, and still forced to walk.” He walked toward me, and in a low, but not menacing voice, spoke these words. “Let me help you rest.” I then felt a prick, and my body go limb, the strength to stand leaving me. As my vision left, I saw my… was murderer the right word? Could I be murdered? Whoever he was, he left me alone, to be replaced by a strange looking woman, wearing similar clothes, muttering the last words I heard before I collapsed. “Stufid zomfie.”
I… I have no clue who I am. I only know I am here, staring at a dark, dusty ceiling, cold stone on my back, and the smell of death around me. My mind hurts, weighed down by several lives, but I will endure. I feel driven to find out about myself, at any cost.
No matter who dies, who I use, or who I have to kill, I will find out. The world contains many answers, many tools to use for said answers.
I look around, no useless emotions getting in the way. I have things I need to do.