Scratched Memory

A storm of ash descended from the charcoal skies, turning the town below into a grotesque garden of black. Only the faint kindles of fire held within the oiled cages of iron lampposts gleamed in the bleak ash. Black were the uniformed houses and streets of Hidora and black was the sky above and the earth below and black was the stale viscous river that ran through the belly of Hidora.

From the tender warmth of his confines, did Horace Eden see the ash blanket the ground with a gentle touch. To his eyes it appeared as a shadow seeping into the cracks and clinging onto the crevices of the town like a vicegrip. Forcing its weight onto the hollow bones of Hidora. 

It was another quiet day for Eden. Just one of the many muted afternoons he’d only recently found the pleasure of enjoying. Peering outside the cracked glass of his quarters he saw the streams of soot, ash, and dust weep from the sky.

“What a shame.” he said with a sigh crawling out from his chapped lips. A part of him trembled on the inside, seething with rage and melancholic nostalgia as he would put it. Somewhere in his mind was that last memory of the sun looming above Hidora, minutes before it bled black.

“Times have changed Tattoo.” Those words from the Count had a persistence to them on that vague threshold of violence when it came to returning to Eden’s mind. They were like the chimes of a cathedral calling for mass, and like he always did, Eden answered the call and drifted off to that fateful day all those years ago. 

He could remember those snippets of scratched memories. The dancing, the music, the men, the women, the drugs, and the heated brew of fire brimstone and insanity that was Count Sforza. Such a bombastic man with such an unearthly presence seared to his persona. The memories of those youthful days always ended up being fixated on that walking storm, that pale jazz demon, that loose jocular cannon of the Cromwell lineage. 

Yet despite that whimsical nature he so enjoyed, it was those four words cemented into Eden’s mind that convinced him that there was so much more to that man, that creature, that……Idea. That it’d be a sin that such a thing would forever be known for one singular notion. 

The ash continued it’s assault on Hidora as a revelation came to Eden. The blackness he’d known for so long, and the blackness that defined a generation was once just like the old Count, an Idea. An idea based on all the simpler things in life which relied on the suffering of all the simpler people in life. The story of the ash was something that intrigued Eden just as much as it haunted him. Even after all those years a cold sweat would always break out from the memory of that day of darkness.

Regardless though, there were few people who saw that day play out, fewer that knew the truth, and even fewer that still lived. Again Eden trembled, not with rage or melancholy, but with regret. Regret that bore an empty pit in his heart. The reason for which that swirling typhoon consumed his mind and clouded his heart, he did not know, but he could only think of one remedy.

The scent of ash seeped into Eden’s quarters, stinging his nostrils with a sharp stench and drowning his lungs with char. Planted before him on his desk was a simple black typewriter. The keys were weathered, but everything else was kosher. That measly clockwork device was to be his vessel back in time, his way of traversing through the faded memories of the olden days. 

Placed into its designated slot with margins set and ink at the ready, the ivory paper was about to embark on its journey. It was to set sail on the frigid aegean waves of yore and venture into the heart of Eden’s past. Like the salt stained winds of the ocean it carried a sense of freedom, freedom that was within Eden’s grasp. However, achieving that freedom was a complicated affair. To remedy the regret in his heart and cast off the shackles of the past, Eden needed to write. He needed to dig into his heart, soul, and mind, and write what needed to be written. It was to be a bloody, back breaking, and soul crushing challenge, but it was necessary. So type away he did, upon that measly clockwork device. Punching the keys until his fingers bled and ached. Words flying onto the paper one after the other without delay, or effort. 

There was a unique solace to writing. That feeling of plunging into the faint memories of yore brought out a sense of clarity to Eden’s aging mind. The longer he wrote the less weight he felt. With each word he felt his heart grow lighter, with every sentence he felt the color flickering back into existence, and with every page he felt his mind escaping from the midnight black of the abyss and into the shimmering daylight of the surface.

The memories while faint, were still potent and intoxicating. As the hours faded away and as the beads of sweat rolled off his forehead, Eden drifted off into the past. His fingers typed away with their own agency as his mind vacated to the whimsical days of sunlight and laughter. The words stained themselves onto the paper without any conscious thought, for he was in a different world. That world where the chains were unlocked and the land was milk and honey.

It was twenty years ago, twenty long, arduous, years ago. Eden had just turned twenty five, that threshold where all the childish things of the past were still a part of his being, but the responsibilities and duties of adulthood had finally taken hold of him. However, at the time it was just another year of his life that came and went, or so he originally thought.

He remembered the sunlight gently beating down upon his face in the garden. The crisp summer breeze carried hints of mint and rose, a radical departure from the putrid scent of ash and soot. Emerald waves swayed in the wind as ships of flowers bloomed in the heat. Ivy slowly crawled up the brick cottage, overwhelming the little eyesore with a cascade of green. 

 Things were different back then. There were no clouds of black towering above the land, there were no columns of smoke suffocating the streets, and there were certainly no storms of soot. Things were well off, for a lack of a better term. Hidora was just another town in the fray, the only thing separating it from the rest was its peculiar geography. Through the belly of Hidora lay a mighty river which trickled down from the mountains beyond the horizon. As the river neared the heart of the town, it broke off, having seven ravenous streams of cobalt blood bleed into the ocean.

The summer was in full swing when that invitation came flying in without warning. The sun burned high above the porcelain clouds and there was a shared sense of joy and rapture amongst the populace as the summer festival neared its rebirth. However, Eden shared none of those gleeful emotions. The Festival was as it always was, a simple paganistic communion amongst the sheepish people. Priests and heretics alike celebrated the thinly veiled excuse for debauchery, drunkenness, and all sorts of unruly things.

Eden never really understood why such things were viewed with such reverence, but who was he to judge the actions of his peers? Regardless though Eden seldomly bothered with the town’s roundabout festivities. Instead he was more interested in the parchment that had arrived earlier in the afternoon.

It was a crisp cream colored paper, with embossed outlines and lettering, very formal for those living in Hidora. However, upon reading the contents of the letter, Eden realized that it was completely detached from the rural town. It was an invitation of all things, and one to a grand party no less. 

Eden had read through the words dozens of times, analyzing the meanings behind each and every line. In the end though, it seemed legitimate. 

“Do to your prominence and notoriety within your particular field, I, Lord Sforza Alexias cordially invite you to my party. I hope you find it to your liking, and you will find the address near the bottom of the invitation.”

The letter was strange to say the least. If anything it was extremely amateurish and informal, despite the Lord’s attempts. However, Eden couldn't help but wonder why exactly he, a news columnist of all things, was invited to some grandiose show of wealth and status. He wasn’t nobility, or even that well off, he was a countryside dweller with a typewriter and too much alcohol in the cellar. Yet he was curious and albeit, interested in the prospect of meeting Lord Sforza, seeing as the man had personally written the letter himself.

It was an interesting proposition to say the least, certainly a far cry from the monotony of Hidora. There was something awfully dull about the countryside to Eden. It wasn’t the scenery for sure, but the people could have used some polishing. Always on about the daily grind, no dreams for tomorrow, demonizing those smart enough to search for more. In a way he thought himself above them all, but now in old age he found himself missing them. There were no more children laughing in the fields, no more festivals livening the horizons, no more people. They were all gone, and had he known better, Eden would have thrown that letter into the deepest fires of hell. 

Changes are inevitable, yes, but that didn’t mean Eden had to like them. He missed the life he had before, there was a sort of chaotic placidity towards it all. It was always in flux, yet always it things fell back into place, but not anymore. Now there was ash and dust where there was green and nectar, and all the opulence and wealth Sforza could have given him was just wind and sails. The only thing Eden had now were his memories, and while he may write them down and have them shown to the world, ultimately, they’d just fade away into the masses, and while his story won’t be forgotten, those who weren’t as fortunate will ultimately be forgotten, sacrifices to change as Sforza would have put it.