(A multi-part fictionalized account of the truth)
Jason crossed the narrow bridge of wall and eased onto the top of the old stone pillar. There, he sat, folding his legs beneath him. Far below, lights swept through the forest. He was seeing the same screeching curve he had traveled on the mountain road.
With his fear drained away, he embraced the solitude. His mind was perched on the fulcrum of sadness and exhilaration. In his isolation, he felt the power to determine who he wanted to be, the power to be different. He saw his place, his spirit, his purpose, his desires. He tapped his primal forces and began to understand them.
Time passed. More than he counted. At last, he arose, but before returning to the comfort of soil, he paused and breathed in the aura of melancholy which had gathered around him. It infused him and warmed him. It settled over his limbs, his heart, integrating, even feeding him. Only then, he withdrew.
Back in the moonlight, free from the conquered blackness, he stopped among the graves. Less with thought, more by instinct, he struck the back of his hand on one of the sandy headstones. The pain was a communion, a payment for what he took with him. He examined the new wound for a moment.
Satisfied, he continued on.
Now, so many years later, the small scars remain etched in his skin. Despite the noise and disorientation which might assail him, he can touch the talisman of those scars and slip back to that night under a cold moon. The bitter sweet spirit swirls around him once more, and the sensual touch of darkness reclaims him.
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