Reminiscence

A brief introduction to the strange (romance? struggle? power play?) that is Mephistopheles, Raziel, and the girl who seems to be the answer to it all.

            She could still remember the day that her second figment arrived.

            It wasn’t the same as before, and she didn’t expect it. Meph was simply there, as he had always been, a quiet presence in the back of her mind; Raziel appeared, new and fully formed and utterly unexpected. He gave no more explanation for his presence than his predecessor had, but his arrival was somehow far more jarring. Perhaps it was that Meph, when he had come, had approached her when she was still quite young; at that time, she had been of an age where her dialogues with him were explained away through the concept of an ‘imaginary friend’ rather than that of schizophrenia. She had had time, as she grew older and aware of her own condition, to grow comfortable with the understanding that he was nothing more than a fragment of some misplaced synapse. Raziel was one day not there and the next very suddenly present.

            It wasn’t that Meph had explained himself, when he made himself apparent. She could still remember the day when he had come to her, quietly fading into existence as she lay terrified in bed—a less than kind acquaintance had chosen to tell her there were monsters in the dark, and she had believed every word.

            Meph certainly hadn’t done much to help that at first, looking as he did; she had screamed for her mother, the first time she saw that horned, bat-winged figure looming in the shadows at the foot of her bed. If anything, the terror only increased as he continued to calmly stand there while her mother, who had come running, patiently explained while looking straight through him that there was nothing there, you’re only imagining things. When her mother had left—a dinner with neighbors, only nextdoor, with no real need for a babysitter—she had stared, a terrified child, as the nightmare that had entered her world calmly seated himself with legs crossed at the foot of her bed and returned her gaze.

            What are you staring at?, he had asked her then, in that voice she had come to know so well. She had covered her ears. I don’t believe in monsters!

            That laugh, as thick as honey. I’m not a monster, unless you would like me to be one. He looked at her with crimson eyes, appraising her, a cowering child. I love you, actually. I didn’t want you to be alone.

            He had declared that he loved her then, when she was too young still to understand what that meant, when it was a simple meaningless string of sounds murmured to soothe. And, like a child, she had carried out the bedtime ritual that she had learned from her mother as far back as she could remember. I love you too.

            It had taken her a long time to even realize that he should have a name, this strange creature that came to her every night to wait with her in the dark and protect her from whatever monsters lurked as she slept. It was only when he began to follow her out into her everyday life, looming behind her as a silent, unseen guardian that she began to realize that he should be a person, and in being so have a name.

            What’s your name?

            He had blinked at her slowly, seeming vaguely surprised. Why ask that now?

            Because you’re a person. What’s your name?

            Mephistopheles, he answered promptly.

            Within a day or two he had become Meph, his true name being too complex and tedious for her young and impatient mind to deal with, and so he remained throughout the years. Her parents and friends—those she had—became accustomed to it in time, her habit of speaking to him. It wasn’t until later, when other signs began to manifest, that they diagnosed her as schizophrenic. Delusional.

            Crazy.

            She remembered hearing the doctor tell her mother, when a door was left ajar in the clinic she had been taken to. Meph had been there with her at the time, watching that narrow crack between door and doorjam intently, red eyes narrowed in concentration and displeasure. After that meeting, after they gave her the pills to take, she had tried to ignore him for a week. You’re not real. I’m crazy, and you’re just something in my head.

            Never before and never since had she seen him look so sad or so hurt as he did that day. Believe it if you want, Ana. I’m still here, and I still love you. Believe what you want.        

            The pills didn’t make him go away, and in the years that followed—the years until Raziel—she grew up with the figment by her side. Meph was a little more quiet, since then; he was still the same companion that he had always been, smiling and entertaining her when she was bored, comforting her when she was lonely, but he was more reserved. Though he still declared his love, it was always a little quieter, a little more infrequent, a little less readily.

            Often enough, she told him that he was nothing more than a product of her own madness, a delusion born of the disorder within her mind; he never denied it, always telling her to believe in him as she would. There was no more malice, no more pain to the oft-repeated back-and-forth. It became simply a statement of fact.

            And then Raziel, too, appeared.

 

 

Author's Note

As always, rough work, unedited. This one was written in a somewhat strange style--not my usual linguistic tendencies, but it seemed to work well enough--so please bear with that.
The truth of what Meph and Raziel are... well, that's up to you.

Reviews

[whitewingedcrow]

And the worst thing is, she doesn't just hear them, they constantly hang around. Generally both of them at the same time. Visibly.
I suppose it's not so bad for her... having decided they don't exist, Ana's outlook more or less consists of that she'll just interact with them as though they were real, while there's nobody around to see. In a way, it's sort of nice for her- at least this way she doesn't have to be lonely.

[sorentense]

Aha. This makes a bit more sense now. I like the mystery you've created as to what they really are, and I want to read more. Poor Ana.... Must be awful to have one of those voices in your head all the time... For being rough and unedited, it's very good!

[whitewingedcrow]

Something cathartic? The world may never know.