My therapist told me to write this
title page formatting based on @Avery Gray's book Save Me. go check it out. its great 
summary thingy
mattias hates talking. obviously that doesnt really work if youre in counseling, so his therapist recommends he write it down and send it to The Reader. he will never get a response. but someone will hear him.
author
the story is in first person pov, but i am creating a fictional author to have written this. his name will be ray calein.
pertinent ooc info
in my literature class, i had to write a modernisation of the story of beowulf. i dont like that story. i am struggling to get through writing it. i am hopeful that by posting portions of it here, i will be more motivated to finish it.
this story is in letter format.
another note on format: it is exactly how i intend it to be. the usage of the five hyphens vs not, the amount of space between paragraphs, capital letters in strange places, and whenever i dont use periods. its intentional.
tw: yes, theres death and stuff in this story. its beowulf, what do you expect?
another trigger warning: the main character has very very very low opinions of himself and he says so and has sarcastically incredible mental health.
Last edited by Paris Soliel on 17 Jan 2026, 16:14, edited 8 times in total.
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
February 27, 2149
Dear Person-I-Feel-Obligated-To-Write-To,
My therapist is tired of my silence. She doesn't say it outright, but I can see it in her eyes. She told me that writing it down might help. She told me she knew I didn’t exactly want to tell her about it. She told me that if I send these letters to you, someone will see them, even though I’ll never get a response. She told me that it will help me to know that someone can understand, or at least hear me. Well, Deborah, you say a lot of things. And despite what you may think, I really do try most of what you recommend (still not gonna try melatonin, sorry). So anyway, here I am. Trying something else.
I don’t really want to share my real name, but you’re not going to know who I am either way, so I guess I might as well tell you. My name is Mattias. With a ‘t’ sound. I hate it when people say it with a ‘th’.
Deborah says I have a lot of trauma and anxiety, but I don’t know how that’s possible when I mostly just feel numb all the time. Deborah says it’s because I disassociate, but I always feel very present in my numbness so I'm not sure that’s true either. Thanks Deborah.
I like to say that the main reason I am this way is because the government of the Republic of Lenon is not really a republic. Yes, I grew up in Lenon. Crazy right? How amazing that the statistics of it being the most populous country mean that yes, it's likely I grew up there! And what an odd chance that Lenon also happens to be rather fanatic? Huh. (I’m being sarcastic. Can you tell? Sarcasm is a little bit difficult to use in writing)
That’s the simplest way to say it anyway, and I like simple, because if you haven't figured it out by now, I don’t like talking. But Deborah told me that if I try this, I have to say more than that. So fine. This is for you, Debbie.
-----
I am the way I am for the reason I previously stated. But specifically, because by the time I understood the truth, my life was too far gone.
I suppose one could say it all started back during the war, but I say it started before that. I say it started when an interest was displayed in my Test scores, which I was old enough to take a couple months before the war started. When I got the letter telling me my Designation, I wished–for at least the 800th time in the past year alone–that the Test was not required for all citizens. That I could do something simple, book editing maybe, without being told it was all I was fit for. That I could do something because I wanted to.
But no, of course I had no choice. On my 21st birthday, four months after the Republic declared war on basically the rest of the world, I reported to the Furess Army Base, following the vague address leading to the research-oriented end of the campus. Very helpful, considering the ten identical windowless buildings arranged in a blocky U shape that made up the sector.
I sighed and approached the building in the center of the U. The door was locked so I buzzed the button. The door slid open, however, before I could even remove my finger from the button and a tall man with buzzed hair walked swiftly toward me. “Good, you’re already here. Mattias Pavlis, correct?”
I sighed again--in my head this time--at the guy’s incorrect pronunciation of my name. He’d said it with a ‘th’. “Yeah, that’s me. But–”
“Perrrfect.” He cut me off before I could correct him and marked my name on a clipboard. “Now if you could just follow me. We’ll get you and the others briefed.”
The room he took me to looked like a small conference room. Two other men and a woman were all sitting, each holding letters that looked similar to mine. Judging by the mildly confused expressions on their faces, their letters had been just as vague as mine.
The researcher guy took up a post in the corner as footsteps could be heard coming down the hall. An important looking woman strode in and sat at the head of the table. “Thank you all for arriving as requested. My name is Commander Rhonda Hoth. I apologize for the lack of specificity your letters held and the confusion that may have caused you. Unfortunately, I am not as of yet at liberty to disclose more information than has been provided, since not all of you will be chosen for this job.”
The four of us looked at each other, growing more perplexed by the second. Sure, our letters hadn’t actually said what our Designation was to be, but a person only received one.
The woman smiled. “Further examination on potential candidates is necessary for this position, but I can assure you all, those who are not chosen will be given another Designation. I must, however, stress the point that those rejected are not to discuss what happened here.” Her smile widened slightly, subtly emphasising the threat.
-----
Okay. That’s the basics. The very ambiguous basics. I have to go do… stuff… right now so I guess I’ll send this how it is. You’d better be right about this actually going somewhere Deborah.
Dear Person-I-Feel-Obligated-To-Write-To,
My therapist is tired of my silence. She doesn't say it outright, but I can see it in her eyes. She told me that writing it down might help. She told me she knew I didn’t exactly want to tell her about it. She told me that if I send these letters to you, someone will see them, even though I’ll never get a response. She told me that it will help me to know that someone can understand, or at least hear me. Well, Deborah, you say a lot of things. And despite what you may think, I really do try most of what you recommend (still not gonna try melatonin, sorry). So anyway, here I am. Trying something else.
I don’t really want to share my real name, but you’re not going to know who I am either way, so I guess I might as well tell you. My name is Mattias. With a ‘t’ sound. I hate it when people say it with a ‘th’.
Deborah says I have a lot of trauma and anxiety, but I don’t know how that’s possible when I mostly just feel numb all the time. Deborah says it’s because I disassociate, but I always feel very present in my numbness so I'm not sure that’s true either. Thanks Deborah.
I like to say that the main reason I am this way is because the government of the Republic of Lenon is not really a republic. Yes, I grew up in Lenon. Crazy right? How amazing that the statistics of it being the most populous country mean that yes, it's likely I grew up there! And what an odd chance that Lenon also happens to be rather fanatic? Huh. (I’m being sarcastic. Can you tell? Sarcasm is a little bit difficult to use in writing)
That’s the simplest way to say it anyway, and I like simple, because if you haven't figured it out by now, I don’t like talking. But Deborah told me that if I try this, I have to say more than that. So fine. This is for you, Debbie.
-----
I am the way I am for the reason I previously stated. But specifically, because by the time I understood the truth, my life was too far gone.
I suppose one could say it all started back during the war, but I say it started before that. I say it started when an interest was displayed in my Test scores, which I was old enough to take a couple months before the war started. When I got the letter telling me my Designation, I wished–for at least the 800th time in the past year alone–that the Test was not required for all citizens. That I could do something simple, book editing maybe, without being told it was all I was fit for. That I could do something because I wanted to.
But no, of course I had no choice. On my 21st birthday, four months after the Republic declared war on basically the rest of the world, I reported to the Furess Army Base, following the vague address leading to the research-oriented end of the campus. Very helpful, considering the ten identical windowless buildings arranged in a blocky U shape that made up the sector.
I sighed and approached the building in the center of the U. The door was locked so I buzzed the button. The door slid open, however, before I could even remove my finger from the button and a tall man with buzzed hair walked swiftly toward me. “Good, you’re already here. Mattias Pavlis, correct?”
I sighed again--in my head this time--at the guy’s incorrect pronunciation of my name. He’d said it with a ‘th’. “Yeah, that’s me. But–”
“Perrrfect.” He cut me off before I could correct him and marked my name on a clipboard. “Now if you could just follow me. We’ll get you and the others briefed.”
The room he took me to looked like a small conference room. Two other men and a woman were all sitting, each holding letters that looked similar to mine. Judging by the mildly confused expressions on their faces, their letters had been just as vague as mine.
The researcher guy took up a post in the corner as footsteps could be heard coming down the hall. An important looking woman strode in and sat at the head of the table. “Thank you all for arriving as requested. My name is Commander Rhonda Hoth. I apologize for the lack of specificity your letters held and the confusion that may have caused you. Unfortunately, I am not as of yet at liberty to disclose more information than has been provided, since not all of you will be chosen for this job.”
The four of us looked at each other, growing more perplexed by the second. Sure, our letters hadn’t actually said what our Designation was to be, but a person only received one.
The woman smiled. “Further examination on potential candidates is necessary for this position, but I can assure you all, those who are not chosen will be given another Designation. I must, however, stress the point that those rejected are not to discuss what happened here.” Her smile widened slightly, subtly emphasising the threat.
-----
Okay. That’s the basics. The very ambiguous basics. I have to go do… stuff… right now so I guess I’ll send this how it is. You’d better be right about this actually going somewhere Deborah.
Obligatorily,
Mattias
Mattias
Last edited by Paris Soliel on 27 Jan 2026, 00:12, edited 2 times in total.
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
March 14, 2149
Dear Acknowledger,
Two days ago, I received a short note that told me that my letter has arrived and has been read, so I decided I might as well write another. Thank you for the confirmation. Your pseudonym has been upgraded.
Over the past 16 days, I cannot help but overthink every single thing I wrote in the last letter, and I have concluded that it was very boring and spent too much time on expository elements of what Deborah wants me to talk about. So I will give you a brief summary of the remainder of the prefacing events, and then get to the point.
Commander Hoth had the four of us do her test things. There were a lot of physical examinations and challenges, a very very detailed world history test, the weirdest maths test I’d ever seen, and then a shooting test. It was the first time any of us had ever touched a gun, since civilians are not allowed them. Then Hoth kicked out the woman and one of the men, saying that their new Designations would be sent within a few days. Then the last guy and I took an even weirder test than the maths one. It had a bunch of like, ethical, political, and morally grey questions. I guess they liked me better cause the other guy went home. Then Commander Hoth told me something strange. She said my Designation was to be a specially trained soldier for the Republic. I didn’t really know what she meant, but it wasn’t like I could refuse. So I said okay.
Anyway, blah blah blah. Stuff. I was trained and whatever. I was told I would be the hand that turns the tide of the war for the Republic. I guess the Republic wasn’t doing too well in the war, but it must not have been super awful, because Hoth finally said I was ready an entire year later.
Zkdudgefwuojqwbd. More stuff. They sent me on missions. Things like rescuing important hostages, taking over opposing bases and research facilities, and being a protection escort for convoys carrying valuable materials or people. Stuff that other people apparently couldn't do. I did it all for years.
I got very good at what I did. And when I got good I guess I started seeing that I really was the only one who could do the stuff I was doing. And then I would wonder why I was the only one trained to do this stuff. If I was so good at it, then why not train others to do this kind of stuff too?
I was told to never speak while on assignment. The uniform I was supposed to wear covered most of my face. I was quite anonymous. I always wondered why that was so vital.
I never liked to kill people, but Hoth kept telling me it was necessary. She sent me out on assassinations a couple times and I always hated doing it. And then I hated that I was good at it. And then I would go into a self-hate spiral and then I hated that I couldn't stop it.
Hm. I guess there was more prologue needed than I thought. I’m out of paper. I guess this is the end of this letter until I get more paper. I’ll send another when I get more paper because I’ve already started and I hate leaving things unfinished. Bye, I guess.
Dear Acknowledger,
Two days ago, I received a short note that told me that my letter has arrived and has been read, so I decided I might as well write another. Thank you for the confirmation. Your pseudonym has been upgraded.
Over the past 16 days, I cannot help but overthink every single thing I wrote in the last letter, and I have concluded that it was very boring and spent too much time on expository elements of what Deborah wants me to talk about. So I will give you a brief summary of the remainder of the prefacing events, and then get to the point.
Commander Hoth had the four of us do her test things. There were a lot of physical examinations and challenges, a very very detailed world history test, the weirdest maths test I’d ever seen, and then a shooting test. It was the first time any of us had ever touched a gun, since civilians are not allowed them. Then Hoth kicked out the woman and one of the men, saying that their new Designations would be sent within a few days. Then the last guy and I took an even weirder test than the maths one. It had a bunch of like, ethical, political, and morally grey questions. I guess they liked me better cause the other guy went home. Then Commander Hoth told me something strange. She said my Designation was to be a specially trained soldier for the Republic. I didn’t really know what she meant, but it wasn’t like I could refuse. So I said okay.
Anyway, blah blah blah. Stuff. I was trained and whatever. I was told I would be the hand that turns the tide of the war for the Republic. I guess the Republic wasn’t doing too well in the war, but it must not have been super awful, because Hoth finally said I was ready an entire year later.
Zkdudgefwuojqwbd. More stuff. They sent me on missions. Things like rescuing important hostages, taking over opposing bases and research facilities, and being a protection escort for convoys carrying valuable materials or people. Stuff that other people apparently couldn't do. I did it all for years.
I got very good at what I did. And when I got good I guess I started seeing that I really was the only one who could do the stuff I was doing. And then I would wonder why I was the only one trained to do this stuff. If I was so good at it, then why not train others to do this kind of stuff too?
I was told to never speak while on assignment. The uniform I was supposed to wear covered most of my face. I was quite anonymous. I always wondered why that was so vital.
I never liked to kill people, but Hoth kept telling me it was necessary. She sent me out on assassinations a couple times and I always hated doing it. And then I hated that I was good at it. And then I would go into a self-hate spiral and then I hated that I couldn't stop it.
Hm. I guess there was more prologue needed than I thought. I’m out of paper. I guess this is the end of this letter until I get more paper. I’ll send another when I get more paper because I’ve already started and I hate leaving things unfinished. Bye, I guess.
To be continued,
Mattias
Mattias
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
March 30, 2149
Dear Reader,
I can’t think of a better name for you right now. I wonder if you send a note of acknowledgement every time you receive a letter or maybe you just sent me one last time to reassure me. But anyway, I got more paper. Obviously. In relation to the grammar and sentence structure and writing style of this and my previous two letters, I’m sorry it’s not perfect. Apparently language and writing isn't the most important skill for a secret military assassin/escort/soldier/whatever-I-am to know. I just write how I think. Back to my story thing. I don’t like calling my life a story. My head feels too heavy right now to think of a better word.
-----
I kind of lost track of time, but I’m pretty sure it was when I was 26 that Commander Hoth told me about a mission that would end up changing a lot for me. I had just got back from the run I was told to go on when she came up to me with a folder in hand. She looked angry. I stood at attention because I was supposed to. She slapped me. I didn’t do anything back. “December 16, two years ago during your assassination of Commander Vlomidr. You were seen. By an agent you were supposed to kill. No witnesses, remember?”
I didn’t say anything. Of course I remembered that mission. I remembered every one. She continued, her voice sharp as shattered glass without waiting for a response. “Your equivalent has been created by the enemy. He terrorises the base at Herron, massacring soldiers and researchers alike, and always disappearing without a trace.” Her voice is almost begrudgingly impressed at the spectral soldier’s abilities, and displeased that I couldn't make myself kill with the same ferocity.
She hands me the folder. “The base has been emptied for the time being, but it is a critical center in weapons development; the front lines have been suffering without their support. The base needs to be operational again. Take him out.”
I nod to make Hoth go away but frown at the folder once her back is turned. I don’t like killing. Have I made that clear yet? I get told that those I have killed were necessary deaths but I. Hate. It. They haunt my mind, flashing behind my eyes every time I sleep or even blink. I’m never going to forget any of it even when I’m 97 with dementia and can’t remember how to breathe without help. I’m not going to like this mission.
I’m gonna go. This letter was kind of short, but I need to go buy some plums. Yes, what you think is happening is actually happening: I am putting off getting to the point.
Dear Reader,
I can’t think of a better name for you right now. I wonder if you send a note of acknowledgement every time you receive a letter or maybe you just sent me one last time to reassure me. But anyway, I got more paper. Obviously. In relation to the grammar and sentence structure and writing style of this and my previous two letters, I’m sorry it’s not perfect. Apparently language and writing isn't the most important skill for a secret military assassin/escort/soldier/whatever-I-am to know. I just write how I think. Back to my story thing. I don’t like calling my life a story. My head feels too heavy right now to think of a better word.
-----
I kind of lost track of time, but I’m pretty sure it was when I was 26 that Commander Hoth told me about a mission that would end up changing a lot for me. I had just got back from the run I was told to go on when she came up to me with a folder in hand. She looked angry. I stood at attention because I was supposed to. She slapped me. I didn’t do anything back. “December 16, two years ago during your assassination of Commander Vlomidr. You were seen. By an agent you were supposed to kill. No witnesses, remember?”
I didn’t say anything. Of course I remembered that mission. I remembered every one. She continued, her voice sharp as shattered glass without waiting for a response. “Your equivalent has been created by the enemy. He terrorises the base at Herron, massacring soldiers and researchers alike, and always disappearing without a trace.” Her voice is almost begrudgingly impressed at the spectral soldier’s abilities, and displeased that I couldn't make myself kill with the same ferocity.
She hands me the folder. “The base has been emptied for the time being, but it is a critical center in weapons development; the front lines have been suffering without their support. The base needs to be operational again. Take him out.”
I nod to make Hoth go away but frown at the folder once her back is turned. I don’t like killing. Have I made that clear yet? I get told that those I have killed were necessary deaths but I. Hate. It. They haunt my mind, flashing behind my eyes every time I sleep or even blink. I’m never going to forget any of it even when I’m 97 with dementia and can’t remember how to breathe without help. I’m not going to like this mission.
I’m gonna go. This letter was kind of short, but I need to go buy some plums. Yes, what you think is happening is actually happening: I am putting off getting to the point.
Deal with it,
Mattias
Mattias
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
May 5, 2149
Dear Omnipotent One,
I thought that was a pretty good name for you, cause I imagine I’m not the only person who writes to you, and I bet a lot of people spill the secrets of their hearts in their letters. And when you know a person’s secrets, you know not just their mind, but who they really are as a person. Because everything someone says tells you something different about them, and with secrets, one questions things like why it was important for that secret to be kept, what benefit did they personally see in keeping that secret, what their reasoning was, what that tells you about their values, and so on. I’m kind of rambling right now. Sorry. My point is that the secrets you keep for the world make you omnipotent over its people.
I don’t tell you all my secrets, but I tell you how the Republic’s secrets affected me. And I guess it’s no secret that I’ve done a lot of horrible things and killed a lot of people and that I should have stopped before I’d ever started. Have I mentioned that I hate myself for it? Actually I think this might be the third time I’ve done so. Now I hate myself for boring you. I sincerely apologise. You probably want to read what happened next so I will tell you what you want to hear.
-----
The main building of the base at Herron looked as though it was once a beautiful cathedral. The stone looked original, the doorways made of very precisely crafted wood, and the paintings on the ceiling only slightly duller than what they must have been. The whole place was deserted. The ornamental carpet beneath my feet was stained with blood.
I met with a group of engineers and soldiers normally stationed at the base at a nearby hangar. They told me that the wraith trooper only comes at night when the base is occupied. When evening came, I told them to turn on the power in all buildings of the base and to barricade themselves in the cathedral. I climbed to the lower roof of the cathedral and hunkered down to wait behind a spire. I am very good at waiting. It is a good thing too, since he appeared 6 hours later at 1:07am.
I didn’t see him at first. Just heard him. I looked up the roof. He sat crouched on the highest point, next to the main spire looking down at me (or so I assumed as he, too, was wearing a very not-revealing mask).
He didn’t speak. I didn’t move. Very slowly, he reached into his vest. One of the giant spotlights on the base flashed by the roof as he did and I saw a glint of silver. The light spun away. A small knife whirled through the air towards my chest. I caught it lightly between two fingers.
The soldier seemed to take my action as a sign of some kind. He disappeared down the other side of the roof. Following him nimbly, I crested the peak of the roof in time to see him slide into a hole surrounded by torn and broken shingles. He was going after the people barricaded inside.
I entered his hole and landed silently on the cathedral floor, the carpet softening and absorbing the sound. Running after him, he kicked down the door behind which those stationed at the base had hidden, giving me just enough time to catch up.
I hit him from behind and he whirled to face me, knocking me back against one of the remaining pews in the cathedral. As he advanced, I–
Okay. I really don’t want to relive every second of this fight. I remember it all, unfortunately. But the summary would be that he killed one of the engineers and the rest fled, I gave him a half-nelson and broke his left arm cause I wanted him to retreat so I wouldn't have to kill him, it didn’t work, he slashed my right thigh really deep and I stained the carpet some more and found it ironic, he stole a gun one of the soldiers had left and I pulled out my own, he shot and I dodged, I shot and hit him in the right side of his chest.
He fell, his grip loosening on the gun. I dropped my gun and went to him. His breathing was laborious, but he still tried to get up. I pushed him back down and cradled his head, pulling his mask off with the other hand. And his life was beautiful. He stopped fighting my hand and looked at me. Looked through me. I removed my own mask.
His face held hatred, a desire to keep fighting, his dark eyes fiery and logical, but also the knowledge that he couldn't fight anymore. I wouldn’t have fought back if he did. I could not see my own face, but I know it’s very expressive. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched my counterpart die before my eyes from my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, a tear falling onto his cheek. I pressed a hand to his bleeding chest and he grimaced, but the fire in his eyes began to slow and smoulder instead of burn.
I repeated my apology three more times as his breathing grew slower and shallower, as more of my tears hit the carpet and his face, as he continued to stare at me with an unreadable expression.
In that moment as he died, by someone whose name I did not know, someone whose pain I was responsible for, I felt more seen and understood than I have ever felt in my life. I don’t even know what he saw or understood, just that he did.
And he died, his all-seeing eyes going blank and unblinking, their fire turned to smoke.
My body let loose a sob, my chest heaving and I touched my forehead to his.
I destroyed a beautiful life.
I killed him. I killed him. I killed him…
And I saw myself in him, because we are the same.
And I died when he did.
My hollow half-life belongs in whatever hell awaits my body after it dies.
My body, the only life my being now holds.
Physical, tangible, meaningless
-----
I took his dog tags with me. I won’t tell you his name.
Dear Omnipotent One,
I thought that was a pretty good name for you, cause I imagine I’m not the only person who writes to you, and I bet a lot of people spill the secrets of their hearts in their letters. And when you know a person’s secrets, you know not just their mind, but who they really are as a person. Because everything someone says tells you something different about them, and with secrets, one questions things like why it was important for that secret to be kept, what benefit did they personally see in keeping that secret, what their reasoning was, what that tells you about their values, and so on. I’m kind of rambling right now. Sorry. My point is that the secrets you keep for the world make you omnipotent over its people.
I don’t tell you all my secrets, but I tell you how the Republic’s secrets affected me. And I guess it’s no secret that I’ve done a lot of horrible things and killed a lot of people and that I should have stopped before I’d ever started. Have I mentioned that I hate myself for it? Actually I think this might be the third time I’ve done so. Now I hate myself for boring you. I sincerely apologise. You probably want to read what happened next so I will tell you what you want to hear.
-----
The main building of the base at Herron looked as though it was once a beautiful cathedral. The stone looked original, the doorways made of very precisely crafted wood, and the paintings on the ceiling only slightly duller than what they must have been. The whole place was deserted. The ornamental carpet beneath my feet was stained with blood.
I met with a group of engineers and soldiers normally stationed at the base at a nearby hangar. They told me that the wraith trooper only comes at night when the base is occupied. When evening came, I told them to turn on the power in all buildings of the base and to barricade themselves in the cathedral. I climbed to the lower roof of the cathedral and hunkered down to wait behind a spire. I am very good at waiting. It is a good thing too, since he appeared 6 hours later at 1:07am.
I didn’t see him at first. Just heard him. I looked up the roof. He sat crouched on the highest point, next to the main spire looking down at me (or so I assumed as he, too, was wearing a very not-revealing mask).
He didn’t speak. I didn’t move. Very slowly, he reached into his vest. One of the giant spotlights on the base flashed by the roof as he did and I saw a glint of silver. The light spun away. A small knife whirled through the air towards my chest. I caught it lightly between two fingers.
The soldier seemed to take my action as a sign of some kind. He disappeared down the other side of the roof. Following him nimbly, I crested the peak of the roof in time to see him slide into a hole surrounded by torn and broken shingles. He was going after the people barricaded inside.
I entered his hole and landed silently on the cathedral floor, the carpet softening and absorbing the sound. Running after him, he kicked down the door behind which those stationed at the base had hidden, giving me just enough time to catch up.
I hit him from behind and he whirled to face me, knocking me back against one of the remaining pews in the cathedral. As he advanced, I–
Okay. I really don’t want to relive every second of this fight. I remember it all, unfortunately. But the summary would be that he killed one of the engineers and the rest fled, I gave him a half-nelson and broke his left arm cause I wanted him to retreat so I wouldn't have to kill him, it didn’t work, he slashed my right thigh really deep and I stained the carpet some more and found it ironic, he stole a gun one of the soldiers had left and I pulled out my own, he shot and I dodged, I shot and hit him in the right side of his chest.
He fell, his grip loosening on the gun. I dropped my gun and went to him. His breathing was laborious, but he still tried to get up. I pushed him back down and cradled his head, pulling his mask off with the other hand. And his life was beautiful. He stopped fighting my hand and looked at me. Looked through me. I removed my own mask.
His face held hatred, a desire to keep fighting, his dark eyes fiery and logical, but also the knowledge that he couldn't fight anymore. I wouldn’t have fought back if he did. I could not see my own face, but I know it’s very expressive. I felt tears in my eyes as I watched my counterpart die before my eyes from my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, a tear falling onto his cheek. I pressed a hand to his bleeding chest and he grimaced, but the fire in his eyes began to slow and smoulder instead of burn.
I repeated my apology three more times as his breathing grew slower and shallower, as more of my tears hit the carpet and his face, as he continued to stare at me with an unreadable expression.
In that moment as he died, by someone whose name I did not know, someone whose pain I was responsible for, I felt more seen and understood than I have ever felt in my life. I don’t even know what he saw or understood, just that he did.
And he died, his all-seeing eyes going blank and unblinking, their fire turned to smoke.
My body let loose a sob, my chest heaving and I touched my forehead to his.
I destroyed a beautiful life.
I killed him. I killed him. I killed him…
And I saw myself in him, because we are the same.
And I died when he did.
My hollow half-life belongs in whatever hell awaits my body after it dies.
My body, the only life my being now holds.
Physical, tangible, meaningless
-----
I took his dog tags with me. I won’t tell you his name.
Bye.
Mattias
Mattias
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
May 28, 2149
Dear Keeper,
I’ve decided that that’s a better pseudonym for you and a little less conceited (even though I’m the one who gave it to you) than Omnipotent One. You read letters and keep their secrets. I like the thought of you having a little library of letters.
Anyway, I really needed a break from thinking after that last letter. After I sent it I kinda spiraled. It was bad. I cried a lot and looked at those dog tags and cried some more.
I didn’t want to write again. I didn’t want to relive the rest, cause that last letter did awful things to me. I had almost accomplished being able to will myself to forget all that and now I’m back at square one. But I think I’ve said it before: I hate leaving things unfinished. Pretty sure this is placebo, but after writing that last letter, the scar on my thigh from his knife started its stabbing pain again. Gracious, this is going to be horrible. (Not just the very very overwhelming thoughts, but I don’t think you can realise just how many times I’ve gotten hurt and how many scars I have.) I hate every bit of ink I write from now on. I’m doing it for you. And for Deborah. I don’t wanna do it for myself.
-----
In the months after everything discussed in my last letter, Hoth said the enemy’s attacks on the front lines had slowed (strange, I never heard who the enemy actually was. Made me wonder who really did know). Hoth had seemed really proud of me after I had returned, but I was doing a great job of pretending to be neutral about all of it. She seemed to take it as a sign that I was past my anti-killing ideas which was not what I had meant by the faked neutrality at all.
She sent me on more assassinations after that. I guess even though the front line attacks had slowed, espionage warfare was still as heavy as ever. I never broke down as much after those compared to His, but I was still very mentally wrecked afterwards. I tried to fight Hoth on it, but she was having none of it, and the more I fought against it, the more people there were who apparently needed to be killed. So I shut up about that.
Maybe five months after I killed Him, I started noticing Hoth convene fairly often in whispers with other agents and leaders and other important people on the base. From what I gathered, I guess Furess Army Base wasn’t reporting its activities as often or correctly as it should, and as a result, Hoth might end up in trouble with some higher ups even higher than Hoth.
One day, I was ordered to get in my mission uniform but informed that I would not be receiving an assignment. When I went to the base entrance 20 minutes later like I was told to do, Hoth and some more important guys were standing there very professionally, greeting a man whose insignia and medals marked him as an admiral.
As I approached, Hoth smiled and gestured to me. “Admiral Dorragh, this is Lieutenant Pavlis, our highly specialised special ops agent, and our only successful one.”
I didn’t offer to shake hands with Admiral Dorragh. He did not seem offended, simply inclining his head. “Ah, I've heard a lot about the program. No failed escorts and nine successful enemy assassinations, yes?”
Nine? I had completed way more than nine kills for Hoth. But the commander simply smiled proudly and nodded. Their talk moved on to the admiral’s displeasure in relation to the missing activity reports of the base and I was later sent away.
I couldn't shake Dorragh’s inconsistent comment. Why would Hoth agree? I had been sent on 19 missions with the assignment to kill. I was still stewing on this later in the evening when Hoth approached me, pulling pins out of her especially nice bun, sighing with annoyance and muttering stuff like ‘never should have let them meet’ and ‘just be easier to get rid of him’ and ‘need to find another way’. I don’t think she knew I could hear her. She silenced her spoken thoughts when she stood in front of me.
She smiled. I didn’t like that smile. I never like it when she smiles. It means she wants me to do something. An odd gleam comes to her eyes whenever she does, as if she knows what she’s about to say will hurt my heart.
“Victor Kominski,” she says with a nod. “A known enemy geneticist who was recently found to have been experimenting with advanced and development of DNA for the purpose of accelerated growth and superior physical capabilities. He has moved on to human test subjects. His research is highly volatile, but very effective, and in the wrong hands, extremely dangerous. Admiral Dorragh has identified him as a major threat. He must be killed before he shares successful results with the enemy.”
She said all that very quickly and handed me a file. I barely had time to process what she was saying until she started walking away. “What will happen to the test subjects?” I asked, suddenly desperate to know.
Hoth paused before turning around. “It is not your job to wonder about that,” she says calmly, but there is a harsh undertone. “The test subjects will be taken care of after you finish.”
After I finish. I watch Hoth’s retreating back. I can’t stop thinking about the nature of this mission. Human test subjects. Their only caretaker is a danger. ‘Taken care of’ to Hoth probably doesn't mean what I want it to. I don't pity Kominski. What he has been doing is awful in all possible respects. But that doesn’t mean I want to kill him.
The file Hoth had given me has pictures and they are horrible. I almost revise my earlier thought when I see them, thinking just for a moment that Victor Kominski deserves to die. Then I hate myself for thinking that and then I hate that I’m supposed to be the one to kill him. The folder wrinkles in my fist. I leave tomorrow.
-----
Okay that’s all I wanna write today. I bet you’re invested in the story by now and that’s honestly kind of awful of you cause this really happened and it was all quite horrible, really. Stop it. Stop being invested.
Dear Keeper,
I’ve decided that that’s a better pseudonym for you and a little less conceited (even though I’m the one who gave it to you) than Omnipotent One. You read letters and keep their secrets. I like the thought of you having a little library of letters.
Anyway, I really needed a break from thinking after that last letter. After I sent it I kinda spiraled. It was bad. I cried a lot and looked at those dog tags and cried some more.
I didn’t want to write again. I didn’t want to relive the rest, cause that last letter did awful things to me. I had almost accomplished being able to will myself to forget all that and now I’m back at square one. But I think I’ve said it before: I hate leaving things unfinished. Pretty sure this is placebo, but after writing that last letter, the scar on my thigh from his knife started its stabbing pain again. Gracious, this is going to be horrible. (Not just the very very overwhelming thoughts, but I don’t think you can realise just how many times I’ve gotten hurt and how many scars I have.) I hate every bit of ink I write from now on. I’m doing it for you. And for Deborah. I don’t wanna do it for myself.
-----
In the months after everything discussed in my last letter, Hoth said the enemy’s attacks on the front lines had slowed (strange, I never heard who the enemy actually was. Made me wonder who really did know). Hoth had seemed really proud of me after I had returned, but I was doing a great job of pretending to be neutral about all of it. She seemed to take it as a sign that I was past my anti-killing ideas which was not what I had meant by the faked neutrality at all.
She sent me on more assassinations after that. I guess even though the front line attacks had slowed, espionage warfare was still as heavy as ever. I never broke down as much after those compared to His, but I was still very mentally wrecked afterwards. I tried to fight Hoth on it, but she was having none of it, and the more I fought against it, the more people there were who apparently needed to be killed. So I shut up about that.
Maybe five months after I killed Him, I started noticing Hoth convene fairly often in whispers with other agents and leaders and other important people on the base. From what I gathered, I guess Furess Army Base wasn’t reporting its activities as often or correctly as it should, and as a result, Hoth might end up in trouble with some higher ups even higher than Hoth.
One day, I was ordered to get in my mission uniform but informed that I would not be receiving an assignment. When I went to the base entrance 20 minutes later like I was told to do, Hoth and some more important guys were standing there very professionally, greeting a man whose insignia and medals marked him as an admiral.
As I approached, Hoth smiled and gestured to me. “Admiral Dorragh, this is Lieutenant Pavlis, our highly specialised special ops agent, and our only successful one.”
I didn’t offer to shake hands with Admiral Dorragh. He did not seem offended, simply inclining his head. “Ah, I've heard a lot about the program. No failed escorts and nine successful enemy assassinations, yes?”
Nine? I had completed way more than nine kills for Hoth. But the commander simply smiled proudly and nodded. Their talk moved on to the admiral’s displeasure in relation to the missing activity reports of the base and I was later sent away.
I couldn't shake Dorragh’s inconsistent comment. Why would Hoth agree? I had been sent on 19 missions with the assignment to kill. I was still stewing on this later in the evening when Hoth approached me, pulling pins out of her especially nice bun, sighing with annoyance and muttering stuff like ‘never should have let them meet’ and ‘just be easier to get rid of him’ and ‘need to find another way’. I don’t think she knew I could hear her. She silenced her spoken thoughts when she stood in front of me.
She smiled. I didn’t like that smile. I never like it when she smiles. It means she wants me to do something. An odd gleam comes to her eyes whenever she does, as if she knows what she’s about to say will hurt my heart.
“Victor Kominski,” she says with a nod. “A known enemy geneticist who was recently found to have been experimenting with advanced and development of DNA for the purpose of accelerated growth and superior physical capabilities. He has moved on to human test subjects. His research is highly volatile, but very effective, and in the wrong hands, extremely dangerous. Admiral Dorragh has identified him as a major threat. He must be killed before he shares successful results with the enemy.”
She said all that very quickly and handed me a file. I barely had time to process what she was saying until she started walking away. “What will happen to the test subjects?” I asked, suddenly desperate to know.
Hoth paused before turning around. “It is not your job to wonder about that,” she says calmly, but there is a harsh undertone. “The test subjects will be taken care of after you finish.”
After I finish. I watch Hoth’s retreating back. I can’t stop thinking about the nature of this mission. Human test subjects. Their only caretaker is a danger. ‘Taken care of’ to Hoth probably doesn't mean what I want it to. I don't pity Kominski. What he has been doing is awful in all possible respects. But that doesn’t mean I want to kill him.
The file Hoth had given me has pictures and they are horrible. I almost revise my earlier thought when I see them, thinking just for a moment that Victor Kominski deserves to die. Then I hate myself for thinking that and then I hate that I’m supposed to be the one to kill him. The folder wrinkles in my fist. I leave tomorrow.
-----
Okay that’s all I wanna write today. I bet you’re invested in the story by now and that’s honestly kind of awful of you cause this really happened and it was all quite horrible, really. Stop it. Stop being invested.
Almost disgusted,
Mattias
Mattias
Last edited by Paris Soliel on 1 Jan 2026, 04:33, edited 2 times in total.
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien
My therapist told me to write this
TO BE CONTINUED
i now have to write the battle with grendels mother for anyone who may be following the story
next post will be triggery. i will put a warning in the title post before sending it
update: i am really super struggling to get this right. *longsuffering sigh*
i now have to write the battle with grendels mother for anyone who may be following the story
next post will be triggery. i will put a warning in the title post before sending it
update: i am really super struggling to get this right. *longsuffering sigh*
It simply isn’t an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.
-JRR Tolkien