Nyctophobia (One-shot)

[JX Valentine]

Author's Note: A one-shot response-to-a-prompt fic in which the prompt is in the fanfiction. (It's actually the first sentence, in case you're wondering.) I know I should be doing something relatively more productive than this (including writing the next chapter to Midsummer Knights or something), but I couldn't shake this idea last night.

My only qualm is that I get the feeling that I made the actual problem here a bit too vague, although I'm leaving it up to you lot to see if you can figure out what's really going on.

Happy October.

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The sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell. For a long while, my eyes watch the last rays dip below the horizon to make way for the velvet darkness. When at last it's gone, I look towards the zenith to locate a star.

I see none.

Numbly, I realize my beacon is dark; I hadn't turned it on. Yet at the same time, I know it really never mattered. No ship ever came this far north. It's very rare to have anyone come this far north.

I'm completely alone.

Well, that's not entirely true. I have my Pokémon – the Eevee in particular.

But her ball is…

Oh yes. That's right.

I turn away from the sea and begin to descend the staircase. The metal banister feels like ice against my skin, and I can barely see the next step down. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what would become of me if I fell. How long it would take anyone to notice that I was gone. How long my body would lie broken and twisted on the cold earth before someone would finally find me.

Ironically, I trip over one of the last few stairs. I feel myself pitch forward, and in the momentary eternity that passes before I hit the ground, my mind flicks through a list of possible last words. Yet instead of the eloquent aphorisms that instantly sprout in my head, nothing but a startled cry escapes my throat just before my shoulder slams into the ground. I hiss as the dull pain radiates from my side and the realization that I am indeed alive settles into my brain.

As I pick myself up, I curse myself for my own stupidity. Yet at the same time, it serves as a reminder – the bitter reminder that I, too, make mistakes. I make them all the time, yet though I acknowledge that, my pride tries desperately to deny it. How could I allow myself to err? I, the prodigy from Goldenrod City. The child with a gift, or so they would say. Geniuses do not make mistakes. They bask in the glory of a golden mind: eternally the philosopher-hero of ancient Greece, the German master of quantum physics, the English lord of the Elizabethan stage.

And I, compared to them, am the genius who has just fallen down his own set of stairs. The inventor who locked himself in more things than he cares to count or describe.

Ah, pride. Hubris. What wonders it does to the self-image.

I don't wish to be judged. I would rather not think of myself as this bitter all of the time. Yet tonight – there is something in the darkness tonight that disturbs me. For the moment, I cannot entirely place what it is until long after I open the doors to my cottage. It does not come to me after, either, nor do I think of it as I wander through the foyer and to the hall leading to the living quarters.

Actually, the hall is exactly where I first begin to take notice.

I stand in the middle of the hall. The sight in front of me is not perfect darkness. I can detect the outlines of the doors and the walls, though I describe the darkness as perfect black.

Emptiness.

I can't entirely explain why that single word appeared in my head just now, but it's there, burning in my mind the way the blackness is.

Yet I don't feel warmth. I feel coldness. It's a cold so deep and so thick that I can feel it flood my body with each breath I take. My organs become wrapped in ice. My heart pumps liquid nitrogen.

I stay perfectly still. Moments pass into long, dark ribbons of time streaming down the hallway. I wonder if I'm still breathing.

It turns out I'm not.

I exhale a gasp, but I'm reluctant to inhale again. Even when I breathe for the necessity of it, I inhale the cold.

Perhaps I'm swallowing the darkness.

I'm not afraid of the dark. I never was. Perhaps that is simply because my profession – my obsession – demands that I study it. It is my duty to dismantle it, to analyze the pieces on a molecular level, and to attempt to reassemble it when the enigma is raped into oblivion. I can't be afraid of the things that, as they say, go bump in the night. It's my job to study them.

It's extraordinarily difficult to scare a Pokémon researcher with a monster. We tend to be thrilled at the idea of just approaching it like a household pet.

I realize suddenly that though my mind is the one insisting these things, it's only doing it to convince the rest of itself. The darkness is still there – large, expansive, and ready to swallow me.

A wave of vertigo suddenly washes over me, but I miraculously remain still. I listen closely to the sounds of the hallway around me. Yet there are no sounds. There shouldn't be.

Then, slowly, I hear the first sound. It comes slow and steady. A rhythmic beat that echoes in my ears.

It takes a few moments to realize that the beat is my own heart against my ribs.

For the first time, I move. My hand rises to place itself over my chest.

I can no longer consciously move. My body seems to be moving on its own, yet I put up no resistance. It seems to know more than I do.

For example, I feel something. My skin alerts me to a presence somewhere behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, and my muscles tense. I liken myself to a small Rattata who knows all too well that a Persian hides somewhere nearby but can only see grass. For a moment, this analogy soothes me, but the nagging feeling of something there still refuses to disperse.

I know something is there. I don't turn my head. I have the strangest feeling that as soon as I do – as soon as I look over my shoulder – there the thing will be, yellow eyes like burning sulfur, long claws digging into the carpeting, and every muscle tensed as it prepares to pounce. I can practically feel its hot breath, and the image of its teeth on my throat flash through my mind.

Blood. Blood everywhere. I can imagine it clearly.

I gasp for breath now. The cold still stabs my lungs, but I need air.

I can feel myself sweat. I can feel each drop pushing through my skin and escaping my body.

They have several words for the fear of darkness. Lygophobia. Scotophobia. Achluophobia. Myctophobia. Nyctophobia.

Why am I thinking about this? I'm not afraid of the dark.

I'm not.

It's absolutely absurd for someone like me to be afraid of the darkness. I don't fear it. I cast light on it. I am the guardian of it. My job is to study it. To shine my light into it so others can see what's in it.

I can't be afraid of it. That is completely out of the question.

I close my eyes and let time pass. How long, I don't know. It could have been only a few seconds. Perhaps a few hours. Or perhaps days of endless darkness. Is that possible?

Anything is possible.

I open my eyes and take another breath. This time, I actually cough. The cold has seized my lungs, and I swear my toes are beginning to feel numb.

The thing is still behind me. I swear it is.

Gathering my courage, I turn around swiftly. Even if I die, at least I did it doing my job.

There is nothing but darkness behind me.

I'm alone.

This can't be right. I'm never wrong. I can't be wrong.

I'm alone.

I can't be scared. A scientist cannot be afraid of such childish things.

I'm not a child.

I'm a researcher. A lighthouse keeper. One who stares at the things in the darkness without fear because it is my duty.

I'm alone.

So very alone.

And I'm scared.

 

[Vitality]

My only qualm is that I get the feeling that I made the actual problem here a bit too vague, although I'm leaving it up to you lot to see if you can figure out what's really going on.

I think I might have figured it out...Bill thinks that he is supposed to operate alone, or doesn't need anybody else to be there. But then he realizes that he really is completely alone, separate from the rest of the world, and that this isn't such a good thing. Being so alone, he can't make mistakes, or that's that he expects of himself, anyway. As for the beast behind him...you left it ambiguous, but I took it to be the fear of himself.

Anyway, this was a truly haunting read that was powerfully written. Thanks for posting.