Zahhāk blinked twice, unsure if he was still dreaming. A shape lingered across the stream, and in the darkness, over the gentle trickling of the water, he could see a small cloud of breath appear and then disappear as quickly as it had come. He watched for what seemed like months, years, evaluating his threadbare grasp on reality. If he acknowledged what he saw—what he believed he saw—and there was no response but the continued rushing of the cold water, that would serve as proof of his delusions.
Fuck it. If this was all in his head, what else was left for him to lose?
“I see you,” he stated plainly to the cold, midnight air, watching for any change in the pattern of the cadenced breaths. He was such a liar. He saw nothing, knew nothing and was nothing. This was why he dreamed of ghosts—he was haunted by his complete and utter lack of identity. He buried his past deeper than the bones of his ancestors and instead of honoring their legacy, he turned them to dust with his inaction.
“I am Zahhāk,” he spoke again, tossing his name out into the night as the last and only bastion of his self. It was so odd to hear it stated out loud. A meaningless label, given to him by someone else, full of untapped potential. Taking another deep breath, he exhaled his own cloud of hot air, once more trying to prove this time and place was true and real.
If something didn’t change, he would sure fade just as quickly as the night for the coming of dawn.
Zahhāk
There was madness in any direction, at any hour.
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