บท 1: CHAPTER 1 MIGRAINES
Murkweaver
noun | \ˈmərk-ˌwē-vər\
A sinister entity or being believed to weave or manipulate shadows, fog, or darkness, often associated with the creation of fear, confusion, or nightmares. A malevolent force that lurks in the unseen, threading through the unknown to bring about creeping terror, or A malevolent force that lurks in the unseen, threading through the unknown to bring about creeping terror.
The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.
- Albert Einstein
The room is dark, save for the thin sliver of moonlight that slips through the blinds, casting eerie patterns on the walls. My breath is shallow, each inhale and exhale sharp and jagged. The migraine starts as a dull pulse behind my eyes, but it doesn't take long for it to grow, swelling like a storm cloud about to burst. The pain is relentless, a vice tightening around my skull, squeezing out every coherent thought until all that remains is a raw, gnawing ache.
I've been here before, countless times. These four walls know my suffering too well. The memories flood back with the pain—flashes of war-torn streets, the twisted wreckage of lives reduced to rubble, the hollow eyes of children who've seen too much. I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. The images are etched into my mind, burned there by the relentless clicking of my camera shutter. They play out like a broken film reel, each frame more vivid than the last.
My name is Heather Delaney. I've been a photojournalist for the past ten years, though it feels like a lifetime. People imagine it's a glamorous job—capturing the world through a lens, traveling to exotic places. They don't see the truth: the dirt under my nails, the smell of death that clings to my clothes, the nightmares that invade my sleep.
It wasn't always like this. Once, I believed in the power of my work, believed that my photos could change the world, or at least make people care. But now, I'm not so sure. The horrors I've witnessed have left scars, deep and invisible, reshaping me in ways I can barely understand. My therapist says it's PTSD, a common affliction among those who've seen what I've seen. But these migraines—they're something else, something that defies diagnosis.
I press the heels of my palms against my temples, trying to blot out the images that come with the pain. But it's no use. The memories surge forward, dragging me back to those places, those moments when life and death were separated by the thinnest of lines. I can still hear the gunfire echoing through the streets, the screams slicing through the air like glass. I'm not in my bed anymore; I'm there, in the midst of it all, reliving it as if it's happening now.
It's been years since I first ventured into those war zones, thrust into the heart of conflicts where humanity's worst instincts reign. I was sent to document it all—the atrocities, the suffering, the unspeakable acts humans inflict on one another. My camera was supposed to be my shield, a barrier between me and the horror. But it never was. Instead, it was a trap, a device that captured not just images but also the trauma that came with them.
The worst part is that the world moved on. The photos that won awards and made front-page news? They were forgotten as soon as the next crisis came along. But I can't move on. The images are still with me, replaying in my mind like a looped video I can't turn off. They haunt my dreams, turning them into nightmares that leave me drenched in cold sweat.
My therapist tells me time will heal these wounds, that the past will eventually fade. But time has done nothing to dull the edges of my pain. If anything, it sharpens them. The flashbacks are as vivid as ever, the terror as fresh. The migraines—they're my body's cruel reminder that I'm never truly free.
There's a bottle of pills on the nightstand, the one thing that offers any semblance of relief. But even as I reach for it, my hand trembles with hesitation. These pills—they're supposed to help, to dull the pain, but there's something about them that doesn't sit right. I don't remember when I started taking them or who prescribed them. I only know that when the pain becomes too much to bear, I have no choice.
I fumble with the cap, finally managing to unscrew it. I swallow the pills dry, feeling them scrape down my throat. For a moment, I close my eyes and imagine a place where the pain doesn't reach me, where the memories don't haunt my every waking moment. I picture a vast desert, the sun setting in a blaze of oranges and reds, casting everything in a warm, golden light. But even in this imagined haven, the darkness is always there, creeping in at the edges, whispering secrets I'm not ready to hear.
I open my eyes again. The room is quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. But in the silence, I can still hear the echoes of my past—the ghosts of the lives I've witnessed, the horrors I've captured. They're always with me, a part of me, and I know they always will be.
The migraines—they're just one symptom of something deeper, something that goes beyond trauma. It's as if my mind is unraveling, the threads of reality fraying at the edges. I'm not sure what's real anymore—these memories, these nightmares. Sometimes, it feels like I'm still out there, in those places, living those moments over and over again. And the pills—they only blur the line further, making everything hazy, uncertain.
I close my eyes again, but this time, I don't imagine a desert. I imagine nothing, a void, where I can lose myself, where the pain, the memories, the doubts—all of it—disappears. But even in that void, there's something lurking, something I can't quite see but can feel, like a shadow at the edge of my vision. It's there, waiting, just like the migraines, always ready to pull me back into the darkness.
I press the heels of my palms against my temples, trying to block out the images that flood my mind. But it's no use. The migraines always bring them back, those memories I've tried so hard to bury. Gunfire echoing through war-torn streets, the acrid smell of smoke, the screams that sliced through the air like shards of glass. In these moments, I'm no longer in my bed—I'm back in those places, reliving it all over again.
It's been years since I first ventured into war zones, thrust into the heart of conflicts where humanity's worst instincts come to the fore. I was sent to capture it all—to document the atrocities, the suffering, the unspeakable acts that humans can inflict on one another. I've seen the aftermath of bombings, the shattered remains of homes that once pulsed with life, and the broken bodies of children who had no part in the wars waged around them.
My job was to make the world see what I had seen, to force people to care about distant horrors that played out far from their comfortable lives. But no one warned me that those images would never leave me. They're etched into my mind with a clarity that defies time, haunting my dreams and turning them into nightmares that leave me drenched in cold sweat.
I've witnessed the depths of human cruelty—the savagery that lurks in the heart of civilization. And those experiences have changed me, carving out pieces of my soul that I can never get back. The migraines are just one way my body reminds me of that. They're the physical manifestation of the trauma I carry, always waiting to drag me back into the darkness.
My therapist told me that time would heal these wounds, that the past would eventually fade. But time has done little to dull the edges of my pain. The flashbacks are still as vivid as ever, the terror as fresh. The migraines—they're my body's cruel reminder that I'm never truly free.
I roll onto my side, curling into a ball as tears spill over my lashes. I've tried everything to escape this, to find some semblance of peace. But every step I take is shadowed by the knowledge that it could all come crashing down in an instant.
It's not just the war zones that haunt me. Crime scenes, too—the aftermath of murders, the faces of the dead staring up at me from the cold ground. I've stood over bodies, camera in hand, capturing the final moments of lives cut short by violence. The lens of my camera was supposed to be a barrier, but it never was. The images I've captured are all still with me, replaying endlessly in my mind.
I reach for the bottle of pills on the nightstand, my hands trembling as I fumble with the cap. The medication will dull the pain, at least for a while. But I know it's only a temporary fix, a band-aid on a wound that refuses to heal.
As I swallow the pills, I close my eyes and try to imagine a place where the pain doesn't reach me, where the memories don't haunt my every waking moment. I picture an open expanse of desert, the sun setting over the horizon in a blaze of oranges and reds, casting the world in a warm, golden glow. But even in that imagined place, the darkness creeps in at the edges, whispering memories that wait for their moment to overwhelm me once again.
I open my eyes, the pain still throbbing behind them, the weight of my memories pressing down on me. I'm trapped in a cycle of pain and fear, my days dictated by the unpredictable rhythm of my migraines and the breakdowns that often follow. My past is a shadow, forever looming over me, ready to pull me back into the darkness.
The room is quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. But in the silence, I can hear the echoes of my past—the ghosts of the lives I've witnessed, the horrors I've captured with my camera. They're always with me, a part of me, and I know they always will be.
I close my eyes again, willing the pain to fade, but it's relentless, as unyielding as the memories that haunt me. I'm a prisoner of my own mind, trapped in the darkness of my past, and there's no escape.
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