As he slipped into a state of unconsciousness, Keith found himself in a familiar place—a decrepit hallway walked by a lone figure was an 18-year-old Keith. His face was dire and grim with sadness. He proceeded to enter a hospital bedroom; the beeping of a machine was heard like a heartbeat. Antiseptic was the theme, and the hallways were thick with it. It was a little bitter with an undertone of the artificial fragrance of soaps and shampoo.

  Bursting at his face, the smell of antiseptic was immense in the room, but he focused on his grandmother. The room was dominated by the frail figure of his grandmother, lying on a hospital bed. Her slow, shallow breaths reached his ears as he sat down beside her. "Morning, Gran," he greeted her, his voice cracking with emotion. Like a dam had cracked, bursting out unstopping.

  “I brought some new clothes for you this week. I may even be able to afford a better room for you……”

  He kept talking, even when he stuttered and hiccupped despite tears streaming down his face and snot flowing to his shirt. The beeping was heard like a symphony. Gaping up the silence that pervaded every sentence.

  “……you know it’s hard without mom and dad, after that fateful night.” he confessed, rubbing his red eyes with his glove wearing arms, till he felt he got pulled. He placed down his arm, hurriedly putting up a facade of glee.

  “You’re awake, gran.” His shaky voice was masked with composure.

  “I’m……always……awake.” There was profound weariness in her voice as she gazed at his arms.

  He looked down. Then up and back down. He couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Why……cover?” His grandmother referred to his glove covered hands and the hood sleeve that went shoulder to wrist.

  “I work as a magician.” Pulling a deck of cards out of his sleeve, he starts initiating a series a tricks and as he was to change the subject.

  “Hand.” she commanded, in a single word, Keith froze. Placing the deck on the table, he took a moment, tuning out the beeping machinery, sipping some water to calculate, he surveyed his surroundings, digging for anything inspiring, searching for a story, churning and thinking, refining and framing, resolving to speak out, glib tongue in his speech, he was ready, schooling his expression into innocents, he spun a fanciful story.

  “How about next time, I don’t have much time left.” He started his story, pointing at the clock, it was indicating late afternoon. He wasn’t very smart to say the least.

  “Keith.” his grandmother uttered, her voice carrying a weight of urgency.

  He sighed and complied, his love and adoration for her breaking any resolve to lie. It would break his heart but looking at his arms. He felt shame.

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  “Wood……how?”

  Rolling up the sleeve and taking off the glove, Keith exposed the wooden texture. He paused for a bit and deliberated on his words, seeking time as his face scrunched up. Breathing in and out, his voice came out shaky but he tilted his face up and donned a face of resolution.

  "I dispose of trash—special kind, humankind. Throw them in a furnace and dispose of them for their……opposing views.” He explained in quickness, hoping she wouldn’t hear anything.

  “Met some merry men while roaming the alleys for some pumps.” He added in quick succession.

  “I wasn’t even qualified, no diploma or anything. Can’t even talk with a straight face. I get a small cut of the goods profit and a few pumps of it for myself. I n- never killed though, only burned.” His voice was strained by the weight of his confession.

  Grandma drew a blank expression. Revealing nothing to Keith than he had imagined but a more urgent question drew his attention.

  “Are you mad?”

  The bed slowly inclined forward while her legs slid out from under bed sheets. Touching her leg, she sucked in the frigid air.

  “Order.”

  Skin from her leg peeled off transforming into black ink as a rusted metal leg showed itself. The X symbol was etched all over it.

  “I……too……had……a……past.”

  Keith was bamboozled. 18 years of age in this family and still so many secrets yet to learn.

  “Hands” She pulled his wooden hands on to the overbed table. Revealing his palms with a single X etched on both. She sighed in relief, yet her face showed anger.

  “Eyes……close.” She softly commanded. He slowly closed them as he looked at his grandmother. Sadly, for his last time.

  Grandma Pov

  Through the eras and eons, great philosophers of all eras have tried deciphering, decoding, researching and expounding the world. About what were the concepts, in every being good or bad, dead or alive, there would be a concept that follows their chosen path.

  No set answer was given as no mortal dared claim superiority in intelligence nor wisdom. However, humans never gave in, choosing to defy the unknown and its vast expanse. Discovery was made and history recorded. The day humanity found out the only punishment the concepts gave, the fate that awaited everything, sacrifice.

  The same power that entailed transcending the assigned role of a miniscule speck of cosmic dust and aspiring to be something greater than all else, required sacrifice. Yet this punishment was readily accepted, power was everything, while sacrifice was just something.

  Flashing before my eyes, was tapestry of a lifetime. Going through tender to twilight, unending emotions, and a lifetime worth of experience. I now know what sacrifice I need to make. Humanity has recorded many sacrifices for power but one has struck my heart strings and terrifies me the most. The sacrifice of body and mind.

  Showing scenes of a youthful time, when blood rushed hot, passion glowing bright and chasing what feels right, when my legs were crippled by drugs. I sacrificed them in a bid of desperation for a strike at fortune, to regain my legs. Fate played me well, giving me the concept of calligraphy, blessing my hands with dexterity and leaving me for dead.

  A brush made of ink, layering on reality. As anger took my rhythm to rapid pace, drawing characters upon the space around me, communicating to the concepts around me, each stroke I made the buzzing air around me grew louder as lines I wrote blur with reality and clarity fails to discern between reality and memory.

  Memories of aged times showed, no longer as happy, as war had struck the city, took hostage by the enemy, a time of isolation and misery, nobody to care as I spent my time drawing calligraphy. Took my mind off all that was miserable as repetition took me years to the future. Knowing that I will live another day, gave me undying hope.

  The ink layered on wood, slowly from left to right, the stroke of my pen was concise filled by solemn hope in a future, long lived and happy times. As my ink ran dry, the sacrifice my rusted iron legs had exchanged for ran dry.

  The characters I wrote flicker and falter as I feel terrified at my current sacrifice. Emotions of love and family overwhelm me, when I had a miscarriage, pain gripped it’s hands on my body. Ink swirling to the thoughts of my mind, physically I lost my lover body, second ticks by as my upper body became ink to write.

  With ink on hand, a world blooms, like flower in summer. Vessel of emotion, refiner of thoughts, alchemist of ink. That is my concept, the concept of calligraphy.

  I am Echoed Glyphs, concept master of calligraphy.

  Effervescent ink floated around like bubbling scribbles of toxic black waste. Blessing the wooden hands, as they withered and regrew. Slowly the armless stump first sprouts new flesh and blood vessels from the wood. Gradually, bone structures form, followed by the emergence of fingers, skin, and fully reformed arms. With each step fulfilled the glyphs surrounding her burned and finally she was fully ink. As she floated as ink, her will has finally been burned. She splashed onto the bed like ink and died.