MORT ~ Series



Dzhimala said I couldn’t die. I was already dead a long time ago, and I had two lives tied together with two hearts beating in my chest. I didn’t understand it at that time. Now – I can. I killed him as I did many others before and after. My life was a ‘spur-of-the-moment madhouse’. My insanity increased with the power that I felt growing in me every day. I couldn’t cope with negative homicidal feelings. Death loved me and kept me  Her service as I brought the new freshly-squeezed blood of my victims to Her. ​

Death and I were on pretty good terms at that time. I was Her devoted brother and She was my beloved sister. We help each other even now. I still feed Her, but now it is mostly ‘dark-in-between-travelers’, and She makes my pain sharp enough to keep me moving. We only had a misunderstanding once: I wanted to die and She didn’t want to accept that sacrifice. Later I realized how wise She was for not letting me disappear. I was born in an angry world, with jealous people and cruel rules for survival. I hated it and almost destroyed it. When I realized how much love I had locked in me there was just enough time to diminish the disastrous chain reaction that I’d started. Remorse squeezed both of my hearts and I wanted to go into internal darkness – Death forced me out of it so that I could repay the debt I owed to this world. ​

My memory is my most cruel torturer. I can control almost everything in and out of my body except for it. Memory and Death coerce me into fighting my way out of insanity. I remember the blinding red of innocent blood I caused to be shed and the bitter taste of betrayal, the intense smarting pain of loss and the disheartening feeling of loneliness. I lost my closest friends, and the reference of myself was gone with them as I knew who I was only by knowing the reasons I loved them. I lost touch with their presence and emerged in blaming anger. Trying to find its instigator and target I became the brutal madman.​

The reality I was born into is jealous and greedy. I can travel between existence-spheres but I am forced to come back all the time. The minutes spent in parallel Worlds used to be limited. It happened unconsciously at the beginning.  Later, I became more experienced. Now I control my time better and choose the place I go when I happen to enter the dark emptiness with multiple doors to different Worlds. My first attempts to exercise my power ruined a few, which is bad by itself if not for the fact that I created a couple of my own existences from my nightmares, and that was much worse. So, now the unfortunate travelers that don’t know how to navigate themselves in this black endless desolation may find themselves in one of my terrible creations. I need to deal with it. This reality seems to me what suffered most from my intrusion. It started with my mother. I loved her and that is why I harmed her just enough so she would abandon me. I never knew my father. My mom named me… but who cares what the name was. The record of it disappeared the time I burned the place we lived in, and she was in a semiconscious frenzy when they took me from her to reveal it. I made sure she wouldn’t remember me, at least she had a break till the day I’d force her to evoke the painful memories.

Mort is my name now.



I was killing my mother from the moment I was in her womb. I couldn’t coexist with kradom – the horrid drug of this world. She was getting stoned and the dose in the syringe was enough for two hours. This drug left her with no family and friends. It took everything from her and had driven her to the street to sell the only thing she had left to make enough money to put a needle in her vein. It gave her what she craved for at that time  nothingness, unfeeling emptiness. ​

That was it. The last dope. She was dying. This drug was the reason and the means to make her mind a desert and melt under that burning sun her decaying reasoning and abused body. Everything was buried under a thick layer of dry, warm, and fatal sand. ​

I remember her pain, being just a speck of life in her long-suffering body, I shared her agony. A drug dream sharply escalated to sickening trembling as stomach cramps were twisting her body. Violently clattering teeth threatened to crash into dust. It was worse than cold turkey if anything can be compared to the agony when the kradom stops. I could hear her moaning. It hunts me sometimes at night even now. I looked at her from outside (floating in a disembodied, incorporeal form above her). I needed to survive by all possible means and … save her, the person I loved, the one I’d chosen – and if it meant to die to give her a second chance, one more shot at this ugly life – I was ready to do that. She spent fifteen days in an intensive care unit struggling to bring herself back to consciousness. I instilled in her that desire to get out of the torturing claws of death. We both learned what the pain really was: multiple bones being broken at the same time, the crushing terrifying pain of your stomach being placed in a deepfreezer and held there till the very point you cannot feel it anymore and at that exact second the hot burning oil poured right on it, numerous explosions blowing up your brain and causing your nose, ears, and teeth to bleed. These groin-squeezing shrieks of pain are for sure part of the reason I was born with so much hatred towards this world. ​

I exchanged not just a much bigger than normal number of cells via the placenta with her, I shared part of my immorality. The tiny heart in me stopped beating, grew to the size of a fist and bifurcated, started to function in an abnormal way so that both of them didn’t need to pump blood throughout the body. A different power was supplying oxygen and nutrients to the organs – I fed on the emotions and energy of the people around me. Both of my hearts are like Siamese twins, they can live together or can be separated and function independently.  One controls effulgence-creation and the other causes distraction.

They make the biggest organ in my body and until I have both – I’m destined to battle for every inch of my long suffered soul and pray that if Death would decide to kill me again – She’ll take the cruel one.

From the time of conception my intelligence controlled all processes in my mother’s body: every breath she took, every thought she had, and every move she made. When she was told that I died I forced her to get up from the healing bed and in half-conscious delirium escape from the building.

Despite it, the time she spent in the Healing Center was enough for the Chroniclers to learn about my existence.

It was just a matter of time for THEM to find me.



I kept my conscience safely sealed in the Mad-House where I locked my mother. It was a reasonable way to choose the lesser of two evils.  The other choice was to kill her and I didn’t like it. First, I knowingly broke the rule and left the Meanhumane-Door open when I saved her life. So that I had one more way to escape in case my hobnobbing with Chroniclers would become intolerable. Second, to put her in that place of solitary confinement with strict rules and no access to any illegal drugs with free food and a clean bed was better than to leave her on the street and just let her torment her body and soul till neither were left. ​

The first innocent blood I spilled was her brother’s, Tranor. Her whole family rejected her but him. He gave her shelter when she came holding an infant in her hands. I was just a week old when the owner of her old apartment evicted her for nonpayment. ​

Like in a bad dream where you cannot control your body and although you tell your limbs to stop – they do not listen to you anymore, she turned a small roaster on, put an old blanket over me, opened the door and sat on the other side road pavement to watch. Tranor was calmly sleeping in his bed.  The custody worker didn’t believe her when she confessed to starting the fire. She was too vulnerable and he considered her words as the delusional statements of a crazy woman being in shock and sorrow at the death of her brother. It was good they succeeded at least in making her sign the rejection paper so that I was taken to the Cast-Aside-Corps. She was better off without me…safer for sure. At least one part of my plan worked.​

The other part was to hide her somewhere in a secluded place –the Mad-House seemed the only option. While I was beside her I could easily direct her behavior.  Being separated – I made a titanic effort to stage that final scene which left me unconscious for about ten days. I entered her subconscious and made her brain a Sahara, dry and empty, no life – no willpower. She went straight to her savage beast-like-father, the one that took so much pleasure in depriving her of her mother’s love by sending my grandma to the place where he would imprison my mother as well. She had her moment spitting her long-locked rage. All her essence screamed about lonely nights with no hand to hold and no cheek to kiss, shouted out her burning emptiness where love should be, it yelled away the humiliation of her agonized body and soul. She’d set her hatred free and collapsed into a dark dense-foggy-sleep – I shared it with her – our last before long encounter. 

The play worked as I staged it: ​

She woke up in ten days in a Mad-House bed. I painted a picture of a small cheerful girl holding her mother’s hand and looking up with love and devotion, a landscape of bright colors, and the sky with a rainbow of emotions she longed for and didn’t believe existed. I instilled that image in her suffering mind – let her rest for now. I made her mad or was she the only sane one?.​

I woke up in a Deprived Site of the Cast-Aside-Corps. Bulldog was assigned to take care of me. A huge heavily muscled 12-year-old boy with deformed inspired face in a ludicrous wheelchair became my closest friend, my named brother.



My pupilless eyes that could see inherent energy within and outside human bodies, material objects, and nature itself deceived the custody worker. He allocated me to the ‘Sighted Moles’ group in the Deprived Site. All eleven of us lived in one room and shared one gigantic bed which was nothing more than a soft floor with numerous pillows and blankets of various sizes scattered all over the place. The vast oval-shaped room reminded me of a beehive, countless cells were embedded in the walls: a study section with table-chair adjustable structures; a leisure section, windowless soft caves with an ever-changing view on a screen-ceiling; the rest were simply smaller junk cells with whatever humans clutter their lives with.​

The Deprived-Site population was divided into two major war groups: the lord of the ‘Glued’ one constantly fueled the hate towards the ‘Sighted Moles’ as they called us – the lucky lot of kids who had all four limbs in a functional state. Bulldog was an outcast, a defector that by his free will decided to share the fate of defensive cowards as they considered the ‘Moles’.  Three blind boys – Frog, Blabber, and Fool of 4, 7 and 8; 11-year-old deaf albino Snow; 14-year-old 8,71 inches Dylda with 3-year-old brain; 6-year-old Siamese tweens Gadget and Digit, inseparable brothers with three legs and two smart hands; Vocal – 9-year-old deaf-mute kiddo; Bulldog and I – all our constantly left behind army. The outsiders were on the second floor in the largest room called ‘Heaven Set’ – kids too vulnerable to be warriors, mostly with psychological issues. The girls shared the third floor with their own government system and laws we had no access to.  One place everybody knew existed and nobody ever talked about was ‘Grotto’ – a cellar where pain and agony were the invaders and children were the brave fighters. Soundproofed walls couldn’t disguise the colors of suffering saturating through limestone and mortar like poisonous branches of a century-old tree with its veins and arteries stretching and twisting all over the floor, painting it a hideous brownish-green. ​

To be considered feeble and incapable is the best strategy when trying to hide your potency. Bulldog was perfectly playing his role of assisting me, and my secret was in the gravely-silent hands of my mute friend. The Aura of humans, objects, sounds, and smells around me made my perception a moving image of the energy with many patterns and colors. I can pick up subtle changes, read them and control their influence on a person’s physical and mental health.​

I see a ‘brain’ of a person’s heart and influence the way that person perceives and responds to the world. Objects around me are electrical energetic systems that can tell their story – I see their memory. My gift and my curse. ​

The sadistic pleasure that Rat (the opioid man that was responsible for giving out painkillers) experienced each time giving the deliberately diminished dose in the suffering ‘Grotto’ made both of my hearts beat violently against my rib cage. I saw it clearly imprinted in a glass of water (the key information channel) he handed to me the first day of my stay. I mentally created a torturing pathway in his Energy Center so that he would experience the same sense of pain as his victim did. Crusher, a tiny <emerald> boy that suffered from bone disease and was in constant unbearable agony died and dragged Rat down with him. Man’s heart gave out. The evil- righteousness scale had an incline towards virtue this time but not for long. The chronicler, good at being undercover, was blocking my attempts to expose him – but I felt the presence of dark evil energy that was watching me closely. 



“Please don’t say that… Your thoughts smell swampy and linger on my skin like leeches,” I said that knowing it would sound weird and Blabber would explode in his usual tirade about my freaky personality. I was in their group for four weeks then and they still couldn’t decide on a nickname. Petty blind cripple – future top dog presiding over their destinies, unnoticed and unconsidered, like a shadow, fading away at the first sight of dusk. I loved them in a way… they teased me and beat me – that was just a game of strength and power against weakness of body and spirit.  You come out of this place either being completely broken – shadow-like-human – or your stride of pride opened the door to the fighter path, where there was no place for pity and fear. To know that, one had to leave there for many years – I needed just one breath, one glance, and one touch. 

The Deprived-Site was a place of outcasts, revolting specimens of humanity, kids – parents didn’t want to look at and having gotten rid of them, wanted to forget. ‘Sleepyheads’ – the overseers assigned to each room were losers, overgrown former foster children of this place – indifferent spectators who didn’t care if someone disappeared or was found dead. ‘Geekies’ – teachers abandoned by every more or less respectable Bookiery House, didn’t even try to transfer their knowledge to us. Most of the adult population was emerged in self-pity, poisoning their brain with hurmum (toxic cigarettes), walking long corridors in that narcotic delirium. 

No one cared to pay attention to the war preparations of the ‘glued’ that was getting ready to attack the ‘moles’. Cyclops – a 15-year-old one-eyed one-leg bloody-minded boy – was training his pack of boys to use their prosthetic limbs as weapons. Techno, his right-hand man, improved them to the point that the boys could stab with a hidden switchblade too short to kill but long enough to inflict pain. Their plan was to make ‘moles’ cry and enjoy our pleas for mercy. The night before the assault a four-year-old nameless boy approached each child in his unfortunate group and gently touched their chest where the heart was beating – and the outcome of this war was sealed.

My pack of the lumbering that walked level, blind that saw clearly, deaf that could hear hidden thoughts, mute that could speak a universal language…we became one organism, breathing in unison. As you sow, so shall you reap. I made them strong to be mired in the swamp of greed and savagery one by one. I cannot help thinking that if I’d left them alone – didn’t secretly teach them grains of my wisdom – they would have survived. 



People can share common psychosis and the energy from this collective psychosis can bring any object to life. The Deprived Site lived, breathed, and fed on Its inhabitants. This mutual creation stored energy till the point it was enough for converting it into beings of enigmatic origin or transferring it in the form of a gift. The mysterious building had Its favorites – Its children, the ones that could see, feel, and talk to It. I became Its pet from the moment I stepped across Its threshold. I saw It, I was Its master in a way and It was mine. The Site either accepted you or made you leave in fear for your sanity. Thanks to my green thumb, my little army became Its top seeds; they were reborn on the night I touched their hearts, awakening the Site inside each of them – the moment It gave them gifts they became an inseparable part of this monster. I could survive by myself but the lives of my ‘family’ were locked within the energy center of this inexplicable building. The Site was a greedy being, giving something each time It took a share of what makes us human. It was too late when I realized Its secret desire –  It envied men and wanted to become one. The price for such a transformation was the subjugation of Its inhabitants, to set Itself free It needed to find someone to take over Its place.

The Site loved the enmity that ruled in children’s hearts. It fueled it by instilling feelings of insecurity and making inner voices talk about humiliation and rejection. The ‘glued’ interpreted everything around them in the language of dissatisfaction and that made their eyelids sewn shut with the pained emotion of misery. Burning envy waged war against the ‘moles’.  It tempered, restrained, undermined them, and led to acts of sabotage in their own war group. Cyclops prided himself on having at least one leg and the techno-prosthesis of the other one worked as multi-purpose gadget thanks to Techno.  The latest innovation that he implemented to Cyclops’ prosthesis caused him to bleed out – a needle bearing powerful anesthetic stabbed the femoral aorta – a medical diagnosis said: “sudden unexplained death from prosthesis failure” (blood evaporated, absorbed by the building not leaving a trace). The morning of the planned fight the place was swarming with ‘sleepyheads’, ‘geekies’ and ‘insects’. The power upheaval that happened that night didn’t diminish the bloodlust of the ‘glued’, it only delayed the attack on the ‘moles’. The heart of the next top dog of the ‘glued’ was enslaved by the Site. It picked the one to take over Its place on the day of the final transformation. Its choice made it easier to manipulate evil energy. This contradictory creature loved Its children, but that love was driven by hunger and the desire to possess. 

Now I know that the Site was poisoning me with the satisfaction of inflicted death in the name of life; with the pain in my burning hands stolen away from the suffering at night to be flushed with flows of water; with crowding our bedroom universes that I read and taught others with good intention to decipher so that we could be knitted together till the point there was no need to open a mouth to be heard. We shared the same food and It knew how to entice me with the toxic dark energy every gulp of which was draining the good in me. Both of my hearts were thrashing around like wounded birds dreaming of love in a cage made of hatred.



What’s so thrilling is that there is no regard for human life in this world, people could not care less. They do so even though the population is not so big.  There is an abundance of uninhabited land. The War for Lunar Code destroyed most of the inhabitants and made the survivors unable to enjoy life any more. The Order Authorities turned a blind eye on murder. They treat the disappearance of people like non-events. Simply put they are concerned about whatever threatens their power and ignore the rest. The genetic makeup that determines personality traits has changed forever. The forms of freedom and responsibility were shaken. Moral values that are valid and binding are grounded on the existence of evil in the world and disregard the principles of conscience. No one strives to minimize suffering; their programming does not tell them to.

My stay at the Deprived Site was marked by three deaths – two of which were my doing, I implemented ten transformations and one alternation of power, the other blood takeover happened at the ‘glued’ group. The ‘moles’ didn’t have a superior and a four-year-old taking that place was scandalous, but the choice was mutual and voluntary. The day after the death of Cyclops we spent in silence listening to each other’s thoughts, communicating our shared understanding of the signs, hints, and help from the universe, recognizing them and learning to act upon them.

No one could leave their rooms. Food was brought to us by ‘whitecoats’ – canteen workers overseeing all the cooked rations. The investigation of the death didn’t take long as nobody was going to do anything about it anyways. But to keep us locked was the idea of the ‘insects’ –  guys from the healing unit, thinking that our unstable child’s psyche can suffer or just not willing to deal with us at all. 

My name still didn’t show up, and all agreed to call me Nameless till the day we could recognize the right nickname. Those things we could read what was literally painted on the walls of windowless corridors. The Site was always naming Its kids and everybody remaining within Its walls. It was part of Its strange game in which It gave new lives, new names, and new personalities to everyone whom It let stay. Every new arrival was documented by an inscription on the wall. My presence was still unmarked by this mysterious being as new white space was found on the wall the day I entered the building. It accepted me. It was unmistaken. Someday this fresh, unfilled spot would carry my name. This world would capture it in legends and history and it would be impossible to recognize which one carried more truth in it.

Being four and new to this world I still saw the universal moral truth and held righteous instincts. I had meaning in my life till the point all I cared about was taken away from me and the memory of my preexistences vanished when both of my hearts were deprived of love they used to carry in them. The Chroniclers submitted my spirit to make a perfect murderous machine. I used to be faceless and ageless light-in-between-traveler transformed into a centuries-old parahuman with age uncertainty written on my face.

Olya Aman