Chapter Text
4
It turns out that “running” in the middle of February isn't as easy as it sounds. Bea and Boden go back to their rooms to pack their stuff. I told them to just bring a backpack, something light. Knowing Boden, he’s probably packing CDs. Not that I could blame him. One of the only things I remember from life before was music. I remember I love music. If I concentrate I can hear the soft plucks of a guitar. I can imagine the euphonious instruments chirping and humming and crying and singing and whispering. I recall voices, some hollow, some whole, some enraged and some content, some loud and some quiet. I recollect the lyrics, some of them fast and theatric, some slow and symphonic. I sit down on a tree stump with a sigh. The tree had been chopped a few days earlier. I still remember the sound it made. A thundering boom, hundreds of pounds of wood slamming against grass and concrete. I had completely froze, my muscles tense, eyes blown wide. That was when the first time my memories started to come back. Well, in this instance, the term “memory” might be a stretch. It was more like a feeling. Like something on the tip of my tongue. An itch I couldn’t scratch. Something just out of my reach. I still feel it—the lack of something. Like a hole in my rib cage. As horrible as the feeling is, I can’t bring myself to even grasp the gravity of the loss of my sense of identity. Why should I waste time wallowing when I can get it back? Fill the gaping wound. Clean the blood dripping down my abdomen, and sew the skin back together. But hopefully I won’t die during the process. I strain my ears when I hear footsteps. I quickly stand up, hoping whoever is coming over is either Bea or Boden. If I’m lucky, both of them. I listen, concentrating on the sound.
Crunch
Crunch
Crunch
SNAP
Whoever is coming has heavy footsteps. Their feet crunch dried leaves and a stick. I’m guessing it’s Boden. I exert my ears again, and hear another pair of feet, this one more light.
Tap…tap
Tap…tap
Their steps are closer together, making me think they’re shorter. They’re also lighter and quieter which obviously means this person weighs less. But the quietness leads me to think they’re trying to be softer. Like there is intention behind their portrayal. This is most likely Bea.
The two get closer and closer. The moon is the only source of light in the endless darkness of the sky. I drink in the milk of the moon like Scotch, bathing in the richness of the flavor of light. My chin tilts upward, my face drowning in the current of the wind. My hair tousles in the breeze. I hum softly. The moon could be a lie, an illusion put in place by the goddess lady. Sharp and painful. Or maybe not. Maybe the lie would be better than the truth. Maybe ignorance—numbing, suffocating, cowering—is better than truth. Maybe, the truth is biting. Maybe, the truth is blaring, a fever that won’t break. But I don’t want lies. I don’t want lies. I don’t want lies. I want truth, no matter how acidic, how bloody, how gory, how hostile, how broken, how aching, how burning, how shocking, how dark, or how bright it might be. The pair rounds the corner. Bea and Boden emerge from the darkness and into the spotlight the moon creates. Boden had changed from his earlier outfit into something more…casual. He wears black pants, not skinny but not overly baggy. A studded belt is loose against his waist. A gray long-sleeve shirt covers his torso, tighter than what he usually wears, highlighting his muscles and biceps. His vans are still on. A black aviator jacket—leather—catches the light of the moon.
Like Boden, Bea had also changed. She has a gray long sleeve-shirt on that, not unlike Bodens, is also tight. She has on a black skirt, and gray thermal pants under them. On her feet are boots almost as high as her knees with a barley-there heel. White socks are visible just above her boots, and she wears a zip up brown jacket with fur lining the hood. It looks really warm. Bea flashes a smile before lifting her skirt up to reveal the built in shorts.
“Okay, that is seriously cool,” I tell her, impressed.
“I know! And they even have pockets!” She exclaims.
“Pockets? Damn, you're loaded,” I jog over and she demonstrates by pulling out a flashlight from the pocket of her skirt.
Boden rolls his eyes, but I can tell he doesn't mind by the little smile painted across his lips.
I put my hands together, “Okay! So, now that you guys have packed what I hope to be…AHEM…protection,” I look straight at Boden, eyes bright. He turns crimson red, and I barely hold back from laughing.
“Anyways,” I take a deep breath. “I have a very…broad plan. I don’t know if I would even call it a plan. I have money in my backpack—“
“Where did you get money?”
“That is none of your concern. We can drive to a hotel I found on the outskirts of the city, and then make a plan in the morning.”
“Sounds like a deal to me.”
So that’s what we do. We walk to my car and all pile in. It smells of old books and broken prayers. The front mirror is cracked. I throw my backpack and the rest of our stuff in the back. I start up the engine and start driving. Bea sits in the passenger seat and Boden sits in the back.
I look at Boden through the top window, “So, Boden, pack any cds?”
He looks away, grinning. Then he pulls out a cd. Bea starts laughing.
“Well, let’s see if this is any good.”
I slide the cd into the player built into the car. A loading screen flashes across the screen, and the first song starts. Strums of a guitar fills the car and my shoulders relax.
“Room 177.”
The scratch of the key on the table makes me shudder. I grab it in my fist and we head to our room. The hotel looks…outdated.
“Did you find this hotel on the black market?” Boden asks, a wince of disgust painted across his face.
“I didn’t want to spend two-hundred dollars for a room we'll only stay in for one night,” I reply.
Bea shrugs,“It’s not that bad.”
We make it to our room and I twist the key into the slot. The door opens with a pathetic creak and we all clamber in, bags in tow. The first thing I notice is the carpet.
“The carpet looks like the exact color of credit card debt,” I say.
“How does that even—” Boden starts.
“Don’t question it,” I interrupt.
We put our backpacks on the grounds and Bea and Boden are already sitting on the bed when I turn. We have one bed and a couch.
“I’ll take the couch,” Boden and I say in unison.
My heart races. I only chose the couch because of the nightmares. I don’t want to wake either of them up. I grin through clenched teeth.
“It’s fine, Boden. I’ll take the couch, I don’t mind. Protection, remember?”
“Of course,” Boden winks, noticing my discomfort. He doesn’t know the reason, but I still release a breath of air in relief.
I walk over to the door, mumbling something about ice, while Bea and Boden get into the bed. Bea flashes a thumbs up and I walk through the threshold into the hallway.
My feet shuffle against the carpet. I hear a noise and stop abruptly. I look around and see a water bottle on the floor, rolling towards me. I quietly walk over to it and put it back on the counter. I sit against the wall and stretch my legs out. I sigh softly. I look at my hands. A shadow passes through the window and the light shines two dots onto the center of each of my palms. The remembering feeling chokes me and I gasp, clenching my hands into fists. I wait until the feeling passes and stand up. I use the wall as support and walk back to our room, making my footsteps as soft as possible. I get to the door, opening it slowly so it doesn’t creak. I arch my neck and see Bea and Boden fast asleep. Bea’s long brown hair is covering Boden’s arm. Her head is against his chest. Their breaths are synced. I walk over to my bag and grab my toothbrush. I brush my teeth and wash my face before walking over to the couch. A blanket is spread across it. I lay under it and push myself against the pillows, already slipping into my mind. Sleep is a delicate thing. It blankets you in comfort and drowns out the noise. And as the gentle hands of sleep, numbing and suffocating and dulling and soft grasp me in her wispy, airy hands, I hear the voice once more:
“You will remember—”
“If your mind is truly stronger than Fate’s—”
“Sleep, my child.
I feel a weight on my back. My knees crash against the hard ground. I look up to the sky. And I pray. How long have I screamed? How long have I BEGGED? My body aches. My ribs are visible through my skin, poking out like steaks through soil. Like spits. Maybe my ribs will burn someone. Maybe they’ll burn everyone. Maybe I’ll smile as the fire engulfs them. Maybe I’ll laugh. Or maybe my ribs are softer. The wigs of a butterfly. Maybe they’ll let me fly. Let me escape this reality. Maybe they will flutter and flap and maybe I’ll soar and glide. Maybe the sky will welcome me. Maybe in the daytime, the sun will kiss me. Maybe when it rains the water droplets will slide down my pale skin like tears, but not tears of sadness, tears of joy. Maybe in the nighttime, the stars will embrace me. Maybe the light will warm me. And maybe the next day, when I wake up, It will all have been a dream. Maybe my ribs will be poking through my skin, but this time not as wigs. Maybe the bone will pierce my stomach and crimson will drip down my skin instead of water. But still tears, just not joyful tears. Agonized tears. Maybe I’ll fall to my knees and pray to God. Maybe he’ll watch as I scream. Maybe he’ll smile as I bleed. Maybe he’ll laugh as I cry. Or he might be softer. He might sigh. He might even weep for me. Maybe he’ll look away from the gore. For how did such a pure being create something of such disgust? Of such malice? One thing is for certain, he won’t help me. He won’t answer my pleas. He’ll stay silent from his throne, maybe watching, maybe turned away. But whether he weeps or not, my Fate is still sealed. Not by me but by him. So I’ll stay on my knees, ribs protruding from my skin, throat raw from screaming at a god that won’t listen.
The grating, familiar voice of the priest, rough and soft at the same time, pierces the veil of silence that hangs over me.
“AZELA! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN FATE? WHY HAVE YOU SINNED? WASH YOUR BODY IN THE RIVER, BARREN OF CLOTHES! LEAVE THE THRONE, FOR YOU HAVE FAILED ALREADY! YOUR THOUGHTS SHAKE TIME HERSELF! SUBMIT TO FATE AND HE SHALL SAVE YOU FROM YOUR DEMISE! FREEDOM AND INDIVIDUALITY IS A SIN IN ITSELF! LEAVE NOW, AZELA! IF NOT, YOU SHALL SUFFER EVERMORE!
I jump up. My whole body is shaking. And I run. Colors blink around me as I sprint. I end up in a garden. I’m surrounded by trees. And a river. Something isn’t right, isn’t human about this place. I slip into the river, scrubbing my skin raw. I pull at my hair, head throbbing. Then the man shows up. His eyes are hollow.
“No, no, no, no—”
He walks over to me, dressed in white, eyes hollow and manic at the same time. He grabs me and pours boiling oil over my head, anointing me. And I scream. Horrible, gut-wrenching, blood-curdling screams. Throat-scraping noises I had never dared let escape. Sharp, drawn out echoes that pierce the very wrapping of humanity. The sounds that tear out of me shakes the barrier of sanity along the edges of my mind.
“In the name of Fate and Time I purify you. Confess your sins and be welcomed into—”
“ENOUGH!”
He looks at me with a pitying expression.
“You choose yourself over your God? How unfortunate,” he frowns.
“I choose myself over your God!” I snarl.
I stumble out of the river and grab my clothes. A white dress. Suddenly, my eyes roll back into my head. My heart is pounding, and the pressure building in my chest is like a punch through the fields of pain clouding my vision. My eyes are half-lidded and blood flows down my face in a steady stream. I look like I’m crying blood. A slow smile spreads across my face.
“When nothing else is there to be purified, immortality is granted. What is there to be granted if I’m not pure? Absolutely nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You deserve nothing. You must be purified.”
My nails dig into my skin, and suddenly I can’t stop. Can’t stop scratching, can’t stop trying to purify something that is long past the ability to be purified. Can’t stop tearing apart my own skin. Can’t stop smearing crimson against my skin. My white corset is soaked with blood. My innocent skirt is stained with the ruddy liquid. The top of the dress is less innocent and more delicate and revealing. My chest is mostly naked, and my torso is laced with delicate, white ribbon. The sacrificial lamb, finally gaining consciousness, understanding of free-will. I’m not pure, I think. Laughter spills out of me like the blood pouring down my face. And when I speak, my voice is animalistic and powerful. Seven times. One mantra. Eternal, never ending agony. Never ending blood. Never ending death.
After all, what’s the fun in being pure?