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marcy returns to an empty house.
she’s been dreading this moment. the moment after the light fades away and reveals their world of stone and glass, instead of the wood and grass of amphibia.
her parents moved across the country to rip up weeds.
they took everything with them.
even the guardian statues on their porch, leaving only scuff marks and a portion of the floor lighter in colour to remind her it was there. that it did exist. that it’s gone.
the door is locked when she reaches for it, but picking locks is easy. the hard part is turning the knob and opening the door.
there’s nothing waiting for her on the other side. there hasn’t been for a long time now.
she’s standing in her doorway, unable to move forward, when she feels truly alone. the wave of anger comes and goes, but the disappointment holds. it stays there, lingering.
above her.
next to her.
it wraps her in an embrace. it is disappointment that brings her inside, forces her to shut the door, welcomes her to what once was her home.
what has it become?
𓆈
the walls ooze with a loneliness marcy is all too familiar with.
it sticks to her limbs and weighs her down. there’s something else too— but it isn’t grabbing at her feet trying to keep her in place, or trying to consume her entirely. it’s just there. waiting. watching. she doesn’t know what it is.
she doesn’t have the heart or the energy to break free from it. she makes it up to her room before she collapses on the barren floor.
it is her cross to bear. it will be whatever she wants it to be.
𓆈
marcy wakes up the next morning feeling sore.
puffy eyes and dried tears on her cheeks make it difficult for her to wince when she rolls on to her side. she’s fine. her wound has healed. the newts made sure of that before they sent her off.
and yet,
she finds herself choking on her own tears. heaving and hissing as the pain in her chest worsens. she braces herself for the red about to stain her clothes but it never comes.
instead, she feels the edge of a blade.
tearing her apart, slicing through skin and bones.
she feels it over
and over
and over
and over again.
her skin is cold even under the soft morning sun.
𓆈
marcy ran away.
that’s the easiest way to put it. no, it’s the only way to put it.
she ran away.
and all that running lead her back here. back to where she started. where she was trying to get away from.
irony is bitter and metallic on her tongue. it drowns her mouth in red, and she has no choice but to swallow lest it spill out.
what was she really running away from?
it doesn’t matter, she thinks. it’s caught up to her. it’s here. with her.
perhaps it never really left her side.
𓆈
purple skies and colourful stars meet her eyes the next time she wakes up.
those aren’t skies, a part of her thinks. another part of her desperately wants it to be.
she misses the view from her room in the castle. as soon as the thought enters her brain, the pain in her chest returns. it doesn’t hurt as much, but it still has her struggling to breathe.
something is trying to escape.
“marcy!” a familiar voice exclaims. she can’t place it. who is talking to her? “a-are you okay? hold on dude, i’m gonna get mom.”
hurried footsteps leave and more come back. the pain has subsided, but she’s yet to get her breathing under control.
“are you alright, sweetheart?” this voice too, is familiar. laced with the warmth and concern marcy so terribly craved when she arrived. who is this?
she feels hands, hands, more hands, touching her—her arm, her forehead, her hands— what are they looking for?
“let’s get you back to bed.” it’s that warm voice again. “you’re burning up. you might have a fever. it must’ve been from staying in that house! you didn’t even have a blanket.”
it’s not.
it’s not.
it’s something else.
something worse.
“what…” she says, her voice sounds as frail as she feels.
the voice shushes her. “it’s alright. i’ll make tom yum nam sai to help you feel better. you still like that, right?” the voice doesn’t wait for an answer. marcy can feel it leaving.
“mar-mar?” marcy wanted to get her breathing under control, not stop breathing entirely. this voice… who does it belong to? marcy knows. marcy knows. who is it?
the purple wallpaper stays still as the rays of the sun move across it. it’s getting late.
“what happened?” marcy says weakly. she doesn’t feel weak, but everything in her body is keeping her from moving, from talking, from running.
she only becomes aware she’s lying on a bed when she feels it dip under the weight of someone else joining her. she manages to turn her head, just a little, to see that it’s her.
anne boonchuy.
anne boonchuy.
“anne…?” to both of their surprise, marcy backs away. “what’re you doing?”
“sitting next to you, duh.” from only having one shoe to having no shoes at all, marcy sees cute blue socks as anne puts her feet up on the bed. she looks at marcy like she has something to say, but stays quiet instead.
“they were gone when i came home.” marcy says after a while. anne would ask her about it sooner or later anyway. “the house was empty and i…”
what is she supposed to say? that she collapsed? that she cried herself to sleep? that she thinks there’s something inside her trying to escape?
that she regrets coming back?
they can’t meet each other’s eye; both of them staring at the stars that have long lost their glow.
“you should’ve come here.” it’s said quietly, like a secret only they can know. “you should’ve left when you saw no one was there. my mom and dad wouldn’t have mind. we could’ve had a sleepover.”
marcy chuckles. “heh. we could’ve played vagabondia chronicles. your dad would’ve joined us. i would’ve beaten him. again. and sasha would’ve been like ‘ugh this is so boring’ because she would be about to lose next.”
marcy talks.
she lets the words come out of her mouth, lets it fill the room.
for once, anne listens to everything she has to say.
they talk the afternoon away.
𓆈
anne’s mom comes up to tell them dinner would be a little late, as her husband had to run a couple errands.
she urges marcy to shower while they waited. as wobbly as her legs were, she makes it to the bathroom without falling over. anne tries to help, but marcy doesn’t let her.
water fills the tub as she starts removing her clothes. she’s afraid of what she’ll see under there.
the newts told her she’ll have a scar, but it won’t be any problem for her. she won’t even realize it’s there, they said. she realizes they were lying to her to make her feel better when she takes off the last of her clothes.
a gash ran across her chest. from her sternum right down to just above her bellybutton. it’s red and pink all over, a sign that it isn’t as healed as the newts made it out to be.
it doesn’t hurt. it doesn’t hurt. it doesn’t hurt.
it shouldn’t hurt.
it shouldn’t.
she raises a finger to touch it— just brush over it— and she stumbles backwards.
it burns.
𓆈
tendrils of smoke lap at her bare skin, hissing and laughing as it sets her alight.
its sickening just how quickly the flames consume her.
and suddenly, it isn’t just tendrils of smoke.
the smoke morphs into cold, cold metal limbs and even colder claws. its tearing her inside out.
she’s freezing.
it burns.
her throat hurts. is she screaming?
her vision is blurry. she can barely see.
no.
that’s not it.
she’s seeing too much.
as if looking at two different screens, marcy sees the boonchuy’s bathroom and the tendrils wrapped around her. which one is real?
no.
no.
both visions are real.
it takes everything in her to put one foot in front of the other. the pain only continues to worsen by the second. no blood is coming out but she’s not sure she has any left to lose.
she makes it to the tub.
its overflowing.
a hand she realizes is her own reaches out to touch the water. cold. cold. cold.
she lets herself slide into the tub, too tired to hold herself up any longer.
it isn’t deep, but still she sinks.
her consciousness sinks even deeper, slipping away from her in the water.
she should’ve stayed there. in the tank.
𓆈
you’re one of us.
you’re us.
the voices echo its chant: of body and mind, we are the same.
𓆈
what could she have done against it?
what should she have done against it?
𓆈
marcy’s body is pulled out of the water by a terrified anne, hot tears streaming down her face.
“marcy!” anne calls out. there’s no response. how long was marcy submerged?
she feels it— the embrace. its soft, kind. marcy doesn’t deserve it.
almost too afraid to open her eyes, marcy squirms in anne’s arms. she doesn’t cough or splutter. instead, she uses whatever strength she has left to push anne away.
anne doesn’t budge.
marcy can’t decide whether to be relieved or not.
“let go.” marcy cries out. its broken. raw.
she doesn’t deserve this.
the embrace only tightens. its painful, almost.
“please,” loosely closed fists finds its way to anne’s forearms, a feeble attempt at hitting her. “please, let go.”
“no.” her voice too, is broken.
what has marcy done?
they cry in each other’s arms. marcy doesn’t stop shaking. anne’s hold never falters.
they both wonder if they deserve this.
𓆈
an hour or an eternity later, they walk out of the bathroom.
marcy’s skin is ice cold but its anne that’s shivering.
“i can walk on my own.” marcy insists but that only urges anne to move closer.
anne lets her borrow some of her clothes. marcy’s not against it, it’s not like their styles were totally different.
still, she felt weird wearing anne’s clothes.
its doesn’t take long for her to realize she feels guilty about wearing it. how could anne still let her use her stuff after what she’s done? how could anne even stand to look at her?
she flinches when she feels fingers brush through her hair.
“relax, mar-mar. i’m just gonna brush your hair, dude.” the tone is casual. light. like they didn’t just cry on the bathroom floor. “you know it took me days to get all the leaves and stuff outta my hair.”
marcy forces a laugh out of her. she hopes its not too obvious.
wait.
“days?” she’s lucky she’s sitting down, otherwise she would’ve fallen over. “we’ve been back for two days.”
she can’t see her, but marcy knows anne’s expression is of confusion. “no, dude, it’s been a week since we got back.”
a week?
“what?” marcy turns so abruptly she almost falls off anne’s bed. the only reason she didn’t is because anne was holding her.
she shakes her head.
“t-that can’t be right.” her thumbs start flicking her index finger. she hasn’t cut her nails in a while so the skin stings. “i… i was home yesterday. i fell asleep in my room, then i woke up, yeah, i woke up and it was morning. i fell asleep again… and when i woke up i was here.”
anne lets go of her to grab her phone from her desk. she shows her the date.
“seven days.” anne tosses her phone somewhere on the bed. “sasha got grounded for ten years the second she got back. she’s only allowed to go out once a week now. that’s why i’m sure it’s been a week.” marcy thinks she imagined it, but there’s the slightest hint of a blush on anne’s face. “i’ve, um, been looking forward to seeing her again. she’s coming tomorrow.”
silence follows that.
she couldn’t have slept for a week straight. is that why she felt so weak?
her eyes drop down to her hands. there’s traces of cuts and wounds turning into little scars. her fingernails are dirty. she closes her fists.
“marcy?” anne says softly. she’s used to marcy spacing out so she waits a few seconds for a response. when it doesn’t come, she continues. “we have to talk about… this.” what this is, anne doesn’t say. she’s tearing up again when she speaks. “you’ve been through a lot, and- and i know it’s not easy, but we have each other. i lost the plantars, and sasha lost grime and her toad army. we don’t want to lose you too. can you tell us what’s going on? please?”
most of what anne said didn’t register in marcy’s head. “seven days…” she whispers.
how...
ah.
“i think the core is still inside me.” marcy blurts out.