Despite finally falling asleep far past a reasonable hour, my mind is doing anything but resting. No, my mind is doing precisely what it does every night, torturing me with the same memories it has for a decade. The story of that night ten years ago is playing out eerily accurate to how it truly went, forcing me to again experience the worst night of my life.
The white walls stained red under the bloodshed. The creaking floorboards as the black tar body saunters closer and closer, stopping just a few inches away from where I cower in a cabinet. A scream cut short by a blood curdling laugh.
The creature prowls closer to my Mother. She’s holding up her hands and speaking words I can’t make sense of. But whatever she’s saying, be it a plea for the family she just walked in to find slaughtered, or some sort of defense against the demon, it doesn’t care in the slightest.
Long, black talons shoot to my mothers throat, hauling her up as easily as she used to cradle me. I can’t even scream as the creature turns towards the cracked door, my mother still grasped in his claws, and hauls her out of the house. Leaving me alone with the constant drip of fresh, warm blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The noise haunts my dreams. It haunts my memories. It haunts every moment of my life.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
⭒ ⭒ ⭒
I’m thrashing like a madman and sweating so profusely that it’s a wonder that Reed has yet to drown. I bolt awake, grasping for anything I can get my hands on to defend myself, to defend my last living family member. But it’s too late. Just like every night, the worst of which I actually throw my knives when I wake, fear convincing me that the creature is still here, just lurking somewhere in the shadows until it finally drags me to hell with it.
When my mind finally catches up with reality, I fall back onto my sack and the slickness that I’ve created in my terror, sweat dripping all the way down to the bottom of the makeshift bed.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Nope. Fuck this.
I jump off of my drenched bed and practically run to the shower to avoid the only thing I can hear in my head.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It’s not like I'm going to get much sleep, anyway. I never do. It’s a joke I have with myself, a full night's rest. How can I be expected to sleep when slumber only whisks me away to a whole new battle ground? One that turns my memories to ammunition. One that makes what I go through here seem like a child's playground. I think that’s why I’ve done so well here. I’ve already seen the worst this world has to offer, and no amount of beatings could change that. But those dreams have a way of terrorizing me to the brink of insanity. It is not something I will ever forgive myself for, how I froze like that, how I refused to help them.
It is all I hear day and night, night and day. Their screams. Their pleas. Their final breaths as their lives were cut short. I experience every moment from that night in an infinite loop, but most especially the relentless drip, drip, drip.
Hopping into the communal showers, a grungy bathroom covered in rust and mold, I do my best to avoid looking at the squalor. If I pay too much attention to the colorful stains on the floor and walls, I might just throw up.
The bite of the cold has lost its touch by now, but just for good measure, I stay in the frigid stream until my skin has nearly turned blue. It doesn’t hurt to spend a little more time here when I can, anyway. Showering in solidarity is the only time I can bathe without being harassed like a circus monkey. Just another perk of being the only girl, save the Warden, here.
Shaking off the horror of my dreams, I quickly turn the shower off, hopping out to pull on my still sweat soaked clothes. The leaky shower has other plans though, and all I can hear is the taunting of the dripping water.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Practically flying from the bathroom, I make my way back to my bunk. Running my fingers through my hair, an endeavor in itself, I twist the long strands into the braid I’ve worn almost every day. I never wear it down, at least not for extended periods of time. But no matter how agitating the unruly curls typically are, I don’t have the heart to cut them. I pretend to not know why, as if it’s not most definitely because of my Mother.
I know without having to look that it’s the middle of the night. Likely no later than two in the morning. Which means it's too early to go to the gym. I mean, I could. But I sure as hell don’t want to. Settling on walking around mindlessly, I tie the laces of my shoes in double knots, securing them for the day’s trials. It’s freezing out there, but I’d rather be frozen to a shard of ice than sitting here, drowning myself in fear, sorrow, and regret.
Stocking myself with what is likely an obsessive amount of weapons, I bolt out of the room, desperate to escape the dripping that only ever reminds of my sister's blood spilling from the once cheerful dining room table.
Hastily entering the hallway outside the bunk room, I begin to make my way down the haunting path, only turning when I reach the end of the asylum styled segway. The compound is unbelievably creepy at this hour. With the fires in the torches beginning to fade, and not another soul lingering around, this place is eerie as shit. Each step I take echoes down the hall, each breath seems like an unwanted caress. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of the dark, I’ve always been more of a night owl, but I am on edge out in the open here. I’ve been snuck up on so many times that even a slight squeak will have me drawing out a blade before the noise has time to end. Sometimes I walk these halls with a knife already warming my palm.
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Quickening my pace slightly, I at last spot my salvation. The final door that will lead me into the refreshing night air. But as I push the door open, my face flashes back at me from the water stained window. I almost wince at my reflection, something that happens every time I see myself. I can’t help it. Not when I’m staring into the face of my dead family.
My siblings and I were all very similar. We all had the same curly, raven black hair, the slender limbs, and cinnamon skin. My sisters were always glowing in beauty. Iridessa had a smile that could send any man to his knees, and Rosabella had her own unique charm. Percius and I always had the same sense of humor. Always teasing, always shooting shit at one another.
My Father was a hard worker, always was. He used to be a well known inventor in our village. Always making the next innovative technology that would make life easier for the highest bidder. He and I share the same green irises that are ribbed in blue. I always thought his looked like a tropical ocean, swirling and meshing in perfect unison and beauty, especially when the Sun allowed them to sparkle and shine. When I look at mine now, the only thing I can think about is how his looked rolling across the floor like marbles.
My curly hair is just like my Mothers once was. She had a grace and beauty to her that not even an Empress could compete with. And was always so unbelievably kind, often giving more of herself than was probably healthy. She loved to be outside, but most especially in the water. And the woman was an incredible artist. She would sell her paintings at the weekend markets, always bringing in a suitable profit, but I always thought she deserved more for her masterpieces.
My Mother, Delilah, was beloved by all, and as my Father would have said, especially by the men. Her perfect features and composure compelled many to ask for her hand, most before she had spoken a single word to them. She had a lovely straight nose that was brushed in delicate freckles that spread to her ears, rose tinted cheeks, and full lips that were typically spread in an inviting smile. Her posture was impeccable, and she moved with such grace that I often wondered if she was a goddess who had been born into the wrong world.
When I was young, all I did was dream of looking like her. Every night I wished and wished that one day I would. But now that I’m her spitting image, it just makes me queasy. The only thing I can think about when looking into the mirror now is how I failed her. How I failed all of them.
Pushing all of that aside, I take a long deep breath. The coolness of the moisture rich air is immediately soothing. I can almost feel the anxiety trickling out of my body with each breath I take. Mist hangs over the trees like clouds, so thick that I can hardly see past the treeline. The cold cluster of moisture is eerie, but…calming in a way. I’m guessing we’ll get some more rain later today.
Making my way across the cement courtyard, I head for the woods. Not the trail we run every day, but a smaller, less traveled one. The beginning of the treeline is stunning, even in the middle of the night. The trees are tall, taller than any building I have ever seen in my life, and filled with sweet little creatures who make the forest peaceful and inviting. A stream trickles nearby, the sound of the water gently falling over rocks and logs loosens a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. My breath fogs in front of me as I rub my chilled hands together, but I’d take this over being trapped in that prison any day.
The deep call of an owl sounds above me as I approach the treeline, the majestic creature taking flight when I walk under the branch he had been perched on. I wonder what it would be like to fly. That freedom must be incredible. You could go anywhere, at any time, and very little could stop you. This is not the first time I’ve wished I was born a bird.
Humming to myself a soft song my Mother used to sing, a sudden wave of hopelessness washes over me, starting from the peculiar marks on my fingers, and whipping clear down to my toes, faltering my steps. These sensations happen daily, but no matter how many times I’ve felt them, it’s an out of body experience every time. I always feel…connected to something other than myself. Something greater than me.
There are many sensations I’ve felt from the strange marks, but more often than not, they are ones of hopelessness and anguish. Unending anguish. Pain that is often far deeper than physical. There’s a difference between physical and mental pain. Physical pain is like fire dancing across my skin. At times, gut wrenching, but not nearly as bad as mental. Mental pain is a whole other beast.
Mental pain feels like hollowness, like you’re being ripped apart by the inside. It’s the type of pain that keeps you up all night, endless loops of thoughts plaguing you for what feels like eternity. Mental pain turns you into a shell of a person, a husk of what you once were. That kind of pain is agony. And it is what I feel from these markings constantly. Agony. Fear. Hopelessness.
The hopelessness felt through the…what would I even call this? A bond? The hopelessness from the…bond, sits like a boulder in my stomach. I know this feeling isn’t from myself. These feelings are always incredibly identifiable. It’s almost like they have a night kissed feeling to them. But regardless of who or what they belong to, it always affects me as strongly as my own emotions. I always feel the strangest urge to go to whatever the cause of the emotion is.
The only time I ever tried to escape this damn prison was when the feeling of agony so intense I nearly fainted poured over my body like molten hot magma. I sprinted from the dining hall so fast it took just over ten miles for the General to retrieve me and drag me back to his “office”. My heart didn’t settle for weeks. I don’t even know where I was going, or what I was trying to find, but instinct kicked in, and I still can’t seem to understand why.
My dreams then were not filled with images of my family being ripped to shreds, but of screams filled with such pain, such despair, that I woke from them in a panic. A panic so strong I couldn’t push my mind anywhere but those dreams. Those false memories that didn’t belong to me but another.
The hopelessness from this most recent crash of emotion washes over me much like waves lapping the shore, though it gets less and less noticeable with each step I take. Sometimes the feelings last for weeks, other times only a few moments. It’s something I’ve grown quite used to, but have yet to learn to ignore. I don’t know if that’s because I can’t or I won’t.
I round another twist in the forgotten trail and the emotion fizzles out of my marks. But even when the feelings are gone, it’s hard to shake the imprint they leave behind. The sense of something being out there. Something special and personal and mine.