You swipe open the Contacts list; familiar motions requiring a conscious effort and a measure of focus. Your skin is stone, your bones are lead. The rest is just so much exhausted meat. You scroll down, tap Gahm's name and watch as the menu collapses away and the petal shaped icon starts to vibrate. A timer ticking off the seconds below. You put the PDA to your ear and wait. Some part of you, some scrap of your heart, hopes that he won't pick up. That you'll have an excuse to shrug your shoulders and say "well, I tried" before you start packing up your life in a pair of suitcases. The Society pamphlet catches your eye. A smiling cartoon rabbit on the front, white fur and sunny colors; cute and cheerful.
A tone as Gham picks up and sound cuts in. You tip your head back at the tide of cursing that spills out, eyes fixed on the pamphlet. The rabbit staring you down.
"...So, how'd it go?" You ask when he finally stops for breath.
"Fine! It was good. " He answers, "But
fuck me they were breaking out the nails and cross right there in the room. Normally the suits don't go that hard. Some light grilling, snap up the weaker links. This wasn't as bad as I've ever seen, but it was grisly. Shit from on high, I suspect."
"Heh."
There's a pause, a small silence.
"...Something up with your PDA Anglo? You sound different."
"Oh, uh, one sec." You say. You set it facedown. Scrub your mouth with the back of your hand and gulp down a dusty mouthful of water from a half-empty cup on your desk. You put the PDA back to your ear.
"Better now?" A little more effort, a touch of enthusiasm, a dash of interest.
"Yeah! But no, was there something you needed?"
You open your mouth. You want to say: "I got fired". You want to say: "I'm being evicted". You want to say: "help me". But you don't. You can't. Your skull is stone, your brain is lead. All your thoughts are filtered through the fog, they come slow and sluggish and drained; grey and empty.
"Mostly just wanted to let you know that Corporate's...yeah."
"Ah gotcha."
There's nothing he can do for you. Nothing he should do. Nothing you need. In the end there isn't even anything you want besides for the conversation to be over.
"See you around Gahm."
"Yeah, you too Esser."
You hang up, you watch as the icon bounces a few times then winks out. The menu folds in, you're back in your Contacts list. You idly start scrolling down. Bad decisions born on the flick of a thumb. It's not a long list, mostly emergency numbers for shift managers. A bibimbap delivery place that got auto-added to your PDA after you ordered there a few times. The Society hotline you kept meaning to call but never had the guts to, were never bad enough off to justify it in your own diseased brain. Ji-a-
Sensibly short dark hair mussed up, broader features flushed; her fingers digging into your back as she holds you, as you hold her. She tries to hide the frown, tries to look like she's enjoying herself. But you see it anyway. She didn't love you. She didn't even like you. Why should she? Why would anyone? It wasn't a break-up, it was just a statement of fact.
-you delete her number. You think she has a new boyfriend now anyway. Someone from Sales, probably a real hotshot. Fancy and flashy and supermodel good looking, or able to slice himself that way when he gets the corner office. You pause, you keep scrolling, scanning the list. A the bottom you see it, a naked string of numbers. A UCAS area code. Saved but no name attached, no-
you living with us wasn't ever part of the plan, we did the best we could
you can't keep blaming others, you have to take responsibility for yourself
you're being difficult, none of our
children ever
had a problem with this
you've hurt my family enough
-you set the PDA back down.
You are a rushing river, bounded by banks. Energy flowing through your muscles, cool and clear. You yearn to do your duty and provide for your home. You wish you could expel the horde in honor of your king. You are a mud-choked stream, encased by dead clay. Energy trickles down your spine, tendrils of light coiled about the bone. You have no home. You have no king.
You bring your palms to your eyes, you can feel them burning and prickling behind your lids. Pressure novas bloom across the black as you dig your hands in. You drag your fingers through your hair and lace them behind your head. Feeling them tug at your scalp as you stare at the desk. Your eyes hot and aching. The last hints of old liquor still on your tongue. The rainslicked window by your elbow; the wind howling outside, scouring across the glass and concrete face of the building. It's a lovely drop: a few dozen stories straight down.
As if you had the guts to break the window. Maybe you could just will yourself to stop breathing? As if you had the skill for something like that. Maybe if- No, you won't. Whatever it is you won't do it. You should but you won't. You're too
weak; too afraid of the hurt, of taking the plunge. So you'll just put your head down and scurry off instead, just like you always do. Just like you always will.
Your hands settle heavily on the table.
A second of silence. You blink through unshed tears, squinting at the thick black fuzz about your fingers. You rub your fingertips together, feel the tensile, wiry sensation against your skin. The fuzz clings close to your flesh. You see a red tip: scarlet dye.
You slowly, ever so slowly, reach up and touch the side of your skull. Above your temple and towards the back. There's nothing there but smooth skin.
Stumbling into your bathroom, hunching over the sink, barely enough room for you to fit. Head turned, your reflection staring back at you wild-eyed. Bald patches the size of your circled thumb and forefinger, where your hands rested. The scalp beneath pallid and pale. You try to clear the edges, brush the caught tufts of hair clear. Another clump comes free with a gentle tug, so slight you barely feel it. Black locks laced with red, white roots still anchored to the end. You tip the sink handle back. The hiss of water, warm steam curling up from the basin beneath the mirror. You wash your hands under the faucet. Scrubbing matted hair from your palms. Gritting your teeth, ignoring the bristling sensation. Ignoring the way it clogs the drain in a black clot. A fistful of soap; nails all in a line, a fine ivory lather over your skin. Scrubbing, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing.
Click
Pain laces up your hand, hard and bright. Blood stains the soap, the water turns red. You jerk your hand back out of the stream. You stand there panting. Curled hand hovering over the sink. Shaking. Your nails bent like miniature trapdoors, exposing the raw bed beneath. Hanging by white hinges. You reach out with trembling fingers. Touch one of the angled cuts of keratin.
It falls free with a sick pulse of pain and sticks to the side of the stink.
"..."
Brittle. Brittle and breaking. You're brittle and breaking apart. Hands to your mouth, keep from screaming. Don't look at your mangled fingertips. Don't look at your eyes, hollowed and afraid. Just keep from screaming. Don't let anyone here. Don't let anyone know. Don't-
Crunch
It dents in beneath the heel of your palm. It slides free, sucking against the gum, you feel its weight on your tongue. It slips past parted lips to clatter against the porcelain. Crimson runs in its wake; you can taste the salt. The coppery bite. You run your tongue through the hollow. You feel the teeth on either side shift in their beds. You stop, tug your lip up with one wounded thumb. Bloodshot eye staring at the socket.
Staring at the canine resting on the rim of the sink.
Bulging; the sleek outline of something in the flesh. Moving down. You whimper. You can feel the pressure; feel it drawing out to a fine point.
It slides out from the red-stained gum; curved and sharp. You touch your tongue to it and feel the enamel; smooth and solid. You slip your tongue down, around, testing the tip. You hiss in pain as you cut yourself on the razored edge.
In the distance you hear Emil growl. The sound soft, muted, fading out. Eclipsed by a deep drumbeat rising in your chest. It shudders your spine. Shakes your loosened teeth. You feel it echoing in your skull. You stare at your reflection in the mirror and see it shiver; your skin is reddened, flushed. Stinging sweat dripping from your brow. Running in your eyes, rolling down your neck. The heat building beneath your ribs. Blooming in your chest. Fire racing through your tendons, twining through your muscles. Flames licking the back of your throat.
It hurts.
Skin twisting, tension tugging the living threads to the absolute limit. Flesh ripping like wet fabric, coming apart like ragged canvas. Muscle and bone and blood and hungry golden fire beneath. You smell smoking hair. Boiling blood. Charring flesh.
Please make it stop it hurts.
A wave rippling up, the dull shock of snapping bone barely registered through the inferno that rages in your head. Spine squirming, stretching. Skin bulging around the base of your neck. A collar for your throat. It rolls through your jaw. Through mouth. Your mouth stretching so wide, cheeks crumbling into ash. Your teeth explode out like a grenade. Forced out by the new set.
please
Flames ripping, roaring out of your back as you shift. As you change. As invisible hands break and reshape you. Shatter and remold you. You'd beg if you still had a tongue. You'd cry if you still had eyes. The fire in your head spills out, swallowing you in a seething sea of gold.
i'm sorry
Chewing upon you. Sheathing you in new flesh.
Rendering down your skin your muscle your fat your bones.
You're kneeling on a blasted plain, drought ruined earth rolling away below. The agonizingly blue sky above.
Kneeling in your bathroom, smoke alarms ringing. Emil sobbing. Walls blackening around you, the air thick.
Feel it descend upon you. A blazing star
Feel it descend upon you. A blazing star.
Turn your face to the heavens.
Spread your arms and wings in supplication.
Witness the golden sun.
Drake.
Name Thyself.
[ ] Prideful, guttural roars. You are an arrogant thing. Avaricious and vainglorious. Deserving of acclaim and renown, of respect bordering on worship.
[ ] Mild, melodious hisses. You are a lustful thing. Avaricious and decadent. Craving the finest things, seeking ever new experiences in luxury and taste.
[ ] Snarling, sibilant growls. You are a jealous thing. Avaricious and envious. Jealously hoarding what is yours; coveting that of those high above you.
