To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Sea-green eyes, a silver sword with a floral hilt, a half-eaten moon, storm clouds hanging over a wilted weed, a burning tree, pewter scales that ricochet light.

  Pausing, I brush my hand over one of a white rose in half-bloom, revealing the hint of petals flecked with a familiar constellation of twinkly freckles.

  The little boy always jumps out at me the most ... in one way or another.

  I’ve painted him many times because he’s such a constant in my dreams. Visiting often, gifting me with that wealth of a smile and his reaching hands.

  I let my fingers drift off the stone and keep walking—keep skipping my gaze along the individual rocks.

  It took three years before I realized the tiny paintings were building something much bigger. That my whispers were the seeds of something I’d buried deep in the pit of my soul; germinating, reaching for the light of day.

  Despite my efforts, it’s not the smaller paintings I see right now.

  It’s the bigger picture they make up.

  The crowd of people staring out from the stone—tall as me and just as lifelike, as if they have hearts in their chests that push real blood through their veins.

  They aren’t whispers at all ...

  They’re screams.

  Some have angular marks drawn on their foreheads, some don’t. Some are closer, some are standing farther away, their features less defined as if my tiny, two-year-old memory was too hazy for my subconscious to paint a clear picture.

  I keep walking, drifting past haunting stare after haunting stare, looking past the ghosts I didn’t intend to paint, trying to focus on the small pictures I did.

  Failing.

  They’re watching me; ghostly perusals scalding my skin and refusing to let me ignore them.

  The first time I noticed one staring out at me from the wall, lording over me with eyes that seemed to follow my movements, I fell over. Ran from here so fast I forgot my bag and had to return later when I’d managed to compose myself.

  That night, I saw the same man in my nightmares ... in pieces.

  Saw him get feasted on by the same three beasts that haunt me every time I close my eyes.

  I spent two months painting another section only to realize the little stones were all building blocks to yet another person staring out at me. Somebody else I’d seen burned bits of while I’d slept.

  Somebody else who lost their life that day.

  I realized I was painting a grave. Fixing faces of the dead down here in the dark where they could exist in a different way—an abstract eulogy that hurts to look at. Especially now. Because at the very end of this mural, on the verge of that hungry darkness, is the little boy who looks like me.

  The real me.

  And this whisper weighing down my knapsack ... it’s his final piece. I know it is, even though it’s not what I intended to paint.

  It took him years to show up in the overriding picture, as though I’d hidden him deeper than the rest.

  That thought feels dangerous.

  I come to the edge of the light and drop to my knees, digging through my bag. I bypass the mouse-filled jar and pull out another heavy with freshly mixed mortar. My palate knife comes next, then finally the stone wrapped in cheesecloth.

  No chisel. I won’t be decorating any more pieces.

  This story ... it’s over. Today, I place the final full stop.

  I unwrap the layers of material and look upon my work.

  On this fist-sized stone, I painted a pair of hands much the same as Rhordyn’s sketch; soft and relaxed, at ease in their restful state despite the thorny vine I wrapped around them.

  Bound them with.

  Those vicious thorns dig deep, spilling trails of red—such a stark contrast to the blue flowers sprouting from the vine. Feeding off the blood.

  I use my palette knife to clear out the old mortar, then scoop a glob of fresh stuff from the jar, my hand unsteady as I spread it around before pressing the whisper into place.

  I keep it hidden behind the flat of my palm, drawing deep breaths, trying to convince my heart to stop beating me up from the inside.

  Because I know ... I just know that although my wakeful state has painted a pair of hands wrapped in a thorny vine, my subconscious has somehow woven it into the final piece of him. That it has put him back together again—no longer in bits scattered throughout my nightmares.

  I may not jump into that abyss in my dreams, but this ... I’ve done this. Pulled crumbs of shadow from that chasm and dripped them from my fingertips, even if it wasn’t intentional.

  I’ve done this.

  The thought gives me courage to let my hand drop, though it swiftly snaps up to shield my heart.

  The little boy appears to lift off the wall, as though he might push free from the stones and bridge the gap between us.

  I hold my breath, waiting ...

  Waiting ...

  But he just stands there with a puckered brow, peering out through wide eyes that look like crystals. Just stands there with outstretched arms and empty hands.

  He doesn’t step off the painting like part of me had hoped he would. He doesn’t blink or breathe or smile.

  He doesn’t tell me why I can’t let him go.

  But how could he? I gave him rocks for eyes. Rocks for his ears and his mouth and his hands.

  I pieced him together with mortar.

  Not real.

  A weight lands in my stomach, so heavy I stumble back.

  My vision of him blurs and I blink at the haze, feeling a wetness slide down my cheeks. The sensation releases a plug pitted deep inside my heart, and suddenly my lungs are heaving, breath coming in hard, fast gasps.

  My back collides with the wall, spine grating down stone until I’m sitting on the ground, knees caught against my ribs.

  I look up into his eyes, map the freckles on his face, examine the painting like the open wound it is ... and I let myself unravel. Let my unbridled emotions dismantle me in a way that feels hopelessly insignificant. Because he’s in pieces.

  I’m not.

  And all the while he stares ... and stares ... and stares.

  Unblinking. Unseeing. Yet I’ve never felt so seen.

  I sit for what feels like hours, leaking my own self-hatred while I rock back and forth, wishing someone would wrap me in their arms and cuddle me.

  The back of my neck tingles.

  My chest stops heaving, face smoothing, as if somebody bunged the spill of my emotions.

  I sense an overwhelming presence, like there’s suddenly less air for me to breathe. Less space for me to move.

  So acutely aware of the blackness that seems to push against my side, I glide my gaze to the right and peer into the void ...

  I’m not alone.

  Someone ... something is watching from the shadows. I can feel their keen attention sliding over my skin like the sharp tip of a blade.

  “Wh-who is it?” I rasp, only confirming my suspicions when rather than bounce back at me like my words usually do down here, they’re absorbed. As if something devoured them before they had the chance to echo.

  I swallow, feeling every sense sharpen as I lower my hands to the floor and roll forward, perched on all fours while I reach for my bag.

  Something rumbles—the sound deep and heavy, like a mountain’s growl—and I freeze, unable to breathe or speak or blink, every muscle knotting with a wild fear I’ve never felt before.

  All I want to do is move. To scream and run and leave my bag and never look back.

  But my instincts have other ideas.

  They want me to keep my chin high, stare pinned to the dark. They want me to back away, showing as little fear as possible.

  Although it makes no sense to me, for once in my life, I listen.

  Slowly—so damn slowly—I begin to move again, keeping my eyes speared into the body of darkness while I grab my bag. Another sawing rumble rolls through the gloom, threatening to maul my composure into messy ribbons.

  I
snatch the torch and leap to my feet, lifting my chin and walking backward down the hall—every blind, unhurried step feeling like a feat in its own.

  I don’t dare blow out the other torches as I go, knowing that if I do, I won’t be putting any space between myself and whatever it is that’s hunting me.

  Let them burn out. Let them become nothing but charcoal nubs unable to illuminate my loss. A sheath of black to forever keep this graveyard safe—a nicety I wish Rhordyn had given me.

  Committed to his lies rather than this painful in-between.

  I stumble into the comforting light of the common hallway and slam the door shut, scurrying backward in a burst of frightened energy. My back collides with stone and I drop to the ground, drop the torch, legs trapped against my chest to quell the rising tremors paying tribute to the frantic beat of my heart.

  Eventually those torches will blow out, and then this place will no longer belong to me ...

  Perhaps that thought should lighten my shoulders.

  It doesn’t.

  The crisp air hits my lungs, feeding me the sweet smell of impending rain. Not the sort that lashes the seas, but the sort that wets the earth for days and always leaves me feeling empty.

  Approaching my Safety Line, I find a comfortable position beneath a large tree, its leafy branches heavy with nuts. The ancient trunk offers me something to lean against while I pluck through fallen acorns, waiting for Shay to get brave enough to detach from that lump of shadow hanging off a large, mossy boulder.

  Sometimes he needs a little coaxing, especially at this time of day.

  But I’m patient, filling the waiting moments by shucking helmets off acorns, peeling back their hard, outer shell until all I’m left with is the creamy center. Ground down, it’s one of the thirty-four ingredients required to make Exothryl, but it’s also the base for my homemade glue.

  A perfect guise.

  I have a small pile by the time Shay starts to advance, like a sooty leaf flicking about on the handsy wind. He’s tense today, not himself—jerking from one slice of shadow to the next.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  The forest is dead quiet. Even the birds seem to have lost their desire to sing ... a soundless void only severed by my uneven breaths.

  Something’s not right.

  Shay dashes into the same pool of shade I’m sitting in, and my heart forgets how to beat as he hovers, watching me, head tilted to the side.

  His essence seems to probe.

  It’s nothing forceful—just a cold pulse of incorporeal fingers pressing against my cheeks.

  “Shay? ... Are you okay?”

  The way his essence is uniting with my skin, it’s so ... personal. Like he’s checking me over in a manner his hands could never achieve without draining all the fluids my body needs to function.

  That touch veers from my cheeks, trails across my left shoulder, down my arm. My lungs fill with stone as my gaze traces the specter of his touch until it lands around my wrist; around the cupla partially visible beneath the cuff of my shirt.

  He makes a soft clicking sound that stiffens my spine before the sensation whips back, and I watch the tendrils of his form flit about—a hypnotic dance that looks anything but peaceful.

  He knows I’m leaving him.

  The realization is a boot to the chest.

  I roll onto my knees and inch closer. “Shay—”

  The shadows cloaking his face recede, revealing the starched face of his inner self—those small, beady eyes like tacks.

  I pause.

  Their regard pokes at me. Scrapes at me. Digs at me.

  His milky lips peel back, exposing his maw. Again, that clicking sound spikes out of him, assaulting me in little airy bursts that chip at my bones.

  He’s angry with me.

  Guilt pools in my belly and weighs me down, threatening to derail all my good intentions ...

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he makes this acute hissing sound that slays my heart. “Shay, you don’t understand. I have to g—”

  He flattens against my Safety Line, sending me tumbling back onto my ass.

  “NO!”

  The word shatters out of him like it was forced through a throat that wasn’t built to shape words.

  My mouth pops open in silent shock as I look up at my friend, heart in my throat, eyes wider than they’ve ever felt before.

  That sable gaze softens, a squeaking sound leaks out, and then he wilts ... folding into himself until he’s no longer hanging over me. His face vanishes behind that smoky veil, and I taste his shame in the air between us.

  “Shay, it’s okay,” I say, lifting off the ground in increments. “I understa—”

  He shrieks, darting through the trees.

  I spin to see Baze charging across the vast grounds with storms in his eyes, and I panic, flinging the mouse in Shay’s general direction before sweeping my acorns into the empty jar and kicking the evidence of my shucking beneath a pile of leaves. I shoulder my bag and stand, muttering a long line of profanities as I stalk into the open with my stare stuck to the ground.

  I know I can’t avoid him, but perhaps he’ll take note of my body language and let me pass without luring me into a conversation I don’t want to have.

  “We need to talk, Orlaith.”

  This day can go to hell.

  “I have no interest,” I mutter, barging toward the castle.

  “I rescued Tweddle Dick and Tweddle Dumb from your ... Tangle.”

  My feet stop of their own accord, mimicking the motion of my heart. I spin, hands bunched into balls as I strike him with a venomous stare. “And?”

  His eyes widen, a muscle in his jaw pops, and it’s hard to ignore the shock of his tired, disheveled appearance—like he’s wearing all my internal bitter on his outside.

  His shirt is crumpled, hair a mess, pants stained ...

  “You’re spiraling.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Arms crossed, he pins me with a scrutiny that digs all the way to the bone. “You’ve never been very good at lying, you know.”

  “Unlike you.”

  My words are arrows, and I can tell they find their mark by the way his attention spears to the rumbling sky.

  He sighs, studying the turbulent clouds, and I can sense Shay watching from a puddle of shadow between two gnarled trees.

  “Hovard just left a gift in your tower,” Baze drudges out, turning wary eyes on me again. “Something Cainon instructed him to make in your size.”

  I frown. “Well ... what is it?”

  “A gown,” he says, brow arching. “Fashioned from cobweb silk that’s stained Bahari blue.”

  All the fight drains out of me as my shoulders drop ...

  Shit.

  His head cants to the side. “You look uncomfortable. Is it the gown or the color?”

  Earthen eyes glimmer with scarcely veiled amusement that nibbles at my composure, nerves, and patience.

  “The gown,” I hiss, and his low chuckle fills the void between us with all the humor of a laughing rock.

  He dashes through my personal space with his well-oiled gait. “Lie,” he growls, breath hot on my ear before he lands his shoulder into my own and sends me stumbling.

  By the time I’ve regained my composure, he’s gone.

  The dress has all the modesty of a deciduous tree in the fall.

  I stare at the gift like all those long, deep blue tendrils dusted in gold are going to peel off the mannequin and strangle me. The bands are artfully placed to emphasize the female form and flounce her ... assets.

  I had no idea this was the fashion of the South. If I had, I may have found a different way to secure those ships. Pirated them, or ... something.

  Anything.

  Hindsight has a cruel sense of humor.

  Brushing a hand through the skirt, I wonder how I’m expected to move in this thing if everyone can see my undergarments every time I take a step. Or perhaps I’m not supposed
to wear any, and this dress is intended to offer glimpses of something untouchable.

  Something that belongs to another male.

  Putting space between the garment and me, I stare at it with a renewed surge of disgust. One pull on any of the strips crisscrossing the front or back and the entire thing would flutter to the ground. Though that’s probably the point. For it to rip and fall in a careless heap before bodies join and—

  “Stop,” I snap, the word battling a resounding crack of thunder. “Pull yourself together, Orlaith.”

  I tie my hair into a heavy knot and unbutton my top. It falls to the ground, and I begin unbinding my breasts, tossing the length of stretchy material aside before pushing my pants and underwear down.

  Standing in nothing but my masked skin, I unclasp the garment, a fraught sigh slipping out. The dress is featherlight, and I struggle with the concept that something representing so much weighs so very little.

  I step into the waistband, fastening the clip at the small of my back, brows pinched as I try to solve the rest of it. It takes a few tries, but I finally find the right holes to slip my arms through, managing to fasten it between my shoulder blades without the help of a second pair of hands.

  In a flutter of Bahari blue and gilded trimmings, I edge toward the mirror and meet my reflection.

  My insides gutter, the strong line of my shoulders softening.

  “Oh my ...”

  Bands slice across my body like licks of navy paint, covering me yet ... not. You can still see the outline of my nipples, peaked from the pinch of cold, my under breasts entirely exposed.

  The lines sweep and swirl, complimenting my shape, emphasizing the parts of me I’ve tried so hard to hide. And when I shift my leg or move about, little slivers of my bum are exposed.

  Sex. This garment has painted me in sex.

  I try to clear the lump in my throat, my cheeks pinched a shade of pink from the fire sizzling my veins. I’ve spent most of my life hiding from my reflection, but now I want to avoid it for an entirely different reason.

  Shame.

  Red-hot, burning shame, because this dress has made something abundantly clear ...

  I’ve sold my body.

  The distant sound of a horse whinnying travels through the open window, holding a distressed cadence that has me turning from the mirror and dashing toward the door in long, ass-revealing strides. I pull it open and step onto the balcony, assaulted by a blow of icy wind.