Murderer, her mind accused with a ominous tone.
Vega slowly shook her head from side to side, unable to deny the truth of the word, but unwilling to accept her misdeeds. I didn’t mean to. Not her, she was my mother, though not by blood. Bill, it was self-defense, he got what he deserved. Her righteous justification burned at the guilt, but not enough to ease her shame.
Without warning, chills raced up her arms and a thin sheath of sweat covered her skin. Her world shifted, and she was lost in the vertigo. Laying her head on the counter, she mumbled, “Not again.”
****
Eurynome was gone, but the damage he had done bled and festered. Yet, even badly wounded, Zane smiled. He could feel Vega, suffering and in need, but there and stronger than she had ever been. The power of his final gift to her in Oaksdale had found its way back to her hand. The small silver band engraved so innocently with tiny rosebuds stretched its power outward. Shining like a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, it beckoned to him.
“Soon,” he promised, “I will come.” Weakened by starvation, the spirit of the death eater raised its head inside of him, the promise of freedom reawakening its hunger.
She was a slave girl, shackled and chained, screaming for the Master, a man with long white-blond hair and cold eyes, to kill her. Her newborn baby had been ripped from her arms moments after birth, and in her heartache, she pounded her head against the mud brick walls of her prison. The hard blows causing her to become dizzy, she fell in a heap on a pile of bloody rags. Seeing the dark skin of her hands as they searched the ground until the thin fingers wrapped around a jagged piece of rusted metal, Vega’s true self cringed.
Even as she whispered, “Please. Please, don’t,” she understood the reason why her dream self would choose to take her life. No woman, no mother, could stand such pain. Her heart, though still beating, ached so fiercely that she felt as if it was being torn from her.
In fiercely wild abandon, she drove the sharp object into her arms again and again. She switched hands as the slick material sliced away at the flesh, leaving gaping wounds behind. Vegas dream self screamed out, cursing the men and women who had condemned her.
****
The fleeting vision of the kitchen, bathed in sunlight, broke through. The bile that had been threatening to come spewed from her mouth, landing in a splattering mess on the dirty tiles. Coffee colored sickness pooled at her feet, as Vega felt herself falling into unconsciousness, once again.
“Someone, please, help me,” she whimpered. “Zane, where are you?
****
A band of heathens had overtaken the wagon, and the air was choked with dust and gunpowder. Her family, the other travelers, and even the horses were dead. War Cries echoed through the empty desert as the savages surrounded her, their roughened hands taking time to pull at her hair and clothes. One of them, his face painted as if a raven had spread its wings across his dark face, had blood smeared through his white hair. The crimson substance made the contrast between color and paleness that much more horrific.
Sneering at her, the man with the raven paint leaned forward—rotted breath stale in the desert heat. In words, she could not understand, he spoke to her as if she were the vilest creature to have ever lived. The fury in his eyes could not be mistaken, though the dried and cracked coating hid his features well.
The man from her nightmares had appeared again, and the real Vega tried to tell the dream Vega to stab him with the knife that was hidden in her sleeve.
Of course, the Vega of the time of cowboys and indians never heard the screams of the girl that dreamed of her. Pulling the short blade out, the tears filled her eyes. There were too many of them, she’d only succeed in superficial damage if she tried to fend them off. Fearing what might become of her as their prisoner, she turned the knife on herself.
The sharp edge dug into her throat as she plunged it into the spot where her heart beat hard against the tender flesh. As an arc of crimson shot outward, splattering the raven man’s face, she whimpered and fell. Death came swiftly, carrying her away into the desert sun on the wings of a black bird, as the man laughed.
****
Her eyes cracked open, and her hands were at her throat. The pain was a fading phantom as it ebbed away, and through a fog of haze, she realized that it had been another dream. Panting and weak, she lay, unable to pull herself up from the cold and dirty floor. Crying and afraid, she felt the sickness come again. Barely able to turn her head in time, she felt the vomit spill from her mouth and slide down her cheek before she slipped away to yet another nightmare.
****
He drove the car recklessly through the streets as she cried helplessly beside him, the pain ripping her heart in two.
“How could you,” she whimpered, all pouty lips and green eyes. Wringing her hands in the lap of her poodle skirt, she couldn’t accept his confident sneer.
“Just shut up, Vega. I’m tired of hearing it. I told you, she didn’t mean anything,” he growled between gritted teeth.
His long white-blonde hair fell in front of his eyes, and she watched him push it back. The dream Vega loathing that he looked so handsome when he did so, and the real Vega screaming that he was the devil.
Unable to handle the sight of him, smug in his knowledge that she loved him too much to leave, Vega moved without thinking. Her hand snaked out, grabbing the wheel. The convertible Chevrolet squealed to the right, and he hit the brakes, but not soon enough. The brick wall exploded in front of them, the metal screeching as it ground into the building and crumpled. The shattering glass was beautiful, a glimmering shower under the streetlight.
Vega’s eyes rolled downward, falling onto the man beside her. He sat, uninjured by the crash, smiling into her face. She tried to be angry, but she couldn’t. The weightlessness would not allow it. The pain was there, clawing to the surface, but not able to fight the haze in her mind. Her real self could see the broken and twisted limbs, could feel the destroyed internal organs, and knew the end was near. However, her dream self only knew that she was dying in vain for trying to take her lover’s life.
****
“Help me,” she croaked out as she tried to swallow another wave of nausea. “Zane.” His name was a dying whisper as her mind returned to the real world and her body began to tremor and shake.
Drugs in the coffee, in the creamer? Her mind twisted, darkness coming again. Did the bastard drug me from beyond the grave? What’s happening to me? No, it’s not the coffee or this would have happened before. The next vision drove those thoughts away as it stormed into her mind like a violent thunder cloud.
****
Her feet were bloody. She could feel the sticky wetness matting her dirty socks to her flesh. The shoes she’d worn walking to town were too large, but it was better than doing without. Didn’t matter anyway, she’d gone to find food for Toby. If he didn’t eat today, he might not make it to see tomorrow. Already, he had the dust pneumonia, brought on by the never ending dust storms that swarmed across the plains, burying everything beneath layers of filth.
As the too thin boy slowly ate the stale bread without complaint, Vega stared hungrily at the crumbs. Her mother had gone already, died the previous spring. Her father had left, looking for work, but he’d never returned. Not a word in two years had come from him. Vega was the only one left to care for her little brother, and she wouldn’t dare let him die in that shack—only ten-years-old. The man from the state was coming soon. They’d said he’d be there in a day or two. She cried thinking about it, the tears leaving muddy tracks on her cheeks whenever she remembered she’d have to say goodbye.
She felt hollow; nothing left in her body but dirt and blood. She couldn’t understand how she’d stayed alive so long. Even the water couldn’t be strained enough to keep it clean. Toby never cried for more food, but she knew he’d saved that last bite for her. She wouldn’t touch it, though. He’d need it for later if the man didn’t come.
She settled onto the doorstep
, the heat and dirt pressing against her as if it were trying to smother the little spark of life she had left. Toby stayed inside, his wracking cough echoing in the small shack as he played with a wooden truck.
“The man will come,” the real Vega prayed.
“The man will come,” the dream Vega prayed.
On the hill, in the midst of the dust storm that clouded the horizon, the man from the state waited and watched. His long white-blonde hair seemed untouched by the filth in the air, and his upturned collar protected his face. Only his piercing eyes would have been noted by any who saw him, but no one came by. No one dared venture into the world when they saw the dust start to move-in.
Only the man, who would come to take the boy, was out there—waiting. His visit prolonged for days by her refusal to die, he was patient, knowing the time would come. A wicked smile curved his hidden lips, and he breathed deep despite the grit. The smell of her death filled the air, and he felt a sense of pride. Guessing she’d kill herself by giving the boy all the food she had to give had been a calculated risk.
Vega saw him, dark coat and white hair, coming down the hill. She’d waited and he had come, but she’d done nothing to save herself. Toby would survive. That was all that mattered. Knowing he was safe, she shut her eyes, and passed from the world of the Great Depression into another nightmare.
****
“Please, please, no more. I can’t take it,” she begged into the echo of her screams. The deaths came in rolling waves, her feeling each one like a cold and violent shadow of the torment that played out in her mind. Fevers burned her brain as chills rippled up her flesh, the nausea rose and fell like waves in a storm. The pain afflicted upon her dream self became as real to her body in the physical world as anything she had ever experienced.
****
She stumbled, her uncoordinated, jerking walk more from the painful sickness than the exhaustion she felt. Cancer, the word spun inside her head, almost sounding as forlorn as the lone train whistle that echoed in the distance.
The real Vega watched, shaking her head in silent horror as the tall and thin version of herself climbed the rocky embankment. She didn’t care when the loose rocks tumbled, causing her to fall and scrape her palms. She barely took the time to wipe the grit from her skin onto her skirt as she struggled upward.
In the distance, the single light from the locomotive winked through the trees and the steam rolling from its tall stack dotted the skyline. Vega’s body trembled from the exertion, but her mind was steady and her will was strong. Death would not take her by force and break her on his wheel.
She lifted her skirts and stepped onto the old trellis, staring down her ever nearing ending, thinking of the young doctor, his words mumbled behind the white mask as he had spoken of months of pain and suffering. He had warned her that she would decay as if she were already dead, his heart stopping blue eyes filled with a strange detachment as he tightened the band in his white hair.
In a final act of defiance, she closed her eyes and stepped forward to meet her doom. In a wave of screeching brakes and popping car hitches, the engineer tried to stop, but couldn’t in time.
****
She didn’t even have the energy left to call his name or struggle to move. Sapped of all strength, Vega let the tears leak down her cheeks as she surrendered to the madness of the visions. The nightmares flooded in, the short periods of consciousness ceased, and she was lost in a movie reel of death stuck on repeat.
****
The rope hung ready, the sound of the sea crashed against the rocks, and Vega stood alone looking out across the ocean. A year, it had been a year. He had set sail despite her pleading. He had promised to return to her, and they’d be married. He asked her to wait at the top of the lighthouse everyday in June, because she would be the only light he would need to find his way back home.
The months had faded from warm to cold, and stood in a lonely December chill. The ocean had turned into a tumultuous and icy pit of despair, and the only thing that had come home to her had been a letter, delivered by a captain with long white-blond hair and haunting blue eyes—a captain who had survived. She read it once more, hating the words on the page as much as she hated the worn lines and tear stains from the many times she had read the shipping company’s apologies. William Tate would not be returning home.
The heavy braids were rough and abrasive against her skin as she slipped the loop over her head. He’d taught her how to tie the knot, never knowing it would end her life. Balancing on the edge of the railing, she stood in the light of the tower for the last time. One last, tearful breath and she plummeted. Twenty feet was there and gone before the yank of the rope and the sound of the sea became a fading thing.
****
The nightmare shifted. Water filled her lungs, his name died on her lips, and the image of the man who had taken his life danced in flashes. The weight on her legs pulled her down, sinking her to the bottom. She tried not to fight. Gulping in the water, she tried to be brave, but instinct took over.
Attempting to kick, fighting to breathe, she struggled. Her heart wanted to die, but her body could not resist the struggle. She’d done the job right, though. There’d be no escape from the heavy chains secured around her ankles. In the depths of the murky river, the city lights glistening from far above, Vega closed her eyes. The last of the air in her lungs pushed its way upward, and it was the end.
****
The real Vega watched another dream version of herself come into focus. She was crying. Her heart broken and her curls in disarray, she begged, “Just a fix, Nathaniel. I will take anything.”
His voice was as cold as his eyes as he talked to her through a crack in the black tinted window, “Church girl, you got yourself a real problem.” Despite the admonishment, he slipped the pack of white powder to her and took the money she offered.
“Thanks, Nate,” she mumbled, as she turned away.
Spoon, lighter, needle, and tourniquet; her lifeline in the crazy world where she existed. No more thinking of her mother wrapped in the arms of the boy she loved. No more thinking about anything anymore. The bliss would come and it would all fade away.
Everything ready, she slipped the needle into the vein like welcoming and old friend. The rush hit like a thousand watts of happiness before it faded quickly away. The lingering joy felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her body. She reveled in the comfort; the pain of her life gone. The world seemed better as she slipped into sleep, a smile upon her lips.
Vega watched her doppelganger’s chest rise and fall. Scared for the girl, but less alarmed than before, because her expression was so peaceful. She wasn’t sure if her dream self would die. There was no pain, no urgency, not even fear.
The needle still in her vein, Vega mumbled in her sleep, and then the unthinkable happened. Her breathing stopped, and didn’t restart. However, she didn’t struggle. Her lips turned blue and her skin showed the oxygen loss quickly, but there seemed to be no pain as she died once again.
****
Adjusted to watching herself die so many times, the real Vega couldn’t help but think with wonder, Dream Vega died with a smile, how peculiar. The thought was barely finished, before another vision struck.
****
The gun was heavy in her hand, the smoke was thick in the air, and the taste of cheap bourbon was fresh on her lips. Her short black hair bobbed against her chin as she swayed to Elton John’s voice on the radio, and when she laughed it was because she hadn’t a clue what the boy next to her had said. Vega’s dream self took another long hit from the joint in her left hand and passed it to the guy with the long white hair next to her.
He nodded, face obscured by a cloud of marijuana smoke, “Now how do you play this game?”
Her laughter came again, carefree and sounding oddly distant, “You just give it a spin, and then put it to your head.” She demonstrated the act, lifting the gun to her temple. “Then you pull the trigger, and pray your ass off that the bullets n
ot in the cham—”
****
Boom! The cell door slammed behind her, the white padded walls looming on all sides, immediately threatening to close in. Almost as soon as her eyes adjusted to the bleached confines of the room, she began to scream. The sound was inhuman, an animal trapped and afraid.
From the walls, the shadows came, crawling and slithering as if from the depths of hell. Dream Vega backed away, pressing herself into the corner as she mumbled and struggled, too drugged to even know what she was seeing was not real. As the shadows crept closer, she screamed louder, but no one came.
The real Vega screamed as well, terrified of the swollen creatures that flopped and inched their way forward with large gaping mouths and yellowed eyes.
A doctor came, peering through the small plexi-glass window, his striking blue eyes and a shock of white-blonde hair all that could be seen.
Dream Vega begged him to help her, begged him to let her out of the room, so she might escape the demons that had come to take her soul. Her fear was an acrid taste of copper on her tongue.
The voice came from overhead, the pop and crackle of the speaker blending with his cool voice, “You are not really seeing demons, Vega. You are ill. It is your mind telling your eyes that these things exist. They are not there.”
Instantly, she raised her fingers to her face, the jagged nails the only weapon she needed to stop the terror.
The real Vega dashed forward, but could not reach her dream self in time. The room seemed to grow longer as she ran towards the girl.
Digging her fingers into the sockets, not feeling the pain and agony that sizzled in the nerve endings, the doppelganger pushed with all of her strength. Blood trailed in rivulets from the sockets and her mouth stretched into a siren’s scream. At last, the eyes went blind, the fleshy pop of the last membrane severed.
Destined to Live (The Death Eater Series Book 2) Page 5
