Victorian Tale
Page 13
Feel the sinews of his muscle, the sticky wetness of his blood, the struggling and wriggling of a gasping fish on a hook.
His Pulse is going haywire.
It’s trying to fight hers off, but Malek is relentless.
He’s breaking every needle, cracking through every strand of it, forcing it to dissolve.
In the end, it collapses into a liquid, dripping onto the floor, on her Pulse.
And his blood drenches her back as her Pulse slowly, purposefully churns his corpse into grime, red and pink and black paste to be hosed off the floor.
It twists on her spine quite unlike any biological limb, a tornado of razors, and swirls its lethal dance through his life force.
And then it’s over.
Suddenly there’s nothing.
It’s just her.
Standing alone, in an empty stadium.
She turns around and sees nothing but blackness.
And even then, it’s fading.
It’s dissolving into thin air.
There’s not a drop of blood on her.
Well.
Excluding her own.
She touches her head dizzily, almost drunkenly, feeling her hair, short and messily cut, as jagged as she feels.
There’s energy buzzing in her throat, in her chest, in her fingers.
She clutches her mouth and looks to the heavens.
Malek.
just close your eyes, victoria.
and enjoy it.
She closes her eyes.
And does.
50
But she cannot enjoy it for long.
Someone is laughing.
Softly.
So softly that for a moment, she thinks it’s Malek.
But then she realizes the laughter she’s hearing is not as harsh as his.
It sounds almost like an echo.
She looks up.
And sees a man in the stadium.
Peering through broken glass at her.
A gentle smile on his lips.
Almost…patronizing.
She stares up at him for a long time.
Neither of them move.
Malek watches him carefully, a predator eyeing another for any sudden movements.
The man, amused, seems almost aware of Malek.
His piercing gaze cuts deep, slicing through the fleshy surface layer and finding the soft, sloppy insides.
It picks apart her defenses and knows that she is unusual.
She feels him in the dark place too.
Laughing at Malek, who bristles.
Malek, do you know him?
“I knew they were going to meet their end someday. I just never thought it would be in such a satisfying manner,” the man says. “I can’t imagine anything more fitting.”
Victoria doesn’t answer.
What is he doing here?
Who is he?
Malek knows something.
He doesn’t quite recognize this man.
He doesn’t know him.
But he knows of him.
And his unease puts her on edge as well.
She tightens her fists and crouches slightly, prepared to defend herself, but he merely waves at her.
“Your work is done…for today, love. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to check on a few…old friends.”
“Those assholes were your friends?” Malek says through her mouth.
The man makes a noncommittal gesture.
Victoria, adrenaline still pumping, briefly considers killing him.
Just briefly.
But to her surprise, Malek shakes his head.
he’s right. that’s enough for today, isn’t it?
The man puts his hands up.
“Swear on my right hand,” he says. “I won’t hurt you. Or try and stop you from leaving.”
She glares at him.
But she’s also tired.
Tired of being angry.
Tired of being frantic and unsure of herself.
Tired of being afraid and unafraid.
Tired of feeling and not feeling.
She wants a place to stay.
To be quiet. To have quiet.
To be left alone.
To not think.
To not…exist, perhaps.
She backs away from him.
She wants to go home.
home?
and where is that?
Malek almost sounds mocking.
But as he says it, she senses that he is asking his question genuinely.
Home.
Where is that?
Where do I…do we belong?
With them? My family?
I’ve never belonged.
If home is a feeling, not a residence, then where is it?
Will I find it?
Do I want to find it?
What am I now?
Where do I belong?
It can’t be here.
But it can’t be there.
Her head is buzzing with questions; her heart is overwrought.
Now that the fight is over, she’s a scared little girl again.
She just wants to go home.
She’s used all of her strength.
And now the hardest part.
Finding somewhere to rest.
To come to terms with a new…life (so to speak).
you may never find it.
She shushes him.
The man tilts his head at her.
“To think,” he says softly. “I’d find new life…in the Mausoleum. Of all places.”
She squints at him.
But he almost seems to disappear, vanishing in midair before she can get a good look at him.
As she leaves the arena, she comes to a set of stairs that take her to a dilapidated lobby.
There are holes in the walls, slashes, claw marks.
She barely notices any of it.
All she cares about is the golden sun, shining its hopeful beams in dazzling diamonds across the floor.
She reaches for it with bloody fingers outstretched.
Her hair blazes not red, but white.
End of Part One.