Chapter Mine
Mine
M
ost of my time has been spent trying to understand Ma. Countless times, I’ve reread the three journal entries I stole from her study. The ink is etched into the back of my eyelids. Closing my eyes always brings her vision—her words, her form, her presence.
The boy’s presence fills my mind, like fog at the top of a mountain.
“You’re torturing yourself.”
“What if I deserve it?” I retort. “I should have seen it sooner…”
“You don’t have to see anything.”
I close my eyes, reaching for the boy. Even in the realm of my mind, I’m still clutching Ma’s journal entries. I hold onto them tightly, as if they might be swept away by the wind, and my nails dig into my palm with the strength of my grip.
“This is proof,” I say. “It’s proof that she would use a person to power that weapon, even if it kills them. It’s proof that I was wrong about Ma my entire life.”
The boy stands up from my bed, walking toward me with tentative steps. He reaches for my cheek, but I flinch, and he slowly lowers his hand, frowning.
Taking a soft step back, he nods. Though he exists only in my mind, I start to sense him as I do others. I think he’s afraid of losing me to this.
“What you have is a glimpse of her mind when she was eighteen. It isn’t proof, it’s an idea, a journal. It’s the impulsive inklings of a teenager, immortalized by a pen.” His tone is soft, gentle. It’s hard to reconcile that he’s a part of me—I’m never this gentle with myself.
I step past him, falling onto my bed. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Am I losing myself to this?
“That’s good,” the boy says, sitting next to me. “It means you’ll find something new.”
?
I go far into the woods—far enough that I don’t have to feel anyone. There are the trees, and there is quiet.
It’s all I want.
It’s all I hope for.
I sit in the grass, running my hands through the blades and sipping the silence.
It could be peace—until the pain hits.
I reach for my torso, trying to staunch the blood. But there is no blood. Not mine, at least.
I rise, searching for the sensation. I hardly last a second until I feel it again—claws digging into my gut. I crash to my knees, collapsing against the sharp rock. But the borrowed pain is far worse than the bruise and blood.
The terror shrivels my insides more than the gut-curdling scream. On shaking legs, I stand, walking toward the fear, the pain, the hollow ache in my chest. It’s beyond the protective barrier but I go anyway, unaware of my own insanity.
Each step brings another emotion. A cry escapes my choked throat, a feeling of remorse. A deep devastation.
But I can’t find anything.
The ground begins to shake. Heavy footsteps approach. Could there be an army out here? Nothing else would rock the world with such strength.
My limbs hang heavy, longing to fall to the floor as exhaustion overwhelms me. Then, a monster races by. A towering beast, limping.
Exhausted.
Its bright eyes meet mine, gray fur glinting in the sun, as it passes by me.
The pain in my torso makes sense as I set my gaze on the monster’s blood soaked claws.
It attacked someone.
If I could, I would run to them. They’re likely bleeding out—dying. But between that and the monster’s ache, it takes all I have left to stay on my feet.
I stumble through the woods. My body twitches. My head swims with sensation, none of it my own. I fall against a tree, harsh bark biting into me. My fingers tighten around the wood, splintering my skin. The pain is nothing, now. There’s too much in its way. I pull myself up.
And I fall again.
I cry, not understanding why.
Force myself to my feet.
Hardly can stand.
Walk, then fall, and walk again.
Until, at last, I spot Lucian.
My legs give out, dropping me before the scene of the crime.
He is the pit in my stomach, the knife in my chest.
I’ve never felt more distraught in someone else’s life.
He picks someone up, and I spot the blood—the girl’s stomach is slashed open. Ivory bone shines beneath her torn skin. Lucian tucks her closer to his chest.
It’s Lilac, his sister, his torment. I’m surprised her guts are not spilling out.
They’re barely being held in.
First, I cry. For everyone else.
Then, I lean over and puke, unaware if it’s on account of the gore or the emotion churning in my stomach.
It’s difficult to pull myself back up.
Lucian runs, leaving Aralia in his wake, kneeling over the puddle of blood. I try to leave, but Aralia turns.
“Please don’t leave me,” she says. “Don’t leave me alone.”
I freeze. Friendship has never been my forte.
I’ve known Aralia for years. She’s my suitemate. I’ve scarcely talked to her.
I clutch onto the scraps I know.
“You two were friends,” I say, talking about Lilac. The girl gowned in gore. “Weren’t you?”
I know the truth perfectly well.
Calista’s version of it.
Aralia’s stomach pumps up and down until the tears win the fight, then she chokes on her cries the way I think I might if I was in a similar position.
“Yes,” she sobs.
I sigh over what I have to do, then I walk to her despite my reluctance. I put my arm around her torso and get her to her feet while she sobs. We have to get within the barrier. I don’t know what hurt Lilac, but I can’t risk it hurting Aralia.
I can’t risk not being able to save another person.
I’ve known Aralia since I was ten. When we became teenagers, she left for two years—to the all Folk academy, Acansa—then came back to the suite like nothing happened. We never talked much. I wonder if we should have.
My hands run along Aralia’s dark, untamed hair, smoothing down the wisps. “She’s going to be all right,” I say.
People find comfort in lies, even when they know how untruthful they are.
Even when they are aware how little the other person knows.
I do not have a clue what will happen to Lilac.
Aralia knows that.
She sucks in strange, gargled breaths as I pull us beyond the barrier. I head to the academy, but Aralia stops me, asking, “Can we sit?”
I nod, setting her on the ground. We sit for a long while, and I try to get a clear read on her emotions.
I can’t—she’s a jumbled mess.
Sitting in the silence is worse than awkward; it’s debilitating. With every breath, I feel the pain in her lungs, the grief in her ribs.
But I know the Eunoia; I know how we are trained. The healers here will do everything to save Lilac. She’s the princess of Ilyria, and they don’t have a choice.
After a bit, Aralia’s lips wobble as she asks, “Can you say something?”
I look up, meeting her gaze with shock. “Like what?”
“Something surprising.”
I stare at her. I don’t have many surprising facts in my arsenal, nor do I have an abundance of social skills. I say the one thing I can think of: “I’m a virgin.”
Aralia laughs for half a second. Then she cries. Her tears are followed with: “I said surprising.”
I narrow my eyes at her. I’m not sure why I feel offended. “Why is that not surprising?”
“You don’t talk,” she says, “let alone get laid.” Moments pass us by before she asks, “What’s it like on Eunaris?”
My home world. The world where Ma was killed.
But that isn’t what Aralia is asking. She’s only searching for a distraction—and somehow, it’s working for her. She’s able to center herself when she’s focusing on something other than herself.
“Are you worth more pence if you’re a virgin?” Aralia says, cracking it like a joke—though unease edges her words.
Or… is it mine?
“That’s not how Folkara works,” I say, though it comes out like a question.
“Not anymore.” She swallows, shudders, then shrugs. “How does Eunaris?”
“They don’t teach you?” I ask. They teach us about Folkara. I figured the Folk would learn the other worlds’ customs. They govern over them, after all.
“Not really.”
If they’re not teaching the Folk about us, what are they doing?
“We’re all equal,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows. “I mean, obviously not equal to the Folk and the Lyrians, but amongst each other there’s no hierarchy.”
Aralia wipes her tears. “So why the fuck did you come here?”
I shrug, pulling at my gloves. “My mom.”
“She made a mistake.”
I sink inside of myself, wishing I could shrink in further. Leave the shell of me behind and never return again. As always, this person across from me is oblivious to how their words make me feel.
“What’s your deal?” Aralia asks. “Why do you never talk?”
“Is this helping?” My tone is a bit too harsh. “Talking about me?”
“Yes.” Aralia crosses her arms over her chest, and a feeling I know like no other fills me. It’s almost comforting, her hesitancy. It feels like my own.
“What’s worse?” I ask, meaning the question genuinely. “Never talking, or not knowing how to talk about yourself?”
Me or you?
Aralia looks into my eyes, and with more casualness than the two words deserve, says, “Fuck you.”
The playful nature in which she meant it almost makes me smile.
Or perhaps I did smile, because Aralia smiles back.
“The former sounds worse,” she answers. “I’d rather nobody know me than be lonely.”
I give her a sidelong glance. “Isn’t that what loneliness means?”
Aralia shrugs, answering, “Only when you’re alone.” I must have a knack for getting people to tell me odd little details about themselves, because she follows with, “The two people who knew the most about me left.”
Half of that is a lie. The lie makes her feel better.
I know what the lie is, but only because of Calista. She stopped talking to Lilac and Aralia after her parents found out about Lilac. After that, Aralia did the same.
Calista hates that they’re all alone now.
She was forced to leave Lilac, but she wishes that Aralia and Lilac still had each another.
Or, she did.
“Me too,” I say, to be of comfort. But she isn’t talking about death.
“I’m tired of this conversation.” Aralia leans back.
I can still see the pieces of Calista in her. It’s hard to rid yourself of someone you loved. They stay, long after they’re gone, in the same way that dead things decay. They turn to fuel, soil, food.
They become your world.