65. Sixty Two
Sixty Two
Eden
The world, along with its woes, disappear. It’s only the two of us, swallowed in the damp arms of the storm.
For a moment, I tell myself that he’s only sleeping. Creed, beautiful boy that he is, will be dreaming soon. Dark brown lashes, pointed to the heavens. Dapples of freckles—a map I’d followed endlessly on nights I couldn’t sleep. Lips a soft pink, prone to curling into mischief-laced smirks.
His eyes are unseeing—open and listed towards the sky. Digging my fingers into his flesh, I search for a heartbeat. The rise of a breath. Anything. But they’ve vanished. Only silence, and calm, as the world carries on like nothing has happened.
But it has. And as I know he was good, and just, and undeserving of this fate, I know that atonement rests in the depths of my being, waiting to be called upon.
The hand on my soul is eager, awaiting concession.
This time, I don’t fight. It snatches my lungs, forcing out air in an agonized cry.
My scream carries up into the clouds and out across the dust. The rain pours now, cleansing Creed’s body and carrying away his blood in a current that defies the scorched Earth.
Wail after wail, my life—my heart—splits in two, shredded and incomplete. The power cascades, my voice a conduit for the sorrow with no place to call home.
The sky shatters, opens. Light flashes in unrelenting bolts, and the ground rumbles deep in its core.
The world leans into my sorrow, bowing to it.
Rain pelts like shards of glass, slicing into my skin.
But the storm is my own, and I feel no physical pain.
Not when there’s so much to be felt in my heart.
You know the end.
Glancing at the sky, I curse the Fates. I curse my Father, and my Mother, and all that played a part in the demise of Creed Bastien.
But I cannot challenge the Fates. Nor my Father. My mother.
Someone must pay the price. And it will be my face, my pain, my anguish, that they look upon as they sink into the depth of whatever Hell their souls were born from.
Like a thread, I wrap my Gift around my fist and stall it.
My fingers are stiff as I close his eyes. I can feel the lack of him. This was merely a placeholder. He is somewhere else now.
I meant my words. I will find him.
Slipping my fingers into my shirt, I grip the golden chain that sits against my breastbone. I take my time undoing the clasp, uncurling his freezing hand and pressing the metal against the life line that resides on his palm.
With one last lingering press of lips, and a promise to return, I rise onto steady feet. My fathers words, piercing time and space, whisper into my ear, an echo of what I heard all those years back. In the storm, with the limp nestling in his palm.
You must have mercy on the Damned, Eden.
So I will.
I’m aware of the ground beneath me as I make my way towards the Sanctuary, but I do not feel it. I don’t feel a thing, other than the energy crackling in my veins, ready to release.
Ready to bring Balance.
So I float—shoulders back, face calm—toward the once-church. A place for salvation. It’s ironic, isn’t it? That they would meet their demise in the place they felt safest.
The wind is nefarious, bending starved trees and whistling through the vast space. But for me, it parts down the middle, welcoming my arrival. Rounding the building, I head straight for those arched double doors. A gust of air slams into them, busting the entryway open on my behalf.
As soon as I step inside, it slams shut behind me.
Bare footed, I leave wet prints along the shining marble floors. With each passing of a sconce, the light within it bursts, the corridor falling further and further into the shadows.
The muffled sound of hurried voices wisps down the hall, coming from the doors Cecil and I entered that night. The same room where they killed that boy.
Emory. His name was Emory.
There’s a moment when the door swings open on its own volition, that I swear I see that boy, holding it open for me. Neck at an unnatural angle, eyes utterly black, and an eerie grin on his face. When I blink, he’s vanished.
But I am not alone. Men, dozens of them, face me. Some appear shocked, others pleased. They’re gathered, standing between pews, gazing at the bloodshed. The old man, their leader, is nowhere to be seen.
At the dais are people I recognize. Some of our own.
A few bound, a few dead, and a few pleading for their lives.
The vision does nothing to rattle my nerves.
If anything, I settle further into this semi-lucid state, heartbeat slow and steady.
Absently, I wipe a trail of rainwater that runs down my temple.
“Holy shit.” The snicker comes from the back of the room. I zero in on a bald head, polished and refracting light from the candles lit around the room. “She escaped.”
A mirror hangs on the wall beside me, and I cast a sidelong glance at it.
The hair of my braid has unraveled, clinging to my face, neck, and shoulders like soaked serpents.
Gone is any color from my already pale face, leaving my pallor cotton white.
And my eyes… have gone black. No color to be seen.
The corner of my lip quirks, and I turn my attention back to the expectant gazes and bated breaths.
“Yes,” I say, voice brittle as the droughted flora. “She has.”