Chapter 12
The echoes of forgone calamity are the first thing she hears as she opens her eyes against the void. But, as she blinks to make sense of the situation she is in, walls begin to rise around her. Thick, slightly cracked, stone walls.
They open their eyes – milky-white and lifeless – and stare down at her kneeling form.
The ground beneath her moves. No, it slithers. It shifts like it’s formless; unstoppable.
She looks down, and sees nothing but ink-black water under her. It swims past her – unaffected by the intrusion she’s caused by being there.
“Come to me,” a lithe voice, boundless of any direction, whispers to her. “Come to me…”
She lets go of a breath, and watches as puffs of air slip past her lips, and that’s when she realizes that it’s cold in here.
So very cold.
Chilly breezes blow over and around her, making her shiver. She attempts to stand, but stumbles against the stiffness in her body. The long, flimsy silk dress she’s wearing, is doing nothing to aid her from the onslaught of cold. It bites into her skin and makes her teeth clatter.
The walls are still staring at her, as if expecting her to do something.
And so, she does. She gets to her feet.
Wobbling, grunting, yet successfully, she manages to stand, and feels the nebulous fingers of the still-flowing water brush her calves and ankles.
“Come closer…” The voice urges.
She takes a hesitant step forward, and the walls begin to shift. They hiss, as if upset, and start closing in on her.
She takes another step forward. One more. Then two.
Another.
And another.
She finally reaches the very edge of the path – where even the water seems to not flow – and glances below. At first, nothing but absolute darkness meets her gaze – bold and unrelenting – but as she peers deeper into the nameless abyss, a hand rises from within it.
An eerie, too-thick silence blankets the air around her, making her swallow.
A wave of icy wind brushes by her, rustling her long, rose-pink hair.
She shifts on her feet, which results in soft splashes of water to echo through the quiet.
The hand reaches out to her further, and curls its dainty fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Cignette…”
That voice…
She recognizes that voice.
It’s a thing of calculating menace; a tune she knows just as well as she does the rhythm of her heart.
The walls rumble restlessly around her, resulting in goosebumps to mar her skin.
“Cignette…” that voice calls again. “Come to me.”
She bends slowly and inspects the darkness, but can see nothing except for the eager hand calling out to her.
“You mustn’t keep me waiting this long, dear,” the voice says. “I yearn for you so…”
She blinks at the words; tries to understand the desperation they hold.
She knows that voice, but…but why can’t she put a name to it? Why can’t she remember who it belongs to?
“Cignette!” There’s an urgency in the voice now, one that makes her instinctively move forward and reach a hand out to the one that’s waiting for her in the darkness.
The walls shake, as if enraged by her move, but as she turns her head to look at them, they begin to scream. They bellow in pain, more like.
The sound causes ripples in the water. It vibrates against her very bones with its intensity.
She gasps and straightens, and watches, with fear gripping her by the throat, as the walls open their toothless mouths and continue to scream.
And then, as if something inside of them has snapped, they shriek, and blood begins to pour out of their mouths, followed by gore and rotten fungi.
It flows in streams of revolting disarray, making her take a few steps back – away from the darkened edge.
Their eyes, lifeless only a few moments ago, now flash with a single, evidently clear emotion: pure agony.
She places the back of her left hand over her nose as an intolerable, decaying smell fills the air. It’s unmistakably strong, so much so that it makes her eyes water.
She tries to breathe through her mouth, but ends up gagging when the smell heightens upon the walls’ continuous state of duress.
It’s almost like she can taste the rancid and blood-dripping skin in her mouth with the way the stench hits her tongue, and it takes all her patience to not heave all over herself.
“Come to me!” that similar voice yells, but it’s drowned out almost immediately by the constant howls of the walls.
They clash against each other as if trying to push away the pain they’re experiencing, but it’s a fruitless effort.
They seem to be trapped in a maze of agony, and she has no idea what she can do to ease them out of it.
Because really, it was hurtful watching them struggle like this.
“Cignette!”
She swallows and returns her attention to the edge.
“Take my hand; let me get you out of this mess,” says the voice. “You do not deserve this. You know you don’t.”
The screams get louder, and she has no other choice but to retract her hand from over her nose and bring it to her ear. It’s too much… God, it’s simply too much.
“Listen to me, Cignette,” the voice urges. “Let me lead you out of here.”
“Who are you?” she finally manages to speak, and even though her words are scratchy, they still hold firm against the havoc she’s standing in the middle of. “I recognize your voice, but I…” She shakes her head a little. “I can’t remember who you are.”
“You know me,” the voice answers. “More than anyone else in the world, you know me the most, Cignette.”
“I–” She stops when she hears it – sharp, consistent flapping of wings.
The formless ground beneath her trembles, and the walls – still lost in their own demise – start falling apart in various forms of debris and ruin.
“Time runs short, Cignette,” warns the voice. “You must hurry.”
She brings her right arm forward, then second-guesses her move and pulls it back. But when she again glances around at the ongoing destruction, she reluctantly steps forward.
I may fall into yet another trap, but at least I’ll get out of this one, she thinks to herself.
A probable risk to avoid watching the end of…of whatever this is.
She’s about to place her hand over the one awaiting her in the darkness, but stops and turns around when a piercing cry cuts through the chaos.
The cry of a raven.
It flies over to her – majestic and fearless – before perching gracefully over a misshaped boulder a few feet away from her.
Cignette watches the raven with keen interest. She studies it.
It tilts its head and watches her back – more relaxed than alert, as if it knows exactly where it’s supposed to be.
She’s fascinated by it; drawn to its endless, midnight-blue eyes.
She runs her gaze over its obsidian feathers, and its strong talons that grip the stone to keep it standing.
Her lips twitch, right before she smiles a little, and the raven, in turn, widens its chest, while its gaze all but twinkles as it shifts in her direction.
She can’t understand why she’s so captivated by the bird, but somehow, she is; she simply can’t help it.
She pushes a long strand of hair behind an ear, then moves toward the raven. Her feet are steady as she keeps reducing the space that separates her from the beautiful bird.
She moves closer, and the raven watches her in silent anticipation. She stops when she’s in front of it, and then reaches out a hand before slowly, almost tentatively, running the backs of her fingers over the side of its neck.
The raven leans into her gentle touch, which makes her smile again.
Her knuckles graze its beak, and it all but croons in return.
But, it’s when she’s about to kneel in front of it so that she can get a closer look at it, that it happens; that she’s propelled backwards.
She’s pulled away from the bird with such force that a piercing scream rips its way out of her throat.
The raven screams with her, and she hears the agitated flaps of its massive wings as she starts to lose her footing.
She falls, and is immediately hit in the face with the unforgiving stream of water she was standing amid.
Frost-like droplets cut through her skin, and when she tries to stand, something grabs ahold of her ankles.
Claws.
Cold, calloused claws.
The grip they have on her ankles is awfully painful, and as she scrambles to get away from them, they yank at her again, making her slip further towards the edge behind her.
“No!” she cries, still slipping, and then looks at the raven, whose agony is clear in its now-watery eyes.
She’s wet; she’s shivering from the cold around her.
Her lips are dry; her tears, not so much.
Her hair – soaked and tangled – sticks to the sides of her face, and her neck.
She stretches an arm towards the raven, just as talon-like nails pierce the skin of her already bruised ankles.
She can feel the blood flowing through her punctured flesh, but she grits her teeth against the burn and tries to pull her upper body forward in an attempt to get away from whatever it is that is trying to pull her down.
“Let me go!” she yells, and her voice echoes aimlessly against the darkness that now surrounds her. “Fucking let me go!”
A sudden yank takes her off guard, bringing her further toward the danger – in such a way that her waist remains pressed against the edge, whereas her lower body dangles over it.
A flash of prismatic light catches her eyes, but she doesn’t shift too much, so as to avoid falling completely. And then, a hand – strong, familiar, and inviting – reaches out to her.
The raven is nowhere to be seen, but this hand – it reminds her of someone. Who, she cannot recall.
She quickly places her right hand over the offering one, and sighs just a little at the warmth of the skin that meets hers.
She’s being pulled forward, but then, that agonizing grip on her ankles returns. It’s firmer now. More assertive.
Cignette tries to kick at it, but it’s fruitless. She thrashes against it, but it only rewards her with more wounds.
Pain – there’s so much of it; in such abundance. She’s being stretched apart from different directions, and it’s hard to say which one of the two is actually her saving grace.
Yank, pull.
Forward, backward.
A forceful jolt. A persistent tug.
It’s too much.
She squeezes her eyes shut and prays that it’ll stop. She doesn’t want this anymore. She doesn’t fucking deserve this.
Another pull. Another yank.
She’s crying now. She’s tired.
“Stop,” she whispers through her sobs. “Please, just…just stop. It hurts.”
But it doesn’t stop. If anything, it grows in power.
She begs, she screams, and then she begs some more, but nothing works.
And in the end, there’s only the cries of her agony as she’s being ripped apart. And blood.
So much of it.
Warm, tasteful, and enticing.
She’s drenched in it; she’s made of it.
Until all that’s left of her is her name.
Cignette.
Cignette…
Cignette.
Cig–
I gasp and sit up in bed. I’m shaking, sweating. My heart is racing so fast that I can actually hear each and every one of its beats.
I throw my blanket aside and touch my waist, and then my legs.
I’m fine, I think to myself. I’m fucking fine. It was just a nightmare.
I run both my hands over my face and push my trembling fingers into my damp hair. “Fuck,” I all but exhale the word. “Fuck.”
Fleeting sunlight shines through my curtained balcony slider, and I can hear the occasional chirps of the sparrows, along with the distant chatter of the guards below.
I’m about to lie down again so that I can close my eyes and work on calming my still-wired nerves, but turn when I hear a knock on my door. An almost authoritative and too-loud knock.
I glance at my bedside clock.
7:49a.m.
I swallow and let go of a jaded sigh, because I know damn well who’s on the other side of the fucking door.