Chapter 18
Baby, When We Touch
THE REQUIEM | Present
Iam falling.
Sinking.
Endlessly.
Something beneath me has opened its mouth… and decided I belong inside it.
The void is thick. Wet. Breathing. I try to scream, and black liquid floods my mouth.
My lungs. My throat.
I choke on it and thrash. But there’s no floor. No ceiling. No sky. No God.
Just darkness so complete it feels alive. And hungry.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump. Thump. Behind me. Thump. Closer. Thump. Breathing.
I don’t turn around. I don’t want to know what’s behind me.
I don’t…
“AH!” Cold fingers wrap around my ankle. I scream. I’m not falling anymore; instead, something has strapped me down.
My vision smudges, my breathing harshens. Where am I?
But there’s no one to answer me.
White. Everything is white. White walls. White ceiling. White lights so bright they burn. I can’t move. Leather restraints bite into my wrists. My ankles. My chest. My throat.
I try to pull, but my skin tears. Warm blood slides down my arms. I pull harder, and the leather creaks. My bones ache.
“Please…”
My voice comes out cracked.
“Papa—”
A laugh answers me. And I turn to find a woman standing there. Everything about her is red. Her nails, her lips, her dress, and even her shoes.
I know her. She’s Mama’s friend.
Aunt Aris. She brings me candy. She brings me dolls.
“Aunty Aris?”
Relief crashes through me so hard I almost sob.
She’s here. She’ll help me. She always smells like roses and expensive perfume and the little strawberry candies she hides in her purse when Mama isn’t looking.
She always smiles. Always kisses my forehead.
Always tells me I’m her beautiful little moon.
“Aunty…” My lip trembles. “Please… I can’t move.”
She stops beside the bed. And smiles. Her crimson nails trail slowly over my cheek.
And I flinch at the coldness.
“Aww.” Her voice is soft. “You remembered this part.”
“What?”
I shake my head. “I—I don’t understand—”
She laughs.
The lights above me flicker. Once.
Twice. Again. Again. Again. CLICK.
Darkness.
My breath catches. CLICK.
The lights come back on. And she isn’t alone anymore. My scream dies in my throat. Figures stand behind her. I think they’re doctors. White coats soaked in red. Faces blurred. Skin peeling. Mouths stitched shut. Eyes… their eyes are black.
Empty. Dead. “No…”
My body thrashes. The restraints cut deeper. Blood pools beneath my wrists. And I can’t do anything.
“No…”
My chest hurts. Everything hurts. My wrists. My throat. My tummy. My head. Especially my head.
I pull again. And again. And again. But the straps don’t break. They only bite harder.
Why won’t they break? Why won’t they let me go? I’m good.
I’ve been good.
Mama says good girls don’t cry.
Good girls listen. Good girls smile.
Good girls don’t make messes.
So why am I here? What did I do?
No. No crying. Big girls don’t cry. Papa says I’m brave.
Papa says his little moon is stronger than all the stars.
So why do I feel so small? So… so tiny.
My eyes burn, but the tears still come. Sliding into my ears.
I hate crying lying down. It makes me feel like I’m drowning. I look at the people behind Aunty Aris again. And I wish I didn’t. Because they don’t blink.
Papa says people blink. Papa says monsters don’t. My breathing stops. My heart beats so fast it hurts.
Thumpthumpthumpthump.
What if it breaks? Can hearts break? Do little girls die if their hearts break? I don’t want to die. I haven’t fed Mr. Buttons today. My bunny will miss me. Mama will be angry if I don’t come home. …Will Mama come?
Mama.
Mama will fix it. Mama fixes everything. Mama kisses bruises.
Mama brushes my hair.
Mama sings when I can’t sleep. “M-Mama?”
Please.
Please come.
Please.
I’ll be good.
I’ll eat my vegetables.
I’ll stop hiding my peas under the table. I’ll stop colouring on the walls.
I’ll say sorry.
I’ll say sorry for everything.
Just please come and get me. Please.
Because…
Because the people with black eyes keep staring.
And I think, I think, one of them just smiled, and a scream tears from my throat.
“AH!”
“Selene? Oh my God, Selene, are you alright?”
“Who—who are you? Where am I?” When she raises her hand to touch my wrist, I swat it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m your Mother, darling.”
“No, no, no, no…” I shake my head. “You’re not my Mother. She’s dead. My Mother is dead. She died. She said she’s ill. She said she will not come back. She won’t come back. I know she won’t—”
“Sedate her,” someone says. “She’s not in her senses.”
“She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead,” I repeat.
“I’m afraid not. If we give her any more of this, we’ll be repeating what happened four years ago.”
“Then, do something. ’Cause it’s annoying as hell.”
Four years.
What happened… four years ago? And why…
Why can I smell jasmine? And blood?
Air tears into my lungs.
I don’t recognize it.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I slap her hand away so hard the crack echoes through the room.
My breathing becomes jagged. My skin crawls.
Her fingers are cold. Cold hands.
Dead hands.
Dead…
“It’s okay,” she whispers.
Why is she trembling?
I’m the one scared. I’m the one…
I’m shaking my head before I even realize I’m moving.
“No.” A whisper. It’s from me, I guess. I am whispering?
Why am I whispering? What does it mean to whisper? “No…” My head hurts. My nails dig into my scalp.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it…
“No, no, no, no!”
I scramble backward until my spine slams against something hard. Pain explodes down my back.
I don’t feel anything. Because my Mother is dead. She has to be dead.
She died.
She cried.
She hugged me.
She smelled like jasmine. She kissed my forehead.
Be good for me, Stina.
“She’s dissociating again.”
“Her pupils are blown.”
“She’s resisting the drugs.”
“Well…” The voice is from my nightmare. It’s red and familiar.
Her heels click closer.
Click. Click. Click.
“Wasn’t that the entire point?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. I think I pull a sheet over my face. I can’t see them. I can’t see the dead eyes.
“Her memory suppression is failing.”
“She’s linking sensory triggers. Scent. Touch. Repetition. Childhood anchors. I don’t think it’s going to work, Hannah. We might kill her if something goes wrong.”
Jasmine.
Blood.
Cold hands.
White walls.
“She wasn’t supposed to remember this early.”
“She’s stronger than before,” Aris murmurs. “Or more broken—I can’t tell.”
I clamp my hands over my ears.
But their voices crawl through my fingers. Through my skin.
Through my skull.
“She’s unstable.”
“She’s dangerous.”
“She’s emotional.”
“She’s useful.”
Useful?
Useful for what?
“What about the arrangement?” a male voice asks.
Sharp.
Impatient.
“If she keeps screaming like this, he’ll notice.”
My blood freezes.
He.
“Then we move the timeline.”
“That’s risky.”
“Keeping her conscious is riskier.”
“If her memories return…” A pause. “…we lose the asset.”
“So?”
A syringe clicks.
My body locks.
“Double the dose.”
I think it’s the woman who said she was my Mother. But if she were my Mother, she wouldn’t hurt me.
“Break whatever’s left.”
“Madam Visconti…”
“Try it, Leon. We’ve tried it before, and she has survived. She won’t die that easily. After all, she’s Zagreus Vitale’s wife.”