(2014) Deep Inside

by Jack Parker

  "And that's why you blacked out that one time, when it was really cold," she said, slowly.

  "My body can't handle something like that again." He met her gaze, hard set. "Good enough for you?" She didn't speak, unsure as of what to say. He spoke before she could. "I hate you; And I hate all your fucking people. Just because my father, her goddamn husband, was a General, your people decided to take it upon themselves to 'make a stand' to 'set an example' kind of like what you did with Fallock, right?"

  It was making her burn. "You're the one who made me shoot him."

  "I didn't 'make' you do anything. You wanted to shoot him from the first time you met him but you were always too scared, too scared that you'd get caught. And just look where that got you."

  "Fuck-you."

  "And that's all you can ever say," he continued. "Whenever someone tells you something, whenever someone tries to talk to you about anything, you just throw something in and act like a bitch because you can't face the facts and you just don't want to hear them."

  It was all coiling, choking, ripping off chords, wrapping over the edges and cutting off her circulation. The bonds were tight, spiralled over wrists and veins that pulsated blue and purple, flaring out beneath a luminous light that washed into darkness and clotted over with dark blood caking off festering wounds. "Just shut-up."

  "I will." His voice was calm again, but there was something on the edge. He kicked the fruit bowl and it collided against the wall, shattered. An orange rolled away, stopped by the bars and he turned, pivoted.

  Then left, slamming the door shut behind him.

  * * *

  Night had fallen, dimmed the cell and seeped with an icy cold that washed through and curdled her flesh. It had been a day since the escape attempt, a few hours since her conversation with Cal and with night everything felt so…calm. Why did it feel so calm?

  Nothing was happening –nothing had happened, at all, and the future looked bleak, like a bottomless pit aching fulfilment. Questions raced through her mind, were pulled back by ropes that tightened over the edges and pushed through with hope that flamed, ignited. There had to be some way out, any way out. There had to be something and something had to happen next. There was a future, she was sure there was, a future that lingered and awaited abundance.

  Everything ached, clotted over with tiredness and ripped, slowly, at the pit of her stomach. Everything made her insides rip –Jack, Cal, the escape, everything and so much had happened, so much that she couldn't help but push and bind back and forget.

  Because the best way to get over something was to not think about it, right?

  The best way to get over it was to forget.

  And that's what she had been doing for the past five years, forgetting. She had always had a good memory and she always remembered what she wanted to remember. But with that same ease she could forget what she wanted to forget and it made everything so much simpler.

  Darkness surrounded her and the torch light wavered. She gazed at her hand, could not see it, then up to the pane of glass, high up in the ceiling. All was foggy, obscure, clotted over and Lia backed against the wall, drew her knees to her chest and took in a deep breath.

  There had to be some way out.

  And then she heard footsteps, rapid footsteps. They were approaching. She shot up, hope rekindling. Maybe he had finally decided, with the conversation they had just had. Maybe –

  The door shot open and a figure entered, hurriedly, a gun in hand.

  Carmon.

  Her eyes widened. "What are you –"

  "I'm getting you out." He was tugging at the lock, letting it clang against the bars.

  "You need a key for that, dear," she commented dryly.

  "Oh." He let out a sheepish laugh, fumbled in his pocket and pulled something out. It caught light as he turned it in the lock. Click. Then the door swung open.

  Lia stepped out. "You had one all along."

  "I forgot…"

  She rolled her eyes. He jerked his head toward the entrance, made to the door. "Come on."

  No further words were needed. They left.

  Frosted grass glittered under a starry night. Light caught over milky edges, reflected like shattered jewels strewn over a soft surface and Carmon lay down, outstretched his arms.

  Lia fingered the grass. It was cold, cut like needles, yet it was still so beautiful. "Where are we going?"

  It had been quite easy to get out, seeing as Carmon had drugged the guard beforehand and security was low –they didn't expect another escape attempt one day after the last. Anyway, Carmon was used to these sorts of things; he planned in advance, unlike – She pushed back the thought, to the deepest chasms of her mind. When she was safe and everything was secure, then she would dwell on it and she would check on him. That would be the best time. But, right now, it was about getting herself out. Getting to safety. That was the main priority.

  "Back to the base," he replied, softly. "We'll work it out from there. Michael'll be able to figure something out."

  Led fell to the pit of her stomach. The base –she had to tell him. Lia opened her mouth, about to speak, but was cut off. "Don't you reckon stars are pretty, Li?"

  The words caught her attention. He was asking a stupid question and they had to get away, before someone caught up with them. Why was he wasting time?

  "They're okay," she answered. "But –"

  "Emilie said," he continued, "that no-one's concerned about me. I mean," he corrected himself. "She didn't say it like that, not in a bitchy way, but it made me think and it's lingered and I can't stop dwelling on it."

  "Emilie's a bitch," she said bluntly.

  "No, she's not." His voice was still soft, but it welcomed no argument. "You just haven't given her a chance, but –" He wavered, hesitated. "So much has happened to us, Li. We met like what, three or four years ago? But in that time, it's been like…" He shrugged, then smiled, as if remembering something amusing. "Do you remember the first time we met and you were new to the class? You and Dan were the only Cadlian's in the school, so Dan felt like he had to help you and you became friends straight away." He laughed. "I was so jealous. I hated your guts. I mean, I was like, Dan's my best-friend but he used to always talk about you as if you'd known each other for years."

  She offered a light smile. "You tried to trip me over on my way to English, then Dan had a bitch at you. You guys didn't talk for weeks after that. I felt so guilty…"

  He sat up, raised an eyebrow. "And that's why you glared at me every time I walked past you in the corridor. Because you felt so guilty?"

  She shoved him into the grass, stuck out her tongue. "You did try and trip me over, you know. What did you expect me to do, smile at you?"

  "It would've been nice."

  "That was the first time Jude ever gave me one of his ice glares."

  "Ice glares?"

  "Yeah," she replied. "He hated me for messing up your friendship with Dan, even though it was your fault."

  "Hey, at least I can admit my faults."

  "I can admit my faults." Lia grinned. "I can admit that it was my fault for being so enviable and causing you to hate me, because you were so jealous of me."

  Carmon began to laugh. She joined in, then it dropped and he spoke, voice more serious. "I didn't tell you this before, but I guess –" He hesitated.

  Her curiosity peaked. "What?"

  Carmon fingered the grass, tore at it. "Remember the night Dan died –" She didn't want to remember and it was beginning to tear now. Tear and choke and she wanted him to shut-up before he went any further but he continued, "We were meant to meet him at his place that night, because, I mean, there was a plan –"

  It caught her attention. She suppressed the urge to push it, bury it, because curiosity overcame her. "What sort of plan?"

  "I was going to leave a little early, and then –" He hesitated again, for longer this time, and spoke, finally, choked out the words. "Dan liked you, Li, he liked you a lot. And he was going to
tell you, that night, and he'd been planning it and thinking about it, and –" He cut himself off. No further word was needed.

  And the panging wouldn't stop.

  Silence fell.

  It was beating at her chest, her stomach, and the cords were tightening again, ripping through and choking her.

  Carmon began to speak, shattered the silence. "The night dad died, there weren't any stars."

  Why was he talking about this? Why was he digging up subjects that had been long forgotten, washed over by a tide and buried beneath crumbling sand that swirled round and round before sinking to the deepest chasms of a black sea? But there was something in the way he said it, something in his words that urged her to speak.

  Because he sounded so vulnerable.

  "You can't blame yourself."

  He met her gaze and there was something cold, an emotion that she had never seen before. "Do you think I want to blame myself? Do you think I make myself blame myself? But I can't fucking help it, Li. Because it all points to one goddamn thing. Why did he die? Why did he kill himself?"

  The questions were rhetorical. She knew the answer. "Carmon –"

  "I'll tell you why, because he couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle that he had married a Gredge woman. He couldn't handle that he had two half-caste kids because that's what Jude and I are, Lia. We're half caste –half made. Because that's what the word means, right? Incomplete, half made, dirty."

  She grabbed his arm. "Carmon –"

  "And I wanted to talk about it, Li. I wanted to talk about it so much but you and Jude and everyone; you were all always so –"

  She clasped a hand over his mouth, suddenly, and brought a finger to her lips. There was a sound…crunching. He noticed it, tensed up and his hand slipped into his pocket, tightened over the gun. Lia nudged him, slowly, and they edged further toward the wood where they would reach the shelter of trees. Then they could make a run for it.

  Ice cold needles dug into her flesh and the frost was crunching.

  Shouts, and gunshots rained upon them.

  They bolted.

  Toward the trees and icy wind lashed over her form, seared into flesh but she kept running. She had to keep running. Carmon was ahead, his figure obscure and her legs strained, ached with effort.

  Someone grabbed her arms. Lia kicked , pushed back, and tried to wrench herself from their grasp. They didn't let go, twisted her arms and she screamed out in pain. Carmon stopped, abruptly, pivoted.

  Momentary panic flooded her. "Carmon, just RUN!"

  He was shaking, aimed and shot and whoever had held her fell back, suddenly. Lia wrenched free of his grasp and made forward, but was pulled back. A hand grabbed her foot and shouts from behind became audible. Carmon was aiming again.

  "Just run!" she screamed, screeched out and let her words settle over frost. "If you get away, then you can come back for me later!"

  She kicked at the hand and it pulled her down. Lia fell to the ground and an emotion flickered over Carmon's face, was restrained, and then he bolted into the woods. He disappeared. Figures fell upon her, pulled her from the ground and she kicked, tried to pull free, but to no avail.

  A voice beat through. "Go after him." Cal.

  He stepped before her and a man ran toward the wood. Lia watched his retreating form. Cal dug his hands into his pockets, cocked his head to the side. She didn't notice anything, see anything, because it was all blurring and distorting and nothing was clear anymore and why did she feel so –

  Gunshots. Heavy, beating gunshots in the distance.

  And some sort of shout, a scream of pain.

  "Carmon," she breathed, then screamed, lashed out. "CARMON!"

  No answer.

  They pulled her away, dragged her across crunching frost. And then she looked to the sky, the bleak, dark sky and noticed for the first time what he had been trying to say.

  There were no stars that night.

  For the first time in five years, Lia cried.

  * * *

  The skin vibrated, pulsated with life as the drum-stick beat down, crashed through the room and pounded at ears that heated with blood. The window lay open and an ice cold wind cut through, lashed against plaster and ruffled silk curtains.

  Leigh leaned against the wall, checked his watch. "He's not here yet."

  "No duh." Jude continued to beat, lash out, let the adrenaline pump his form.

  "He'll be here," stated Emilie, her voice clear-cut, adamant. "It's his birthday, he can't –" She shook her head, affirmed herself. "He promised."

  She scuffed the carpet with her shoe. It was red, red like blood.

  Somewhere, far away, a flower shook, held onto wind that slipped and shook from outstretched fingers that seared with life.

  Then died.

  And the petals screeched, were scattered, to the wind.

  CHAPTER 22

  Frost crusted over a window pane, shivered an ice white that blew and cut, scattered like glass tarnished to the wind. It remained turgid and she drew circles over a blackened floor, ignored torchlight that wavered, just barely, trickling over the surface like crystalline water too pure to the touch.

  Everything chimed from the outside, wrapped blistering cords over her wrists and cut off a circulation that remained frozen at the peak of time and was beginning to slowly, so slowly, melt away to be replaced by something softer –a liquid that refused evaporation.

  Lia drew in a breath, leaned against the wall and pulled her legs to her chest. The tears had stopped long ago, tears that until now had remained buried at the deepest chasms of a casket, sunk to the depths of a bottomless well with no rope to pull it out. It all came back, washed over her in one awesome wave that lashed out beneath a heavy storm and refused control.

  Time felt like sand, trickling through gaps beneath her fingers and Lia cast her gaze toward the small window which shone a mocking white. Up until now there had been hope, hidden at the back of her mind and hundreds of plans that filtered through her subconscious, waiting to be carried out.

  But now, for some reason, there was nothing.

  The detachment that up until now had served her so well, had been a part of her that refused dissipation had gone, vanished, to be replaced by one big bleeding gash that stung and bled anew. Or had it always been there to begin with, only she hadn't realized it?

  Everything washed over in a flood of pain and hurt that left her crying and choking with some sort of half-noticeable detachment that still teetered on the edge of her subconscious. Lia felt cold, so cold but at the same time it all felt so hot and stifling. Time was going by so slowly, dragging on and reaching for the next day, but by now she had lost sense of all time and what came next because it didn't feel as though anything would come next.

  When something happened, anything happened, there was always shock and grief and pain and tears, but no-one ever talked about that detachment that came afterwards and if you suddenly silenced then that meant it was all over and all the pain was just over. But time didn't heal like wounds that scabbed, clotted over, before breaking out in a new layer of skin, because wounds like these stayed forever and bled again when broken.

  For most people, time made the pain lessen but by lessening everyone else presumed that it was all gone and that you were over it, but how could you be over it if you had never faced it to begin with?

  And why, whenever anything happened, did she forget it so easily as if it had never happened? Why couldn't she be like everyone else and face it at the time instead of dwelling on it five years later when there was no one left because at the time everyone was there for you but later on they just…weren't.

  Because people are only there at the start and later on they get on with their own lives and forget.

  They can't wait for you forever.

  No one waits forever.

  Guns…death…hatred. Maybe it had been, was, some sort of release, some way of controlling everything that was going on around her and actually doing something inste
ad of just waiting and watching it be done. She hated sitting there and watching everything happen and not doing anything about it.

  But sometimes, she realized, sometimes there was nothing you could do about it. Sometimes you just had to watch everything run its course and just…wait. Patience was something so hard, though. Something so foreign and difficult and it all had to be done and over with so that there would be no stressing and dwelling.