Vision2

by Brooks, Kristi

  He headed toward her, his eyes shinning and his mouth drooling.

  Frenzied fists flew through the air, and he could feel the adrenalin rushing through his body, reinvigorating him as each blow struck her head and chest, causing immediate purple flowers to blossom on her bare skin. What small amount of clothing she’d been wearing when he began his attack had quickly been ripped off, and in their place was a grotesque coat of splattered blood and violet bruises.

  The blood thrummed through his body until the world around him was washed out in a crimson tide of hatred, and he moved with that anger as it crested and ran ashore. When he could no longer lift

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  his arms and his head was leaning against the wall, he stumbled back, his hand trailing along the wall until he fell onto the bed.

  He lay on the bed and stared into the shadow swathed ceiling as he reached for his cloak. When he looked down at his hand, he gasped and pulled it back. The skin on his knuckles had turned a dark brown and was curling up at the edges as it decayed right off his body.

  With deliberate slowness he moved his hand from his face, watching it inch across the bed toward the discarded cloak. He fumbled through the fabric until he was able to grasp and cautiously pull out two vials, one purple and one yellow, the soft tinkle of the connecting glass echoing across the room. He placed the yellow vial on the bed before uncorking the purple one and putting it to his lips.

  As the last drop of liquid slid down his throat he let the vial roll from his fingers and clink across the floor.

  First, the decaying skin completely rotted and pulled away. Underneath, new skin began to lattice itself together and form a thin, baby fine layer. Then, two more protective layers wove themselves together as if small fairies had begun to live and work within his body. Eventually, the toughened green layer bubbled up like a liquid before hardening in place. Darelle lowered his hands and lay against the bed, taking deep breaths and once again watching the flickering shadows as he dropped into sleep.

  He awoke sometime later and found that the potion had worked; rejuvenating everything it had touched. Darelle raised himself off the bed went to the still unconscious Del. Gripping her upper body he pulled her to the bed and leaned her head back, grimacing every time he had to touch the bloody mask he’d just created. Once he was sure the fluid would flow down her throat unrestricted he moved back.

  Her body was covered in abrasive marks, cuts, and bruises. While he was sure her internal organs had also suffered greatly, it didn’t bother him. He was about to repair her. One vial might not fix her numerous problems, but she could stand a little pain.

  Darelle uncapped the vial and poured the shimmering liquid into her mouth, massaging her throat while he did so. Smiling at his god-like powers, he thought about his only mate. He’d lost her a long time ago, and no one would take her place.

  She’d made him weaker than he could afford to be, made him more aware of the suffering of others, and when she’d decided that she didn’t share in his desire for immortality, she’d become a liability. He could still hear her hateful words: “You think you’re a god, but you’re not. You’re nothing more than a brustka who’s too afraid to die.”

  Her death had been his only choice, but he’d relished her glimmering yellow soul in remembrance of what they’d shared.

  As her body reconstituted itself he watched in amazement. It looked like the small amount had been enough to sufficiently heal her wounds. While he repositioned her on the bed, he admired her naked body and how he had granted it to her, allaying the ravishes of time for someone who didn’t even care.

  Tearing off his clothes, he climbed onto her lifeless body and whispered in her ear. “I’m about to kill our son, and it’s time you were pregnant again.”

  Her entire body tensed as she clenched herself together and tried to remain impassive. Those cruel words had broken into her daydream reality. The muscles in her face twitched, and she gave an involuntary wince before sinking back to her passive state. His voice had echoed its message through her haven. He smiled as he mounted her, and the room was filled with his wild grunting as she once again began to bleed.

  Trulle took two jerky steps across the room before turning at the chair and marching his way back to the opposite wall. His father hadn’t been home in hours, and the loneliness of the situation was getting to him.

  Obawok were supposed to be above the emotional neediness of humanity and rely on rational and controlled thought instead of feelings. But none of that was a comfort to him now.

  He stopped pacing and looked to his father’s closed door. It led directly to his sleeping quarters, which were an exact replica of Trulle’s. But there was another room beyond that one, a darker room that Trulle had seen when he was very young.

  He’d been looking for his father in the bedroom when he’d heard soft clinking noises coming from the corner. There was nothing there except a bright orange wall tapestry. He’d headed toward the noise, his curiosity overbalancing his fear of his father. The wall hanging was thick velvet, his father’s favorite, and when he pushed on it, his hand had sank in where the wall should be. He pulled his hand back and the hanging rippled back like orange water.

  For a few tense moments he’d stood in the darkened room, waiting for his father’s abrasive voice to sound out, to tell him to get away, but nothing had come. His breath pounded through his body as he reached out and pulled back the corner and peered into his father’s secret life.

  The confusion had immediately sat in when he’d not seen his father immersed in ancient texts or surrounded by prayer idols but instead standing over a table holding a jar that made the air dance with a fluorescent purple light. More jars like it and others that were filled with a yellow substance littered the table.

  As he’d watched, the liquid had begun to pulse and shine as the diamond-flecked liquid came alive and dance in his father’s hands. He’d gasped, the loud explosion of air cracking like a whip across the silent room, startling his father.

  As Darelle swiveled around, the jar slipped from his hands. Without pausing he threw his body forward in one swift movement, his hands held in front of him. But the bottle had bounced off the tip of his fingers and exploded in a rainstorm of glass and glowing purple droplets. Darelle scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees, his eyes franticly going back and forth as he followed the newly formed puddles. Trulle’s legs had mysteriously grown into a new form of plant life that rooted him to the ground.

  His father looked up at him and sneered before leaning down and lapping up the fallen liquid with his tongue. Shards of glass stuck to his skin as he drank, causing cuts to form across his chin and lips. The blood welled up into droplets that combined with the dirt and muck from the ground and formed a hideous death mask.

  As he watched his father transform into a beast, Darelle raised his head again and stared at him with haunted eyes that belonged to a lunatic, not the self-possessed creature that was his father.

  At that moment the icy grip of fear that had held him steady released its grasp and he fled to the dark sanctuary under his bed. He curled into a ball so tight the circulation to his limps was instantly cut off, but not even the painful tingling that traveled down his spine and radiated to his joints could lessen his grip. His knees were drawn against his mouth, hiding the fluttering movement of his lips as they rose and fell, uttering a thousand prayers at once. Exhausted and desperate to escape the violet eyes that had followed him under the bed, he retreated into the empty arms of sleep.

  Several hours later he’d woken up on top of the bed. He stared at the flickering lamp wick until he felt brave enough to venture into the rest of the apartment. Before walking into the common room he’d cautiously peeked around the corner. The rigidly straight back of his father stood near the far wall. He was facing the bookshelf, running his fingers over different titles. Trulle started to return to his room, but as he’d turned he’d heard his father’s stern voice
echo down the hallway.

  “I was wondering where you were. You’re late starting on your Spanish lesson.”

  Trulle turned back and trudged up to his father, his head bowed, palms damp, heart strumming loudly in his ribcage.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get your books.”

  Trulle’s lips moved and his mouth opened and closed with a solid clack, but no other noise came forth. The grizzly mask he’d seen before was gone, and there weren’t any cuts on Darelle’s skin. In fact, he looked even younger and healthier than he had before. The only similarity between the figure he remembered crawling across the floor and the man standing in front of him was the haunting violence that lingered in his eyes.

  Trulle retrieved his books and returned to his father without saying anything. In fact, he’d never uttered a single word about the experience, and it had eventually faded into the background of his memories.

  Now, staring at Darelle’s room, Trulle once again thought of that day, of his father’s unusual actions and the dark room that faintly smelled of must and sulfur. What had he been holding that day? What was the beautiful liquid that shimmered as if filled with a thousand diamond chips?

  When he’d woke that morning he’d done so with the experience fresh on his mind, and now he found himself mysteriously drawn to that room. In one swift movement, Trulle closed the book on his lap, stood up, and crossed the room. The door groaned as it swung inward, causing Trulle to jump back a few inches before taking a deep breath and plunging himself into the darkness with only a slang of light from the living room to guide him.

  As he shuffled through the darkness toward the far side of the room his outstretched hands brushed against the faded orange tapestry. It wasn’t as thick or as plush as he remembered it but threadbare, the edges worn down to near nothing. He ran his fingers down the side of the cloth and began to peel it away from the wall. A swoosh of stale air reached up to greet him, and he froze solid as he heard the soft click of the front door.

  He turned and ran by the bed, the air stirred in his wake and a small piece of paper rose and floated from the table to the floor. Lunging himself through the door, he pulled it closed behind him and threw himself across the room to the bookshelf. He gulped down a few ragged breaths and heard the front door latch.

  There was a shuffling of footsteps in the hallway and he knew that Darelle was standing behind him, but his thoughts were lost in the swirling panic that now consumed him. He pulled a book on Obawok history from the shelf and turned to his father.

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  Twelve

  Where do you go to outrun loneliness?

  In the mistress pits, Del regained consciousness and groaned when she tried to move and every muscle contracted in unison. She lay back and closed her eyes, allowing her body to rebuild itself as she focused on her new mission. She’d never had a purpose before, and it was definitely a new experience.

  The time had come, and her son’s life was in serious danger. And, even though she had never been allowed to see him, that didn’t stop her concern. She could still remember the day he was born. The shrill cry had broken through the pain and reached out to her a second before an older Obawok woman wrapped him in a yellow blanket. The look she’d given Del had been one of compassion, but she’d continued to walk out of the room anyway, the newborn’s cry echoing down the hall. A tribe of retired Obawok women had reared him until he had been able to go to his father.

  That night, his cries had haunted her, and they continued to do so as she got up and made her way around the room. She might not make it out of the pits, but she was going to try.

  She had chosen her path.

  Darelle leaned against the door of his bedroom, straining to hear any sign of his son’s movements. The pleasure of beating and raping Del had been replaced by paranoia. When he’d walked into the apartment, Trulle had refused to look at him, and the air itself had been taunt with uneasiness. Even their usual exchange had been forced.

  At first he’d thought that the atmosphere was a product of stress on both their ends, but that had been before he’d entered his room.

  He sat on the bed and immediately saw the small piece of paper lying on the floor like a misplaced star, its plain surface shining

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  amidst the darkness. This might seem like unstable proof, but he never left his room without meticulously checking everything.

  Caution had always been one of his strong suits. Once, two council members had given him contradicting reports. He’d had them taken by his loyal gnomes, and he’d relished their screams for hours before letting them pass.

  This small fragment of evidence wouldn’t have convinced anyone else, but it was all he needed.

  Trulle was pretending to read in his bedroom. Pretending, because the words had ceased to be anything except meaningless black squiggles that vanished from his mind the instant his eyes moved on. He kept replaying what had happened earlier and how he’d almost confessed to his father. Only the image of Darelle crawling on the dirt licking up shards of glass and purple liquid had stopped him.

  No matter the excuse, Darelle would see it as an unforgivable act. Trulle should’ve learned that lesson long ago.

  He put down the book and rubbed his temples. Trulle turned out the lamp and lay on the bed, his exterior a perfect example of calmness, but his inner child was secretly trembling.

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  Thirteen

  Road signs always point ahead, never back.

  Del replaced her tattered and blood soaked garments and began rummaging around the pits. No one even glanced in her direction. Del had long ago learned that cuts and bruises only served to make you more invisible.

  As she walked down the hallway, the world suddenly tilted on its axis, causing her to slam her hand against the wall just to stay upright. The pull was so great that after just a few moments the muscles in her arm began to twinge, and her arm caved in. Del’s cheek brushed against the hard stone. Tiny cuts welled up as a section of her skin was scraped off.

  The wall directly to her left was tilted at such an extreme angle it had become the ceiling. She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, and as her eyes remained closed, she felt something around her shift. When she opened them, the hall had returned to normal. Del looked up and down the hall and was relieved when she saw that no one had been around to notice the incident. She had experienced similar vertigo spells before, but never one quite this bad.

  She didn’t feel comfortable standing up so she began to crawl down the passage. A few feet down, she found an open doorway. Just inside, a councilman’s cloak was slung over the back of a wooden chair. The councilman himself was snoring, his arm slung around the woman he had recently bedded. The woman also appeared to be sleeping.

  The dirt rubbed across one of her open wounds as she crawled toward the cloak, tears welling up in her eyes and a scream wedging itself at the back of her throat. She shoved her hand in her mouth and bit down on her fingers to stop the scream’s eruption. Keeping her right hand in her mouth, she scurried across the floor.

  When she got to the chair, she looked at the bed, watching their slow, steady breathing until she was satisfied. Then she quietly

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  pulled the cloak off of the chair, draped it across her shoulders, and moved back toward the door.

  Del looked around the door quickly, but the hallway was empty as she hoisted herself off the floor, wincing at the pain. This inactivity was unusual for the pits, and it made her nervous as she pulled on the cloak, covering her head with the hood until there were only shadows where her face should have been.

  She hurried down through the lobby and out of the pits. It was her first taste of freedom, and while she didn’t have time to relish it, she didn’t miss the significance. The soreness of her muscles and the stinging cuts had significantly faded in the face of victory, and she managed to smile as she made her way to the Yel
low Palace and gnome 693478, or six.

  It was rumored that the gnomes remained loyal to the president with nothing more than an endless supply of yellow paint. The area where they lived was called the Yellow Palace because it was supposed to be the brightest yellow one had ever seen, rivaling even the brilliance of their skin, with tiny hand-carved dwellings built right into the sides of the wall.

  Six had repeatedly told her how to get to the Yellow Palace, describing every step, every corridor in vivid detail. From his words, she’d built a detailed map. Even though she’d never walked this tunnel, she knew it would eventually connect with Granffa’s Court, where she would take the Apprentice Hall to the small side entrance that led to the gnomes. Keeping the hood balanced on her head, she was careful not to look directly into anyone’s face while at the same time trying not to seem suspicious, but it was difficult in the oversized cloak.

  Del hoped she could find Six among the others. It had taken almost three years before he trusted her. They didn’t speak the same language, but she’d found a way of communicating with him and had eventually succeeded in teaching him English. Since then, he’d been watching out for Trulle at her request.

  Because of Six’s presence, for example, she knew of Trulle’s love of human culture. Six had been supplying Trulle with a steady flow of human books at her request, and it hadn’t been easy.

  Since the gnomes didn’t have to be put in the decompression chamber when they traveled between worlds, they were the best choices as go-betweens. They weren’t much of a risk because they feared humanity and were always loyal to the President, but despite these factors, they were still carefully monitored. Once she’d asked him how he managed to do it, and he’d only smiled.