Page 5 of These Eternal Bones
I can’t imagine that would feel so terrible. Perhaps I’m in hell then. Perhaps I was wrong to leave home. Wrong to deny him his right.
I ask my sisters for him.
Beg.
Crying forhim.
I won’t run this time, if only this will end.
And eventually it does.
My sobs take the place of screams as I force my burning eyes open.
A deep, melodic voice soothes my nerves, humming a familiar song, but I can’t see where it's coming from in the pitch darkness.
I can’t tellwho.
Only that it’s hauntingly beautiful, and I never want it to end. That if I am to burn, this is certainly the devil, and his voice is lovely.
My bones feel like they're locked, set in deep stone as I curl on my side, a breathy groan narrating the effort. Burying my face in my pillow, determined to stay in bed until the pounding in my head subsides. Every inch of my body seems to ache and hum in tune with my pulse, my skirts twisting and tangling between my legs, preventing me from stretching like I need to, but none of it is pressing enough to get me to move. It’s the thirst that acts as a catalyst, a reminder that I am nowhere near home.
The fox, the woods, the sounds, and that terrible invasive tugging of my blood. The wrongness of it all hits me like a slap across my sensitive flesh.
The room around me spins as I jolt upward, pink early morning light streaming through a small dirty window above an even dirtier rusting wood stove. I hiss in pain as I kick at the covers. Just moments ago, they were a comfortable haven, and now they feel like restraints. My chest tightens, and my head goes light as I stumble into the middle of the wide cottage. The sound of a chair scraping the floor nearly makes me jump out of my skin until I realize I’d kicked it. Its position by the bed only further sours my gut. I was alone.
I’ve been alone the whole time.
Right?
The fox…
Giving the small space another quick glance, I jerk up my skirts with trembling hands, staring down at the angry but…clean andhealingcut on my thigh. My bottom hits the bed roughly, making it give a warning creak that has me holding my breath. The entire place looks dusty and untouched, aged but sturdy. Cared for but only by reluctant hands. The hole in the roof leaving a wet spot in the wood flooring, and old rugs are piled and scattered around the remnants of what used to be a home.
I’d gotten sick because the cut was infected. I remember how badly it hurt with every step, the nipping of the fox–
No.
The woods…that heavy, oppressive weight. I remember the darkness, how it seemed to writhe and overpower my body.
I had a fever.
I was exhausted and terrified.
Years ago, when brother Artem was little, he’d gotten sick. Scarlet fever our mothers had called it. They’d sobbed and prayed while he thrashed and spoke of things we couldn’t see, his tiny body drenched in sweat.
My eyes slide to the chair now knocked off kilter. “I was sick.”
The hands…
I can feel them still brushing the hair from my face, such a soft touch; my heart gives a little pang at the fact that it wasn’t real. My body gives me little to work with as I shove to stand, my booted feet dragging as I stumble to the back of the cottage to what must be a bathroom. The mirror is mottled with filth. Once I reach it, I wrap my hand with my sleeve to clear a spot to see my…cleanface.
“I’d cleaned it in the creek,” I assure myself.
Even now, I can hear it bubbling nearby.
I was alone.
I’d always been alone.
