Page 8 of These Eternal Bones
Thing.
But still the memories that can’t possibly be real haunt me like a ghost.
His skin is cold as he presses his forehead to mine, the faceless man murmuring something in a language I don’t understand. I can smell him, even past my stench. Like spice and cedar, there’s something sofamiliar about it, it's easy to fall back into my sleep. My mind heavy with fever.
My breath eases out of me for the first time since the knock, each one shallow and calculated until the safety of daylight hits the window. If I had the energy to pace, I would. My fingers rapt nervously on my rock, wishing I had the forethought to grab a bag back home. My paints could’ve put a sizeable notch in the monotony of this place. Something that could serve as entertainment while I waste away. I didn’t even take the time to grab underthings, let alone paint and brushes. Dawn grips the woods, turning the unrelenting black into hazy gray again when I shove myself to my feet, my body trembling.
It was the wind.
I imagined it.
My imagination had always been my downfall,hehad said. Fantastical things always seemed more interesting than the reality of the world. Bright colors and the creatures who sported them. They had been the subjects of so many ridiculed paintings. The younger generations of New Eden might not be permitted that at all. Like mine was never taught to read much or write at all. Our mothers knew, coming from the second Lamb, and some of them had even been children of God before New Eden, when our family could come and go as they pleased. My stalling hits unreasonable levels when I stop near the door to absently dust off the top of the woodstove.
“Stop being a coward, Molly,” I chastise myself, still entirely unmoving. “Just go. Right now.”
Squaring my jaw, I don’t allow myself a second of thought before I burst through the door, squealing when my foot knocks into something hard and metal, sending it flipping over on its side.
A serving plate.
I gawk at the upturned food pooling in the lid, my knees crying out in pain as I drop to right it. Hunger outweighs how it got here, who prepared it, or why the simple serving dish looks so…fancy. Like a functional piece of art.
The stark realization hits that I’m, in fact,notalone.
Acceptance of that is forced to the back of my mind when I tilt the embossed dome serving lid to my lips, scarfing down its contents. The bold chicken and herb flavor burst on my tongue, making an involuntary whimper escape me. I don’t take my mystery soup back inside, but instead, sit there in the doorway, nearly completely forgoing the use of the equally artful spoon as I gorge myself on the food. The side of bread has gone stale after the night spent in the rain, but I devour every crumb.
The feeling of fullness warms my stomach despite the food being cold. My heart drops at the sight of an overturned cup. Whatever functioned as a lid popped off, releasing its contents. The prospect of it having been something like hot chocolate or coffee nearly brings tears to my eyes, despite the likelihood of that being low. Chocolate is an expensive import. The powered variant was often the only type we could get, and that was rare in New Eden. It was a special treat, especially on nights when the desert would cool.
My eyes scan the dense woods surrounding the clearing, refusing to linger on their ever-shifting shadows and fog as I gather my plates, heading off for the creek to wash them the best I can. Why? I’m not sure, it just feels like the right thing to do, and I’m moments away from having a panic attack. When I set them back out tonight, I keep thecup for my drinking water. It's far more effective than cupping my hands or using the odd large leaf, which works just about as well as my fingers. I tuck the edges of the worn pillow up over my ears as darkness falls, hoping whoever comes to collect them is content in the shadows.
6
Lighthouse & Runaway
Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier
Molly
The next two weeks go much like the first. My hidden benefactor brings food, matches, pre-cut wood, bedding, and cleaning supplies. Sometimes they bring building materials and things I can use to better the cottage, but after nicking my hand rather badly one day, a deafening roar rattled the woods. It had me screaming and darting for the cottage in unbridled terror; the tools stopped being delivered soon after. In their place, another artful bowl of first aid supplies. This place seems to exist in a space of its own, untouched by time. It's held to a different standard; a unique blend of whatever fabric makes up our world.
When the sun rises to its highest point, I venture into the woods, deeper and further away from the cottage and its lifesaving creek. Icringe as a twig snaps dramatically, making my attempt at stealth seem silly at best. Why I feel the need to sneak around out here makes little sense, aside from the fact that I am certainly not alone. Never alone, just like at home, but somehow the eyes feel less threatening here. Again, I’m a stowaway, accepting help without knowing what it’ll cost me. The idea of another Captain Faine being the reason for my survival makes my stomach churn, so I venture out, determined to be more self-sufficient until I can descend on my own. That takes stockpiling food and supplies. The servings of food are always generous, which makes it easier to save. More than that, I want to level the playing field, if only just a little. To stand on even ground with the person pulling the strings. Just once. My belly lets out a rumble at the thought of food, even though I am being well fed. There’s always such a wide range of things to try that I can barely contain my excitement. The first time I saw the little brown bars wrapped in golden foil, I’d been almost nervous to try them. The bittersweet taste of chocolate bursting on my tongue was a near biblical experience, forcing a guttural moan from my mouth.
The chocolates are sent every time now.
I’m being watched.
Observed.
Like a rat in a maze.
A shiver breaks over my spine as I pass underneath a large tree. Something whispering along the back of my neck makes me pick up my pace, gripping the bag I fashioned out of the battered set of sheets and worn rope from the second clothesline. I’d never thought myself crafty outside of painting, but–
My steps halt abruptly at the sound of crashing waves, the same one I’ve been following for hours, but it’s the break in the trees…the onyx base of a monstrous building that has me holding my breath. I don’t need to see the rest of the structure to know what it is. The lighthouse stands like more of a warning than a beacon as I approach it, my heart thundering in my chest as the earthy musk of the woods finally gives way to the salty spray of the ocean.
This is what you wanted, right? The who…if you could not have the why.
You wanted to see, I remind myself.
Right before I turn and run away.
