Page 95 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I can touch someone, but not much has changed besides that. I suppose that’s life, a series of small changes until one day you wake up, and nothing is what it used to be.
All I hope is one day it happens to me.
I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that. This is the only small change in the last five years that I’ve been excited for.
That I’ve enjoyed in any regard.
I’d scream it, if I thought I could scream.
For now, I will whisper—and I will never utter a word of what I did to Azaire.
It’s a promise I make to myself as the whole world goes white.
The light is blinding, searing my vision until there’s no up or down, no hallway or floor beneath me. I see nothing. I say nothing. But from my mouth, words spill like rain, torn from a part of me I didn’t know was there. The sound is muffled and monotone. Distant. As if I’m underwater, drenched in the rain drops.
Words tear through my lungs, anyhow.
“Time fractures with the stone.
The one who leaves returns alone.
When the cracks in the universe divide,
love will be your demise.”
My throat constricts. The air leaves my lungs. The world freezes. Infinite cold. My family stands. Spiders crawl from their mouths. Their eyes go white. Their dead bodies fall.
Azaire is on top.
Eerily, slowly, his head turns to me.
“Stop this,” his corpse croaks.
Then the image burns, the ash falling away with the rest of the ruins. I am left looking at Desdemona, who stares back in shock.
I’m not breathing.
Or is she not breathing?
I’m not sure anymore.
I run.
Is this real?
Was Azaire real? Has this all been a—
“A prophecy,”the boy interrupts me, making his first appearance in ages. The relief feels like a lullaby Ma used to sing, gentle but haunting, and I don’t know if I love or hate it.“I could have helped.”
“How could you have helped?”The question scrapes through me, breathless even in my mind. My feet strike the floor over and over, the rhythm relentless, turning into a song I can’t stop playing.
“I felt it coming. I could have prepared you for this feeling.”
The corridors stretch endlessly ahead, but I can’t outrun Desdemona. Fear drips from her like sweat in a way that tells me I will never feel the end of it—of her. As if I feel her very soul, her life. I turn every corner, and I still can’t escape it.
Or is this fear mine?
I can’t rid the bitter taste from the back of my throat. I can’t rid the horror from my head. All I can do is race through the halls.
