Character(s): Blackbird
Series: Carciphona Copyright (c) Shilin Huang
This Place Was a Shelter
Summary: On the first day, the bleeding stopped. On the second day, her fever broke. On the fifth day, she woke up.
It burns. It festers. It bellows and resonates.
There's this dull ache, an intangible heaviness, ringing in her ears.
The sounds of pleading. The howls of murder. The hollers of blood-curling laughter.
At first it started out as a soft lull—a gentle high-pitched buzz—lost somewhere between the throbbing pressure nestled behind tightly shut eyes, the crushing force leaning into the center of her chest, and the thick smell of burning white sagebrush and mugwort wafting in the air. It's a sound filled of silent screams. It's calming, yet frantic; and it's the only thing she noticed, the only constant that greeted her, during the moments floating in and out of consciousness. And if she can concentrate hard enough she can almost hear her name echoing somewhere in the darkness.
"What happened?" Her voice is heavy, lost amongst being scratched against her throat, and vanishes—becomes swallowed— somewhere within the dry tongue and torpid breaths. She can't even hear her own words against the white noise. But, then again, maybe she never spoke at all in the first place. There's this sensation of someone (of something) pressing right into her; just shouting—as if they were begging, sobbing, moaning, laughing, angered all at once.
She could sense their presence even before the moment she opened her eyes: a gentle figure hovering overhead. A soft hand—cool to the touch against the dried trails of boiled sweat—brushing away the drenched bangs stuck on her forehead. It almost feels as if bodies are pushing into her chest. Mouths hovering by her cheeks. Greasy breaths furling into low rumbles. Wispy tendrils tingling across her arm—clawing and hissing into hot steam. With resounding purpose, the hand lingers for a few fleeting moments, comforting and mournful, before it becomes replaced by the emptiness of a doused rag and the echoes from the soft hums of a lullaby amongst the snarling and screeches.
In an instant, with a sudden surge, her eyes finally snap open the voices—the cacophony—is trembling and exploding in excitement—almost greeting her—before squinting in the soft darkness pierced by muted candle lights. She can feel her eyes dart around, forced movements so sluggish and sore, trying to find something—to find someone—within the lingering blindness, warping images, and tall shadows flickering on the wall from the firelight. The miasma seems to dance. But the lullaby humming —the high-pitched ringing— overhead simply continues on.
"Wh-" The pressure hovering over her chest tightens. And she can almost see them—their shifting faces all rushing into one another in happy delight— feel her breath being stolen out of her lungs. Her mouth gasps open, her chest compressing and pitching almost as if she was drowning, and she tries again.
"What happened?"
The lullaby stops, the warmed embrace of the rag on her forehead slowly ascends, and the murmurs of the outlined blurs reflecting in the firelight begin to chant amongst themselves in hushed debate. Voices— some male, some female—some relieved, some somber—reverberate within the small room basked in the moonlight, and the blurred figure above leans in; the smell of sandalwood washing over.
"It's okay." The words are simple, but seemed weighty from saturated secrets, "everything will be alright." Such simple words— such beautiful promises—yet they seem withheld; they seem forced, practiced, and self-convincing.
And, as she feels the looming figure gently wipe away the grit clinging to her face, she wonders how much of it is a lie.
"You just…you…" Beyond the stammers and hesitations, their voice is rough and coarse, yet gentle and deadly; and for a small instant-if she wished to remember—it reminded her of her mother's.
"You got sick."
There was a finality to their words; a sense of dread and defeat that caused the soft tones of the fluttering shadows to inch in— encircling her in a blanket of assurance. Yet the voices, the low rumbling screams, start to grow clearer, start to surrounded her even closer; their shifting bodies reaching out before furling back. The dull ache in her chest, the tingling on her skin, and the bellowing roars all grows stronger; and she can feel their eyes bore into her—glimpses of their expressions rushing by. Smiles of malice and kindness. Sadistic grins and plotting smirks. Grimaces of macabre and hopelessness. Victorious scowls and defeated simpers. And, she found that if she could focus hard enough, she could almost see lucidly to distinguish the distant faces of the elders and instructors glancing back at her with fading looks of concern. Familiar faces all surrounded by familiar strangers.
They welcome her.
"But, you'll get better." They laugh.
With a frustrated, exhausted, grunt she reaches out to steady the figure's hands with one of her own, only to feel as if the left side of her body had been pinned down and seared open. Then, without notice, a searing pain radiated between her eyes and simply emits lightning pulses down to pool at the palm of her hand—the same hand that suddenly bolts up from its binds to grasp at retreating fingers. The sounds of pleading cry louder. The howls of murder shriek higher. The blood-curling laughter grows mocking.
"Don't worry, everything will be okay." The looming figure cradles her tight grip surrounding their forearm with a shaking caress. Sparking and burning tingles start to crawl over her inflamed skin and spasmodic muscles as the touch of cool callused fingers mindlessly begin to trail—to follow—the same path her eyes were trekking on her own marred arm. Through the haze her vision becomes crystal—her frantic gaze locking on—at the angry, thick, viny splatters engraved across her heavy skin; wisp strokes of rich lampblack ink painted on a redden canvas. The mouths hover closer, their breaths growing hotter, and their mumbling buzzing words becoming more articulate.
Her shoulders suddenly heave—her chest uncoiling and her sight beginning to blur with warm tears. She wants to let out a whimpering plea, but it just gets choked back. She wants to say something, to yell out, but the only thing that escapes is just a heavy sob because—
"Everything will be alright."
"It's okay," The course voice breathes out, as they try to remove her frantic steeled grip—trying to budge her locked elbow, and almost seems to weep along with the mocks of those smiling faces of familiar strangers the brimming tears prickling the corners of her eyes. "You'll g-die a thousand deaths and relive each and every one of them... so just rest for now, little bird. Everything will get better, because..."
The only thing she heard was the sounds of her cries drowning out everything into silence.
This is just a simple warm up…that was done in 2013...
So while this can either been seen as a part of a larger project ((or can be seen as a standalone—as it will eventually be drastically changed/revised)) it's just a random one shot playing with the notion that someone can become infected later on in life if given enough exposure to high-level energies (*cough* demons)
Also known as the phenomenon: "Blackbird-gone-done-some'in-she-won't-suppose-to-do"