Mind Brigade
part 1

A wise being had once told me that sometimes the bravest thing to do was to accept defeat. This was once upon a time, in a time that seemed so distant from the present, like it had been placed into the sea and swept away into nothingness.

At the time, I'd merely laughed.

"Hey, Jamie, just so you know, you don't have to keep searching for a solution to save the Goddess anymore."

"Yeah, there's some new farm girl coming to Flower Bud. The Goddess foresaw her as the one who would save her!"

"Supposedly the new girl can see us Sprites! I'm so excited!"

Smoke.

It choked you, entered you, wrapped its cloud-gray fingers against your throat and congested you until your words were reduced to asphyxiated wheezes. Funny, how smoke was so similar to anger.

I could feel the smoke coming to reside inside of me when the Sprites told me the news of the new farmer. This was supposed to be my job – my duty to save the Goddess, and mine alone. What right did someone else have to just move into town and be handed my role? It wasn't fair that some outsider was carried and placed at the top of the tower whereas I had to struggle to climb the jagged footholds.

After the Sprites had delivered their message – we don't need you anymore – they hurried to fetch the new girl and show her the bleak stone statue that the Goddess had been reduced to one year ago. I followed in the shadows, leaking lividity.

The girl had innocent eyes, a slight frame, and the face of someone reckless and inexperienced: the face of a child. This was the purported Messiah, the "foreseen saviour" – ha. I'd stood in the shadows seething, my carcinogen spite rolling around in my chest like an aggravated beast. Surely I'd be the one destined to save the Goddess, and not this stupid girl, who would only besmirch the Goddess's good name. There was no way.

"Hiya. I'm Jill."

I'd been working in my fields, soaking the strawberries I had just planted, kicking every weed I stumbled across when that voice had broken my concentration. I turned around and there the girl – appropriately dubbed "farm girl," was – arms dangling naturally over my fence, completely ignorant of my Do not trespass sign.

I eyed her reproachfully and said nothing. All of my bottled resentment was directed at her; it was hate at first sight. She looked mildly intimidated, her elbows ebbing back over the fence.

"Uh. I'm new," she enthused, her puerile pigtails swishing as she nodded her head in my direction. She watched me carefully, waiting for a response, taking in the unsmiling features on my face.

After a long moment, I succumbed to her determined, watchful eyes. "I know," I spoke simply.

She cracked a lopsided smile, but her gaze remained level on mine. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

With one rigid arm motion, alike to the stiff movement of construction machinery, I pointed to the sign just above Do not trespass, which prominently read Jamie Ranch. At once, the hint of a giggle left her lips, which she swallowed quickly.

"What?" I demanded.

"It's just..." She smiled with her tongue instilled in her mouth, enjoying the taste of her own irksome private joke. "You named your own ranch after yourself. Heh."

A vein above my eyebrow throbbed. I would have turned around and gone back to watering the strawberries had I not been determined to wipe that abrasive grin off her face.

"Your point?" I asked indignantly.

Her response was surprisingly swift and tactful. "I just think that's kind of self-absorbed, is all." She said this in a haze of innocence and enlightenment.

My vision was beginning to fog with a hint of red, and the strawberries had nothing to do with it. "Oh, yeah? What's your ingenious excuse-of-a-farm called, then?" I shot back.

She placed her arms back on my fence, this time resting her chin on it with ease; I made a note to sterilize it immediately following this conversation. "Burgundy Farm," she responded smoothly.

A laugh rose to my throat like ejecting lava, one that I didn't try at all to hold in.

"What's so funny?" she asked calmly.

"Why the hell did you name it Burgundy?" I shook my head. This conversation had gone on far too long for my liking.

Her response: "Because it's my favourite colour." For some unfathomable and aggravating reason, she didn't look offended at all. "You know, I have a feeling you don't like me."

"Your intuition is spot-on," I murmured, caustic.

"But why is that?" She cocked her head as if she'd just asked a trivial, time-passing question. As if she had just asked how the weather was, or how much that bag of seeds was. "Don't worry, Jamie. I'm going to crack you eventually."

"Please." I barked a laugh, omitting the steely glare I had initially meant to exhibit. "You aren't going to win." The words had escaped my lips before I could even process them.

She scowled. "What?"

"Listen." I turned so that my profile was facing her fully. The growling beast had returned to my chest, scrutinizing the prey in front of me. "I'm going to save the Goddess. Not you."

She looked momentarily dumbfounded. "What are you..."

I cut in harshly. "You think you can just show up and be the new hero? You think that a stupid human like you can revive a deity? How naive are you?"

I could tell my words were slashing at her. She stepped back, a stupefied expression on her face. "You...how can you say that? You're a human, too."

That was it. "SHUT UP!" I shouted, so loudly it felt like I had digested a pair of scissors. Rage flashed before my eyes, donned in red. I threw the watering can at the ground with all my might, the metal shrieking as it slammed against the dirt. The farm girl winced. "You don't know anything – you can't win. Just leave."

Her eyes were wide, staring, taking in the livid mess before her. "Who said anything about winning or losing?"

She was throwing gasoline into a fire, practically begging me to set her ablaze. She had pushed me far enough already. "I think I just did. And mind you, I said nothing about losing – although I am pretty sure that certain people always have losing foremost on their minds. What are they called, again?" I indulged in her frozen state as I paused for effect, each of my words deliberate and doused in venom. "Oh, that's right – losers. Now get out."

The farm girl stood there for a long moment, so quiet and still I could hear the subtle buzz of the morning insects. She looked like she had been surrounded, trapped in the very centre of a circinate brigade. At last, she shook her head, once, twice, five times I counted, before turning around and walking away.

And that was the first time we had spoken.

"Jamie, do you want to know something interesting about yourself?"

"I'm not sure if I do, no."

"It's as if you have some kind of mentality that convinces you everything has to be a competition. Tell me, do you constantly find yourself wondering what it takes to win? How you don't want to lose, at all costs?"

"I don't –"

"...Have to say anything. It doesn't have to be like that, Jamie. Life isn't a game."

At the time, I had bitten my tongue in attempt to hold in my scornful frown. Life was a game, I had believed at the time, and continued to believe now. You started with a certain number of lives and dreams, and eventually, they were swatted away like buzzing insects. You got a bonus when you won, and you felt like shit when you lost. In the end, everyone lost. Life was twisted, unfair, but it was still a damn game.

I closed my eyes. Memories were the bane of my existence; no matter how thick of a wall I built in my mind, no matter how desperately I barricaded unwanted thoughts and willed them to recede, they only came back stronger than ever. It was like holding your breath and then exhaling violently: a burst of oxygen filling strangled lungs. Sometimes, being strangled felt easier than breathing.

"I'll have a Scotch, thanks."

I melted into the Moonlight Bar's laid back atmosphere, the muffled chatter and the thick, musky scent of drinks. I didn't hold a candle to an alcoholic, but at times when my past seemed to dominate my thoughts, the only safeguard I could wash it away with was a drink. Or three.

Eve, the lusty barmaid, went to pour my second drink that night. She rested the new glass in front of me and leaned against the tall wooden counter, the only lively figure in the bar. Her bent over posture forewarned nosiness. "You're looking rough these days, honey."

"How would you know? I rarely come here." I snaked my arm out to take the drink and chugged it down, oblivious to her golden curves.

She watched me, a knowing look on her face. "This is your third time here this week."

"Oh."

Her lips, which I was sure had explored more places than her feet, parted. Keeping her voice low, she said in a smoky drawl, "So I've been hearing rumours."

Had I been in any other atmosphere and drinking anything non-alcoholic, I wouldn't have humoured her gossip. But as things were, everything enticed me at this moment. "About?"

"That farmer that moved in about a season ago, in the spring." Her voice was so low now that it nearly matched my own. "I heard she's pregnant."

"Is she?" I spun the heavy cup of Scotch around with my calloused hands. The reflection on the inside of the glass made my palms look like smooth, rectangular scales. "I could care less, but I am curious as to who would impregnate her." The alcohol was speaking, my conscience barred.

"You don't think she's pretty?" The question was so sudden, so prying and childish. And yet Eve's eyes glowed with a certain, sparked curiosity. I had to faintly wonder if every woman was like that, obsessed with what men thought of other females. What did it matter to them?

"That's irrelevant," I answered stiffly, keeping my gaze on the nearly empty glass.

"So you do think she's pretty," she surmised, using a tone that would only irritate me the more I heard it.

I looked at her, my gaze steadfast. "Answer my question."

"Okay, Mr. Suppressed Emotions." I bristled, but she pressed on before I could retaliate. "I don't know who impregnated her. But c'mon, just look at her tummy – it's so pudgy, it's impossible that she doesn't have a baby on board."

"...I guess," I offered, out of lack of anything more intelligible to say. From speculation, I hadn't noticed anything about the farm girl's stomach, but the last thing I wanted to do was seem like I was defending her. Our first conversation had also been our last conversation.

"I mean," the barmaid began again, slipping her fingers through a strand of hair and running through it like a comb, "you can't do all that farm work and not be really fit, right? You'd expect someone of her occupation to be, like, muscular. Or stick-thin. Kind of like you – no offence," she added dryly.

"Whatever," I muttered, tucking my slender arms closer to my body.

There was a lull in the conversation.

Eve's gauging stare was equivalent to a loading gun. "So you do think she's pretty, even though she's fat?"

It was then that I heard a wooden squeal from behind, a chair leg dragging against the floorboards. I didn't have to turn around to know that the victim of our discussion had been the one to stand up and, consequentially, flee.

The bar door swung shut and the farm girl's chair collapsed into a heap on the ground. I looked up at Eve, who had her fingers frozen in her sunshine-yellow hair and a less than empathetic look on her face.

"Oops," she said.

"Oops," I repeated, aware of the cold stares imminently directed at my back from the other bar patrons. I felt a hollow pinch in my gut. "I should go," I told her, pushing out the stool I was seated on. My hand floated above my pocket. "How much was that last drink?"

Eve looked like she wanted to say something. Her invisible intentions passed like a cloud as she waved a hand in the air. "It was on the house. Don't worry about it."

I was surprised by the rare act of kindness. "Well, thanks, Eve. I'll be seeing you." I turned around to leave when I heard her bring her pitch down an octave and murmur, "Just make sure you don't run after her."

I scoffed at her. "Don't be ridiculous," I deadpanned, and left.

The walk back to the ranch was long. The summer humidity had netted the moisture in the air, causing light rainfall to drip-drop all over my heated skin; the walk was refreshing and suffocating all at once. I felt a wave of relief as the worn fence of the Jamie Ranch came into view. I'd been ploughing the fields under the sun all day long, and already I was anticipating a long sleep.

In the darkened distance, I could see a large log a few ways from my front door. I blinked a few times in case I was seeing things, but the log remained; the closer I got, the clearer it got. Upon closer inspection, I realized it wasn't a log at all.

It was the farm girl. Jill.

I cursed under my breath. Angry, unanswerable questions charged through my skull: why did it have to be me of all people to find her? Why couldn't it have been someone else? Why had she passed out outside of my front door? I stared at her, as if I could make her levitate, but she remained flat against the wet cement. I took the time to take in how truly pathetic she looked as I approached her, her face squished in the mud, her ridiculous pigtails soaked and her limbs twisted underneath her like a crumpled doll.

Finally, I knelt down and gathered her in my arms, struggling on the way back up. I huffed and struggled my way to the clinic, the raindrops falling relentlessly as I walked. It might have been an easier trip had the alcohol I'd consumed not tethered itself to each of my muscles, dragging them down with double that of gravity's pull.

I plopped down on the waiting room chair after Gina, the nurse, had frantically instructed that I lay the farm girl down on one of the beds. Dr. Alex had awoken from his caffeinated paperwork trance to hurry after the nurse into one of the cubicles.

Stupid farm girl, I thought.

I hadn't planned on waiting. I was going to sit down, take a short rest, and maybe wait the rain out. But I had no intentions whatsoever of waiting for that annoying girl and her verdict...

A firm hand on my shoulder shook me awake an ample amount of time later. I had no idea how much time had passed, how long I had been asleep for. I blinked a few times until I could clearly see Dr. Alex standing in front of me, an ominous clipboard in his hands. "We found out about Jill's condition," he said solemnly.

Perhaps it was pride, perhaps it was the Scotch. Something made me stand up brusquely and push the following words out of my mouth, "I don't care to know."

The doctor's lips were a thin line, but he made no unnecessary remarks. "I see." He looked over my damp clothes, my heavy eyelids, all the exterior paper wrapped around my apathy.

I could hear the rainfall from outside; it had escalated into torrents, the wind whistling sharply through the walls. Alex narrowed his eyes at the window. "Maybe it would be best if you spent the night. If you walk home in this weather, you're going to get sick, and then there won't be anyone to feed your animals."

It was so typical of him, such a doctor thing to mesh one's responsibilities and health into another's. "I guess. Thanks," I tacked on as he led me to my temporary cubicle.

"No problem."

I couldn't help but let my eyes pass over the slightly parted curtain of the cubicle before mine. In that short instant, I caught the snapshot-esque view of Gina rubbing the barely conscious Jill's forearm, murmuring words into her ear and getting nothing but strained nods in response. There was a white cloth on the farm girl's forehead and an equally stark blanket covering the length of her body. My eyes caught the blank, helpless eyes of the farm girl's.

In just two steps, the image disappeared, replaced by a wall. "You did a good thing tonight, bringing her here." Alex looked like he wanted to say more. After a moment's consideration, he merely nodded at me and left the cubicle, down the hallway, back to his coffee and sleepless stress. I pitied him.

I tugged off my wet shirt, throwing it over a wooden visitor's chair, and climbed onto the bed. I flicked off the light and flounced my aching head onto the pillow, anticipating sleep to overtake me instantly.

Sleep came, but it was fickle. Like shy, windless tides, I drifted in and out of my dreams, none of which I had been into deeply enough to remember. During one of the intervals of consciousness, I had heard movement and voices from the other side of the wall. I hadn't any idea of the time at this point; it was either very late at night or very early in the morning, judging on the pale light drifting through the window.

"...could be critical, Gina."

"But Alex... ... levels could rise."

"...background check for past cardiac..."

"...you sure? ...chances are slim to none..."

"...Yes... ... the only way..."

"Shut up." I let out a groggy, muffled groan into my pillow. Surprisingly, there was a responsive silence – a paradox within itself.

"Was ... hear that?"

"I think... ...next door, Jamie."

"How immature."

And then I had wafted back into the world of sleep, memories of the conversation as hazy as a dream the following morning. I thanked Alex for letting me stay the night and then hurried out of the clinic, making sure to look the other way while passing Jill's cubicle. Every movement was rushed. Eventually, my feet led me back to my ranch with no further distractions.

Last night, to me, was similar to an impressionist painter's brush strokes on a canvas: dashed streaks of colour and line, with no distinct shape. Just blurs.