1
Fire. It's such a beautiful, complicated thing, capable of warming both body and soul, yet, cruel enough to take away what one holds closest to them. It burns with a life of its own and eats until its had its fill. Many times, it perishes before satisfied. It doesn't possess feelings; it's not capable of feeling remorse or guilt or pity; it cares seldom for the beings that formerly housed in what it calls food, and little for the damage it does to those creatures' only defenses. There is no regret for the wounds it inflicts upon those creatures, great or small, and considers the materials of their bodies food, as well. The liquid those innocents require is the only thing that can extinguish the flames in a safe manner, causing no more harm to the frightened and hurt.
Blood is another thing altogether. It can be dried and left to wash away by the tears of the heavens, and can drip-drop onto the stone of the fed lion's cave. It's a sign of both life and death, heat and cold, and an image of horror and beauty. It's a baby's first mess to be cleaned of and an unfortunate body's last. It is the very essence of larger beings. It cannot be avoided, no matter how deep one digs or high one flies. Only those without the flow of blood are allowed to avert themselves from the cardinal fluid. The mortals that are blessed, and yet cursed, with the sanguine liquid can never shun its presence.
Roxana, however, had experience with neither of these things. Handling the Clay and caring for the souls was a middle-of-the-road position, involving only the external and spiritual appearances of mortal beings—monsters included. Internal workings, such as blood and organs, were not involved in the design of individual creations—unless, of course, they represent a new being altogether. Fire wasn't involved in the slightest, not when Roxana and the others opted to utilize their powers in order to bake their creations rather than risk the material cracking in the kiln.
She'd never use the kiln after this, not when she'd felt flames eating at her being, felt the exact things that made her what she was—was—ripped from her body and soul. She was broken, in every sense of the word. A broken worker in an imperfect world of troubled people and forgotten parts, wandering aimlessly and praying miserably for her sorrows to be lifted—for her to be lifted.
2
During her wandering, the beaten, wet earth beneath her bleeding feet turned to painted rock and she found herself staring at a metal rail. It was stained and rusty, and seemed to have no legitimate purpose at all… But she promptly followed it, fervently hoping it headed somewhere that would alleviate her pain. The rock was extremely heated, but the ground on the other side of the rail was too wet. She'd slip and hurt herself more.
Just when she could undoubtedly see a modern building in the distance, her ears picked up a faint rumble behind her. She gently pulled at what remained of her stained and clothing, feeling uneasy. The rumbling grew louder. She stumbled awkwardly along the used pathway before a harsh screech muffled it.
She felt something thumping in her chest, something she could only assume was a human heart. Her breathing grew quicker and she tried to limp forward faster. She reluctantly turned in the direction of the unusual noises and frowned thoughtfully at what she saw. A long metal machine was sitting on the other side of the path, a battered woman with a darkened soul inside and several shining orbs behind her. A thump sounded from the machine and soon it was rolling past her.
Is that a… a vehicle?
As she attentively examined the machine while it faded away, another sound promptly took the rumble's place. Light footsteps. They grew closer to her, and she froze, the familiar feel of critical eyes on her making her hair stand on end.
Roxana waited…
…and waited…
Right when she was about to lunge for the rail, she heard a young voice call out to her. "Hey!" the voice said.
Roxana looked over her shoulder at a small child across the strip of rock. He was dark in complexion with grey eyes, chestnut hair, and a soul brighter than the sun. He was carrying a satchel of some sort, with a colorful, humanoid family of bears on it.
"Are you alright, Miss? You look hurt." he said, his small voice rising a pitch with his concern.
"Do you know where I can be healed?" Roxana's raspy voice asked. "And where I can acquire covering?"
The boy nodded and trotted over to her, removing his satchel. He handed it to her, covering his eyes. "Here. This'll cover ya' until Ma can give ya' somethin'. Dad's a vet so he can help with your back."
"Thank you, child." the woman rasped, covering her bosom with the offered object.
"Are you decent?" he asked.
"Yes."
The youth uncovered his eyes and said, "I'm Hiroshi." He then began the trek to his home. "What's your name?"
Roxana resumed her staggering, gazing at the boy a moment. What was the point in telling him? She'd never be able to hear if she were to be called…
"It's okay, you don't have to tell me." Hiroshi said softly, gazing up at her. "It's okay to be scared, I get scared when I'm hurt, too."
3
She was led to a small house set behind a low row of hedges, the pathway to the entrance the only break in the green foliage.
"Your home is quite quaint." she whispered, hugging the satchel tighter. "Are you humans?"
"Of course we're humans! What else would we be?" Hiroshi giggled. As an afterthought, he asked, "What's quaint mean?"
The sullen girl was cut off when a middle-aged woman shouted for the child's attention. Roxana assumed she was Hiroshi's mother, as she seemed to have the same heritage and facial structure as her son. Her brilliant eyes were a beautiful pale blue and her ebony hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head.
"Roshi? Who's that?" there was obvious panic in the woman's voice, though Roxana didn't understand why.
"I don'no… but she's hurt—" he grabbed said hurt girl's hand—"so, Dad's gotta stitch her up!" he exclaimed.
One look at the pathetic face of the girl broke the woman's reserve. She was hurt. Severely hurt.
"I'll call Dad."
4
"You're going to feel a pinch and some burn, Miss," said Kobayashi Ken, Hiroshi's father. He was a gentle man with a gentle voice.
Ken was a middle-aged Japanese man, fluent in both English and Spanish, and he stood several inches taller than both his wife and the—
…non facies cherub…
His son had his eyes and hair color.
Roxana hissed, an unknown liquid trailing from the corners of her eyes. She sobbed, her shoulders quaking under the gentle hands of Mrs. Kobayashi.
"It's okay," "Don't worry, it'll be alright," and "It'll only hurt a little longer," were softly murmured to her as her wounds were cleaned, stitched and wrapped. She never stopped crying, the pain in her deformed back was too excruciating for her to. Every burning drop of peroxide, every swipe of cotton, every anesthetic-less stitch, and every single ounce of pressure on her arching spine fueled the unbreaking river of her sorrow.
Mrs. Kobayashi helped her into undergarments, soft socks and a loose-fitting sundress. The family gave Roxana water, filled her cup again and again, and made her soup ("canned" but satisfactory).
"C'mon, I'll draw you a bath, sweetheart," said Mrs. Kobayashi later that evening. "It'll sooth your back." She took the fallen's hand and gently led her into the washroom at the back of the house. "So what's your name?" she asked, patting the sink-top for the girl to sit on.
"My name is Roxana," the young lady whispered, examining herself in the mirror. Her large amber colored eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Her curly orange hair was a mess of knots and dried blood. Her light brown skin was irritated and dry, cuts and bruises littered across her body. Blood and dirt stained her visage.
As she was observing herself, her hostess began the bath.
"Well, come here, Roxana, so I can get those wraps off'a you."
The newly human girl obeyed and the mother stripped her of her gown. Roxana removed the additional garments, wincing as she bent for the wool encasing her feet. Mrs. Kobayashi chided her, saying she'd pull the stitches, and undid the wraps.
"What is your name, Mrs. Kobayashi?"
"Laure."
The girl pondered a moment, trying to recall where she'd heard the name. "Is your grandmother Carina Boatwright?" she asked. "I believe she married an Archambault in the mid-1900s. Blonde?"
"Yes, how'd you know that?'
With a light smile, Roxana said softly, "I made her." as an afterthought, she decided to clarify her existence before that day, "I am an angel; a cherub… I was, at least.
"…I fell." she whispered to the rising water.
"Sure, kid, I'm sure you are." Carina said carefully.
"I was!" Roxana exclaimed, snapping her eyes to the woman. "You watched him stitch my back, where I ripped my wings out during my fall! They were burnt and damaged beyond repair… I had no choice, I knew what was happening." she sobbed.
"Okay," Carina sighed dramatically, turning the water off. "Careful gettin' in; the water's hot as the sun." she joked.
The older creature gawked at her.
"Well not really as hot as the sun!" Carina laughed goodheartedly. "It's a figure of speech, hon."
The fallen nodded slowly, turning back to the tub. She took a tentative step in and winced slightly when some dried blood on her toes tainted the water.
"Call me if you need me. There are clothes on the guestroom bed, which is right across the hall, 'kay?"
"Okay." Roxana whispered, easing into the water.
It was soothing—despite the way the gashes in her back cried out in anger. The water seemed to seep into her very being. It cleaned her of the blood and dirt, though it did little for the bruises. Roxana sighed in minor contentment as she washed herself, the liquid becoming a dark red with her actions. She didn't mind though. She relaxed into it—reveled in it even.
Something tugged at her as she laid there, her eyes closed. It was peaceful but dark, an unknown thing. She allowed it in, let it consume her slowly as she rested her head on a washing cloth. It was quiet and gentle as it took her over, leaving her calm and motionless.
It was nothing like she'd ever experienced before. It was black and bright and lonely and full.
…and she loved it.
Translations:
Non facies cherub - Latin for "Not a cherub."
Review please! I really wanna know what you think, even if it's just a quick sentence.