Chapter 2: Divine Propositions
He awoke in his bed, the gentle light of dawn falling across his face. His whole body throbbed, but not so much as his head. He sat up, holding his head in his hands as a crack of lightning made its way to the back of his eyes. He groaned.
"You have a long road ahead of you," a voice said softly. Victor gasped and looked up. The lightning struck again with full force, and he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut.
"Please, don't be frightened." The voice was calm, yet rang in the air for a moment too long, like a bell tolling in a clock tower. Victor fought against the storm raging in his skull. He squinted against the light.
She sat by the window, her back to him. Her hair flowed over her shoulders, the flaxen tendrils forming crescent moons against the midnight blue of her gown.
"What are you?" Victor croaked weakly. "What do you want of me?"
"There is no word for what I am in your tongue. Some call me 'Keeper', others 'Guardian'." The figure turned to look over her shoulder at Victor. "And I don't want anything. I'm here to help you." He looked at her with skepticism.
"So you're an angel sent to save me from myself, is that it? I am a man of science. I don't believe in such things." He snapped, his voice dripping with cynicism. "And even if I did, I'm hardly a man worth saving. I've done nothing but horror with my life." The figure stood and walked briskly toward him, a flash of anger in her eyes. Victor scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed. The figure stopped at the side of the bed and knelt before him.
"Believe it or not, Victor, but I am real. And you must learn to trust me." The Figure suddenly reached out and placed a cool hand on his forehead. The storm in his head calmed so suddenly, Victor could not help but gasp. He felt his senses grow keener. He could hear a woman humming to her baby two flats below him. He could smell the sweat of the mare pulling a carriage down the street. He could see…why, he could see everything. The veins on the withered petals of Lily's forgotten white roses across the room, the light glinting off the eyes of the pigeon flying over his skylight, the strands of thread forming little roses stitched into the linen hanging on the line outside his window.
And just like that it was gone. The sights, smells, sounds, all gone. The figure had dropped her hand from his head, though he had barely noticed her feather light touch. But the elation remained. It was like an adrenaline shot to the heart. Victor could not remember the last time he wasn't tired. But this. This feeling was truly something else.
"What was that?" He gasped. The figure smile faintly.
"That was just a taste of what I can do for you, if you let me. But I warn you, my help does not come freely. You must be willing to give up that poison you've depended on for so long; to fight against your own body." The figure grasped Victor's hands tightly in her own, her eyes pleading with him. "It will not be an easy path, you know. But you must make the choice freely." Victor swallowed nervously and stared at his shoes. He shook his head, ashamed of his weakness.
"I've tried to stop. But the pain-"
"The pain will only bother you as long as you choose to let it in. But this drug…" The figure snatched the opium bottle where it lay forgotten on the floor. "This drug is nothing but a crutch for you now. A way to escape life. And that is not living." The figure gently placed the bottle in Victor's palm. "You have a part to play in the story yet to come. So choose life." She curled his fingers around the bottle. "Or choose this." The figure stood and turned to the door. Victor uncurled his fingers slowly, his chest heaving. As her fingers brushed the doorknob, Victor called out.
"Wait." He whimpered, his voice cracking. The figure paused, her head turning ever so slightly, looking over her shoulder. Victor tilted his shaking hand. The bottle fell to the floor with a sharp thud.
"I choose life." The figure smiled and opened the door. Victor leapt to his feet. "Where are you going?!" He cried out.
"I told you my help does not come freely. You must do some of the work on your own. You say you choose life, now prove it. I will return when you need me most." The figure stepped through the doorway, closing it behind her. Victor ran to the door.
"Wait! What is your name?!" He shouted, tearing the door open. But the stairwell, normally filled with desolate women and children, was deserted. Victor searched the air wildly with his eyes. He bolted to the banister and peered down the long, winding stairs frantically. Seeing no one there, his shoulders slumped and he slowly returned to his shabby flat. He closed the door behind him, the click of latch startling him. He stared at the opium bottle. He took a couple of cautious steps toward it, his breath coming in frightened gasps. He stopped directly in front of it and waited. What he was waiting for, even he didn't know. Minutes passed, though to Victor they felt like hours. Suddenly he lifted his right foot and stamped on the bottle with as much force as he could muster. As the glass shattered beneath his shoe, he let out a breath of air he hadn't realized he had been holding. A whisper invaded his head, barely audible above the pounding of his heart.
"Annika," it said. "My name is Annika."