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~Mandala M.
Intox 8
My rebirth was unexpected, thrust upon me before even Alice could see it. Time passed slowly while I waited. It was cruel to me. Three days.
It was the smell that roused me. I opened my eyes and saw a streaked wall of porcelain. It took me a minute to understand that I was not looking through a camera, that this was not a film with absurd cinematography. This was my life.
I was curled in the bottom of an antique tub. No doubt that it had clawed legs. A layer of dirt had been there before me, but I had outdone it in one fell swoop. My pants were crusty, my hair stiff, and my shirt discolored from sweat. Every ounce of my soul wanted nothing more than to sleep, but the smell was terrible.
I sat up and gripped the edge of the tub for balance. My head spun as the aches returned; I fell forward, flipping out onto the dirty concrete. Looking up at the ceiling – and it was a ceiling – I began to think. There were not many concrete alleys like this in Port Angeles that went under buildings; most of those were by the wharf. Most likely that was where I was. I had not gone far and that was good: I wanted the water.
My hands groped the gritty floor for a hold. I pushed myself up and clutched the wall for support. The smell and the insane need for water propelled me forward into a back alley. The city lay to my left, the harbor to my right. I did not remember falling down the stairs into the concrete Hell I was leaving behind, but new bruises and scrapes suggested that I had. I looked around trying to remember; I was lost.
I turned toward the salty breeze and staggered for the pier. A couple walked their dog down the boardwalk. They had their heads down against the spray; their eyes were otherwise occupied. Good. I stripped off my shirt, shoes, and pants and wrapped them in a bundle, which I kicked casually over the edge into the water. Bumps rose on every inch of skin, irritating even the old scars that never learned better.
I stood in my boxers and undershirt, tired, worn and filthy. I was a threadbare shirt that had been repurposed into a rag before being left to mildew. Disgust overwhelmed me. I just wanted to be clean. Was that so fucking much to ask for? With a quick glance to the couple on the horizon, I took a deep breath and jumped into the roiling slate sea below.
The cold water stole away that last breath upon impact. I was buried beneath the waves and pressed briefly into the silt floor. Sand and water ground against my skin, scraping it clean. It was loud, a furious noise that overwhelmed my body. The raw power tossed me against the thick wooden support beams of the pier. The rest of my breath went out of me in a whoosh as the barnacles pierced my skin. I struggled, clawed, and forced myself to the surface with a wild gasp.
I breathed in a mouthful of water and fought the current that tried to sink me again. My body ached and stung in the salt water; I was bleeding, sick, and too tired to keep treading water. But I was clean. My eyes closed against the relentless waves, the water eased me into peace. I was almost ready to let go…
Strong hands were on my shoulders, reaching and slipping as they struggled for a hold. My ears were full of water, but I heard frantic shouting. More hands. There were new hands on me, new shouts, but it was slipping away. Couldn't they see that I was useless? Wouldn't they let me be? I reached a hand up weakly as the waves sucked me under, and this seemed to appease them.
Suddenly there was a thumping sound reverberating through my chest. My back was up against something solid. I tried to twist away from the drumbeat, but the motion hurt. I coughed and panicked when I only felt liquid in my lungs. Soft lips were on mine, forcing air into my lungs, but my body heaved and convulsed and coughed. It was rejecting life; I was too weak.
My body snapped back and forth like a marionette as I struggled for breath. The wracking coughs brought up the water gradually and my body relaxed when the air was no longer forced . I opened my stinging eyes and saw the faces staring down at me. The sky behind them looked dangerous. I sat up and shivered as the man turned away to speak into his phone.
My arms wrapped tightly around my chest and knees. It is times of silence like these that I become aware of the hundred fine white scars that slice my skin like ivory – the way that my designer-label boxers are clinging to groin like a second skin – and it becomes awkward for me. I rocked back and forth. The woman immediately removed her shawl and put it around my shoulders.
"Thank you," I whispered. My mouth was dry and cottony. I looked around for the dog.
She nodded. "No problem." Her voice was shaky and I realized that it was because she had just saved a drowning man's life. She was terrified of me.
"Who's he talking to?" I jerked my head in the man's direction. He had one ear plugged while he tried to speak over the water's voice. It was hard not to be suspicious. What would any rational person do?
"Calling 911," she answered me and I started in panic.
"I'm fine." My voice was tense. Christ! Was he giving directions?
She shrugged and shifted on her feet.
"No, really," I said with a laugh that anyone could see through, "I'm fine."
"We'd rather be sure, though."
I sat back, defeated, and began picking at a scab in the crook of my elbow. The entire area was intensely bruised; it was a valley of sickly yellow and green skin. It was obvious that they were calling the police – no one could miss the tracks running up my arm – because they knew what I was.
Edward would call me a monster. He wouldn't be wrong.
"Let me call someone. Someone to come get me," I persisted. My head still hurt. "I don't need a hospital." Or cops, for that matter. I willed her to believe me and eventually, through the sheer magnitude of my charisma, it seemed that she did.
The woman touched his shoulder and shook her head. They seemed to have a wordless conversation before he murmured something into the phone and flipped it closed. There was enough time to afford me a sigh of relief. Then he handed me the phone and crossed his arms to wait.
I dialed.
The phone rang three times, in which I fervently hoped that Rosalie would not answer, and just before the fourth ring a voice picked up on the other end. Even though it sounded breathless, it was unmistakable.
"Yullo?"
"Hey Em, it's me," I rasped.
"And to think I almost didn't answer the phone!" His tone warmed as he recognized me. "Hey, bro, what's up?"
On the boardwalk I glanced up to the couple who were waiting for their phone back. I turned away and bent into my knees, cradling the phone and speaking quietly.
"I ran into some trouble," I whispered. "Can you pick me up and not tell Rose?"
There was a pause in which he deliberated the cost-benefit ratio of lying to a woman who always found out. He told Rose nearly everything – hopefully not when it came to me – because his open face had left him with little room for insincerity. He finally answered as cheerfully as ever.
"Of course I can."
"Good." I actually sighed into the phone.
"So where are you?"
I paused. The truth was that I didn't even know. I looked around for a landmark but found nothing. Reluctantly, I looked back to the waiting couple.
"Can you give him the directions?" I smiled sheepishly and placed the phone in the woman's outstretched hand. They spoke for some time before she finally clicked the phone shut.
"He said he'd drop in soon," she said and I nodded.
I put my head against my knees and closed my eyes. The burning in my throat was painful, and my lips were cracked. Still, what concerned me most was Emmett's promise, which I doubted he would remember once Rose asked where he was heading off to. She could be utterly persistent, that woman, until she got what she wanted. The last person in the world I wanted to know about this was my twin sister.
Please, Emmett, remember that, I prayed. Don't tell her.
