Days later, Maybelle and Will sat at a table in Jacob's under-furnished bedchamber. It had smelled acutely of dust, before his arrival some weeks before. The king bed was gone, replaced by two separate beds when she protested against sleeping right next to him.
Will studied a familiar spike, in front of him on the table, with fascination. He ran a digit along the blade, smirking.
She had a bad feeling about this, "Why did you fetch this from the shipment?"
He took a while to notice her, "I told you I understood your addictions, remember that?"
"Yes, I remembered that quite well while you tried to squeeze out all my blood with one stomp."
He ignored the remark, "I told you so because I have addictions of my own. Why else would anyone understand a corruption such as this? Pure-hearted people are a rarity."
She looked at the same item, the fear spike, barely lit by the faraway candle. He almost drooled at the sight.
"Are you telling me you prick yourself on purpose with these?"
"I suppose I couldn't have made it more obvious."
She remembered her recurring vision—the glass tower, the falling, falling. The blood, the pain, the utter isolation. And the only real thing in the midst of a marsh of illusions—fear.
"I'm sorry, but are you out of your goddamn mind?" Yes, yes he is. She thought. Of course, he is. He is at least unhinged, at most a criminal madman on the loose.
"I must ask the same of you. Opium? Really? Why not a drug that would make you less vulnerable?"
She clenched her teeth, only the thought of Stocker came to mind, "I fell into that loop because all of my squad did."
He thought about that for a moment, then said, "First time I tried this poison, I liked it so much because it helped me cope with my fears. No… not cope, it helped me defeat them. I stopped, for a while. But lately…"
"You said once that you had no fears, why are you still doing this, then?"
"It's been a while."
Maybelle let that sink in, "I see… so, what spooked you, recently?"
He looked away, sighing, "Something new."
He lifted some bunched-up strips of leather from his lap, and placed them beside the spike. "Usually, the pretty blonde, Jessamine, helps me with this. She wanted something in return, as you would, after this."
She blinked, "Excuse me?"
"You're going to tie me to this chair and prick me with the spike—"
"No, you're on your own, Will."
"Proszę, if you do this, I'll bring you as much opium as you could smoke before passing out. I need this, I need it now."
She eyed him thoroughly, "I've never heard of someone getting addicted to fear."
"I'm not addicted to fear, I'm addicted to battling it. To see it melt before my eyes. Fear is the harvester of souls. Fear can control a nation, and I'll be damned if I let it control me."
"I see…" It's not that she hasn't heard this from him before, it's just that she's becoming more acquainted to the idea of facing her fears. If she had no fears, would she be on this hellish, unending journey to reach the gauntlet?
"Then, what do you say? If you give me what I need, I'll give you what you need. I have too many connections. Most of them know owners of dens and dealers in the black market, assassins for hire, thieves, prostitutes, you name it. I can get you anything you want as soon as you announce it."
She looked at the spike, it's as if the notion mocked her and seduced her all at once. Say yes, you moron, please say yes.
Say no, "Yes, I'll help you."
"Brilliant. You align yourself with the correct people—at least I know you won't mess up that particular aspect." He slid the strips to her, "Tie me. And I want you to double-cross me, and take advantage of my imprisonment, so I could enjoy dropping the Opium deal."
"Whatever." She took the bindings and rose. He leaned back in preparation, arms on armrests, head looking straight. She sighed and untangled the mess, and began tying his left arm. He eyed her, a mix of threats and thanks. She made sure the first binding is tight, tasting her own apprehension. She finished the rest of his limbs, then stood. Her muscles ached from his beating, her nose was permanently bent, and her pride was still forgotten somewhere in that crammed, bloody cellar. That everchanging torture chamber. She could kill him right then and there. Stab him to death with what he liked the most, but what of the gauntlet, what of Jacob and his odd love for his madman? She couldn't. She wouldn't.
"What are you waiting for, Zrób to!"
But…
She put her hand around his neck, feeling his Adam's apple bob in apprehension. She pushed his neck towards the chair, trapping his head. He gulped again. She looked at him, empty. Fingers dug into his skin, sporting short nails, clipped to the flesh because the smell of blood wouldn't go away. He looked at her as if he knew what she wanted to do, and why would he not? She hated him, and he hated her back. He berated her constantly, on what she put in her system, on how she fought, on everything. And she insulted him many times a day, calling him a bastard, a madman, a demon.
She could kill him.
As if reading her mind, he said, "You know, Jacob will be cross with you if you kill me, he might even kill you."
"Oh, I'll take my chances. I'll just tell him you did it to yourself. Left one hand free so you could inject the poison, then you died of overdose."
He smiled, "Would he believe you?"
"He might, or might not. Either way, you'll be dead. One moment you'll be breathing and joking about your own death, and the other, you'd have a gaping hole on the side of your neck. And there's nothing, nothing you can do about it. Aren't you afraid of that? Isn't that enough fear for today?" She leaned in unknowingly, almost breathing his air. Steel eyes went mellow and watched her, half-lidded and lost.
She let go.
She lifted the spike, a shiver ran down her spine at the familiarity. The smell was a poison she came to dread. Even the cold weight of it in her hand was familiar.
She flipped the spike in her hand, put the tip into position against his shoulder. He was wearing his pale coat, his favorite, the one with his mother's photo tucked in somewhere. Yet he didn't shrug it off, he didn't care if the spike tore it to pieces. He's a madman. She plunged the spike as one would a syringe, surely, firmly. She let the poison soak into his blood, then pulled the spike, noting how his shoulder painted red. The spike dripped blood, she tossed it on the table and sat across of him.
The beast was awakening. His eyes were wide-open, seeing her in all her rejecting, repulsed, hypocritical glory. She failed to see herself through him—a man dependent on a substance. Able to face the monsters of the world alone, preaching about it, only because he used a poison to empower him. To her, he was a broken man with whatever past that broke him, an irreversible maniac. She skipped over the notion that they were alike. She saw him convulse and spasm, the chair creaking every time he moved, as visions erupted before him. Turning the room into a nightmare he basked in, coloring Maybelle's face into a demon, a ghost, a death-bearer. He loved it. Of course, he did. Absolutely chaotic, imprisoned, and given his dose. When will it end, May asked herself. When can I go the hell to sleep and forget everything? When can I go to bed yet stay awake until dawn because I need something that needs me back?
Blood dripped down his shoulder, yet she didn't bother to do something about it. She didn't care. She needed a hit. She needed the gauntlet. She needed Jacob's stupid routines that paled in comparison to the world that Will introduced. The road wasn't paved with dangers—there wasn't a road at all.
Suddenly, his entire body shook, and his neck fell to the side. His eyes closed, his face became pale. May barely noticed a heartbeat in the bulging veins on his bluish hands. Maybe it's the bindings? She rose slowly and grabbed the spike, and cut the wrist bindings, then the ankle bindings. Will's head fell back, mouth opening. She tossed the spike and stood, taking his head in her hands. Two fingers slid down and measured his heartbeat, it was faint, and slowing. May's own heartbeat quickened, dread creeping up her system. She grabbed Will's shoulders and pulled him out of the chair as gently as she could—not gently enough. His limp body fell on top of hers, she grunted, then slowly turned him to rest on his back.
She swept hair out of her eyes, and crawled closer to him, to his barely breathing, barely twitching body. She took him in her arms, not unlike the many times Jacob held her as she recovered. She never knew she'd looked so dead in Jacob's arms, so pale. Or maybe she didn't… maybe Will is really dead, or about to die.
She looked at his face, behind the scratches and bumps she gave him in their most recent scuffle, the permanent scowl was just an imprint between his brows, a tiny wrinkle. His thick lips were chapped and barely grazed by a breath. She parted his lids, his steel irises were rolled back, she saw only the bloodshot whites.
The hand she placed on his cheek was shaking, she blinked back tears of dread and sorrow. No, you can't die, not like… not like this…
"Will, wake up. Come on, wake up…" she patted his cheek, biting her lip so hard she felt it left a mark, "William…" her fingers drifted to his hair, the locks he always mussed whether he felt anxious or confidant, angry or content. They were soft, like the feathers of a bird. A tear fell onto his collar, Maybelle closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, "Will! Wake up! Please!" She lifted him closer, his chin rested on her shoulder, "Please... I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I'm sorry I did this to you… I wish you haven't asked for it… I…"
He was dying, his heartbeat was decreasing more and more. Was she crying because his death meant hers as well? No. She wasn't afraid of Jacob's warnings. She could run, she'd lose the gauntlet, but she'd keep her life. No… she was crying because… she couldn't fathom. She wanted him dead, wanted to drink in the sight of life leaving his eyes. And here he was, almost dead, clinging to the faintest hint of life that still coursed through his blood. And she's crying over his dying body. What's wrong with her? Were a few weeks in his hell enough to change her completely? To look up to him as she once did Stocker? To cry and blame herself if something happened to him? She needed to get a hold of herself.
Five minutes, but it felt like hours upon hours of soaking his damn coat with tears, the one that smelled like him and like her at the same time. Five minutes, and she felt his hand twisting in her jacket, "What're you crying about, kochanie?"
She bit back a sob, and squeezed her eyes shut, "You, you fucking idiot, I'm crying about you."
Will said nothing, instead, he wrapped weak arms around her quivering shoulders. The gesture was so unexpected and so tender, it wasn't Will. At least, it wasn't the Will she knew. She painfully wondered if there's another side to him, a side he hides behind the many masks one needs to become a skillful spymaster.
Will being in her arms was a weird feeling. She didn't know if she should hug him back, now that he's awake and fully aware of what she's doing. But if she didn't… would he ask her to? Would it hurt his feelings? Why does she even care about his feelings?
She closed her eyes, drowning the many questions. She wrapped her shaking arms around him. He was warm, and his heartbeat was against her chest, beating steadily, quickly. She whimpered.
"I don't know what's happening to me." She told him.
He sighed.
"Me neither."
The headquarters was impatient, the walls themselves trembled, eager to know the truth. The Templar ally was in the cellar, tied to a sturdy chair. Peter interrupted the spymaster's morning ritual of gobbling raspberry pastries to give him the news. A suspect was found, he told him, an accomplice of the Templars. Name's Jack or Floyd or Olin, whatever. We need to know everything he knows, whether needed or not.
Maybelle followed him down to the cellar, an uninvited bystander. Her curiosity got the best of her. Will was too far gone in his professional visage to care about her presence. He descended and glared at the man on the chair, facing them, instantly bristling when he spotted them. He was young, perhaps not yet two decades old, his hair was reddish, hacked incredibly close to his head. He barely had whiskers above his lips.
"I haven't done anything, let me go, please!"
Will moved towards him, "I'll be the judge of this—you work for the Templars. An ally of Remy Cain," He circled the chair, a hand tracing the boy's shoulders, "An errand-runner. I don't care if you shine his shoes or suck his cock, I want to know everything about him, start talking."
The boy lost his tongue.
Maybelle bit her lip and looked at the redhead, "You know, I would not mess with him. Really. Do what he says, I'm serious."
"I—I don't… I don't know anything, I swear! He tells me to fetch him his wine from a seller he depends on and give it to man waiting by… by the bent lamppost. Grenache, from Spain. He likes them old. His last was 1858. Please, that's all I know."
Will rolled his eyes, "I don't want wine facts, I want his whereabouts, what he does on a daily basis, where he goes, what he looks like."
The boy began to sob pathetically, he struggled against his bindings, "I don't know! I've never seen the man!"
"You're a liar, you deliver his wine, you must've seen a glimpse of him."
"No! He is never with the man. I think he's his man-servant, or maybe his… his cook! I don't know, I never asked him what he does!"
"Look, two can play at this game." He clapped the boy's shoulders and leaned into his ear, "You aren't in London, the year isn't 1875, Albert is still alive and that woman standing there is my mother. You keep feeding me horseshit, I keep feeding you horseshit, let's see which one runs out of it first."
The boy looked at Maybelle, as if he found in her passiveness a potential ally. His eyes were begging, "Please, I don't know. I don't…" He sobbed.
"Will, I think he's telling the truth. Look at him."
Will raised his brows as if she told him cats can breathe underwater, "No, you look at him. If you had secrets locked inside you, you'll attempt everything to keep them there. Some people refuse to speak, others lie, and some act. Guess we got a theatrical performance, here." He pulled the boy's head by the short strands.
"Yes, but… he's just an errand boy. He doesn't even know what Cain looks like."
"Yes! I don't!" The boy said. Maybelle shut him up with a glare.
Will narrowed his eyes, torn between listening to the voice of reason and keeping the visage of a terrifying interrogator.
Maybelle sighed, then walked to the shivering boy, "Listen, tell him what he wants to know. Come on."
The eruption was expected, "I don't know anything! Please!"
Will seethed, letting the boy's head go and walking to stand in front of him. He leaned in, hands on knees, eyes gleaming dangerously, "You're not going to tell us something? Tell us, skurwysyn, tell us."
The boy's lips quivered, he said nothing, but simply stared into the eyes of a black death.
Maybelle sighed, she nudged Will away. He eyed her, startled, wanting to complain and push her back. But he stood straight, watching her.
"Listen, boy. In the last few months, I've seen horrors no one in the right mind could even imagine. I've experienced pain worse than a thousand deaths in a thousand ways. I can show you. Every. Little. Thing I've learned, and you won't tell me what you think of them. Because by then, you'd be completely mad, or completely dead. Do you want me to tell you?" Will's words poured out of her mouth, tasting poisonous and bitter.
The boy stared at her, completely still, trying to comprehend what she said to him. Before he could choke on his own spit, he swallowed roughly. He shook his head many times, enough that May thought he was trying to make himself dizzy.
"Then, tell us what you know."
"I told you!" He said, "I don't know anything!"
His constant shrill drone was becoming annoying. May knew Will lost his patience a long time ago, and simply waited to the side until May had her turn.
And she had.
She looked at Will, his arms were folded and he was looking at May as if she'd done something horrendous. May shook her head, no amount of threats would coax out info that doesn't exist.
"Are we done?" Will asked her.
"Apparently," and before he could move, "what do you intend to do with him?"
"Do you remember what I told you about allies in other places? Allies that could find this headquarters and put it under the ground?"
Of course.
Loose ends could kill you when you're not looking.
"Are you sure?" May asked him, smiling, as if it would deter him from having to kill him.
"I'm sure." He smiled back.
The boy looked between them, colour leaving his face. They looked at him, both smirking, as if they were looking at a beautiful sculpture. Will moved forward, brushing by Maybelle. He grabbed the back of the boy's head, and put his other wrist under the boy's chin. One flex of a practiced muscle, and the boy jumped slightly, as if startled by some noise. Then, blood began to run down Will's arm, soaking his coat.
Will let go.
The boy's head fell, staring at the massacre pooling in his lap with lifeless eyes. Maybelle watched as his skin turned grey, finding the scene less disturbing than she expected. Even… satisfying?
She saw a lot of blood in her time. She killed some men, and watched others die. She saw her father come back from a bloody bar fight, and of course, saw her own reflection after she was covered in her own blood, then Will's blood.
She always found these moments disturbing. So, what changed? Was it the rush of killing an innocent but dangerous boy that hadn't seen twenty summers? Will watched as the blood trickled over his leather boots, no remorse in his eyes, only a mellow, sleepy look. The strain of the interrogation melting. Leaving him a bloodstained angel, a white-clothed demon. He left the cellar. May looked one last time at the pale corpse, and trudged through a thick carpet of blood to face the questioning gazes of the Rooks.
Maybelle crept through the night like a thief inside the walls of a mansion. But this was just the headquarters, the dazzling night time beauty that looked rugged in the morning, like the rest of old London.
She reached the warehouse, smelling this time of lantern oil and squashed fruit. In the darkness, she reached the shelf she studied the day before, containing extra weapons and ammo, and a few fear spikes that arrived before. The same shelf Will raided to quench his thirst for fear.
May grabbed one, careful not to prick herself. She shivered from a breeze that wafted in from the open door. She wore only a thin shirt and oversized pants, dressed for bed.
She moved out of the warehouse, closing the door behind her, and walked to the main building.
Everyone was sleeping at this hour, after midnight, but just before dawn. A magical hour. But… wait, the building was lit, oil lanterns fixed to the walls, fire inside them flickering, bathing the wide room in a golden glow.
"What are you doing, awake at this hour?" He asked her, she slightly jumped, and looked for the source.
Will was at the table, a spoon in his hand, a whole plate of jelly in front of him, bits of fruit floating inside, with a mountain of whipped cream on top. He barely looked back at her as he stuffed his mouth by the spoonful. A midnight snack. Or, was it a meal?
"I didn't see you there."
"I didn't expect you to." He said.
Assassins and their camouflage, May thought, startling people since the dawn of time.
She moved to the table, spike still in hand. She made no move to hide it. He noticed it, and gave her a quizzical look.
She smiled, then moved the spike away to her chest, protectively. He didn't take a lot of time to understand.
"Since you're here…" she said, moving to sit across of him, "would you like to help me?" As she helped him once.
"I would, but I want to know why." He put the spoon down and wiped his mouth with his hand.
She thought about it for a while, "Whenever I had this running through my veins, it was by mistake. I want to see what would happen if I wanted this. Like you do. Maybe… maybe it'll be different, maybe I'll see things I won't see otherwise."
He sniffed, then cocked his head and looked at the spike she laid on the table.
"You don't remember the last time one of us got stabbed with this?"
"I do."
"Aren't you afraid of that happening to you?"
"Maybe, but I don't want to be. I want to be strong," she sighed, then toyed with her collar, "I want to fear nothing."
"Fear doesn't dissipate like this, you'll have to work for it. The spike is an instrument, a weapon, to wield against your fears. But in there, you'll have to know what to do."
She said nothing, but nodded. She closed her eyes and listened to the howling wind, how something wooden creaked outside, as if an animal in pain. She opened her eyes, Will was watching her, leaving his whipped cream to melt as he waited for her reply.
This might be the last face she ever sees, the last cold night to feel against her skin, but she has to. She has to.
"Do it."
He exhaled, then got up, walking briskly to her chair. He towered over her, the lantern light glinting in his eyes and contouring his pronounced features.
"Did you bring any straps?" He asked, grabbing her wrist and placing it on the armrest.
"I don't need them." She didn't like them, she didn't want them, she wasn't a prisoner. This is something she wanted.
Will's features remained unreadable as he reached for the spike, he studied the sharp prick, then scowled. He wiped a part of it on his sleeve, tainting it with a transparent liquid.
"Why'd you do that?"
"I reduced the dosage, can't have you dying with Jacob coming back in a few days," he looked at the prick again, he was satisfied. He looked at her, features softening. She remembered Jacob, that green-eyed buffoon that seemed like a stranger to her. Seemed so far away.
"Do you still want this?"
I have to do this, she thought, I want to do this. I want to know what's in there. There must be more than a glass tower and a vacuum.
"Yes."
Will practically grimaced. And for a moment, Maybelle felt he hesitated. But he grabbed her arm and pushed the prick into her shoulder. The last thing she saw was his concerned frown. And the last thing she felt was a hand cupping her face.
The next moment was upside down. A grassy meadow with tiny baby's breath, a scurrying grey fox that stopped to smell the flowers, then hopped ahead, oblivious to her. Her blood began to leave her legs and was actively rushing down her head, until it became warm and red. The wind nudged her body, rocking it gently, she felt like a pole on an anchored ship. The constant heartbeat in her ears confirmed the reality of this dream. She gasped, twisting to look up. Her feet were bound together with strips similar to the ones that once held Will's wrists, then a rope held her body upside down, hanging from a tree branch. She bent herself upwards with extreme difficulty, her ribs protested and her muscles wailed in misery. She felt around her body, looking for something, anything. She found a dagger. She snatched it from her hip and climbed upwards to saw the rope, holding her breath. The tendrils spun, untangling the merged rigidness, and the last thread snapped. Maybelle fell to the ground, her spine threatening her with a sudden ache. She rose as quick as she could, looking around. The dagger was lost. Not around her, not back in its sheath. Lost.
The forest clearing was beautiful, no doubt. Birch huddled in the east, close-knit like bamboo. And turbulent oaks stood high and mighty in the west, their thick trunks older than the dirt that drowned their roots. The sun shone against the translucent leaves, filtering in gathered rays between them, and collecting on Maybelle's skin. It warmed her blood and made her racing heart slow down. She heard the many birds call out to each other, a greeting there, a flirtation there. She followed the sun and unknowingly trampled a patch of baby's breath. She noticed a hiss in the wind, a movement in the far distance. A fox? No, a red deer. With branching antlers and a lot of meat on his bones. It appeared before her, majestic, and looked at her, its glistening nose sniffing. Then it went back to grazing.
"Aim for the head, brings him down quick." She jumped. The rough voice was beside her. It was a firm command, not an instruction. She turned to look. He looked back, his deep ocean eyes inquiring, his black hair greying at the roots. His golden skin. Josephine married him for his golden skin, as if to pacify her ghost-like paleness. "What are you doing, looking at me like so? Shoot the damn deer."
No, he's not real. He's dead. He killed himself. She's dreaming. This is a nightmare.
Ashton kept his tone low, lest the beast hears him, "If you don't have the guts to do it, I will. You have ten seconds, think."
A rifle was in her hands.
"This is not real, you're dead. Why can't you stay dead? Your life wouldn't matter, it won't change a thing. I'd still be in Nottingham, doing nothing but shield my sister from you, while my mother shields us both. Go away. Go back to hell. You're dead."
The male, older version of her eyed her with disdain, "Stop playing games. I'm alive, you're alive. And that deer is alive. I want him dead. I want to eat. Now."
"No, I don't want to kill him, he doesn't deserve it."
He laughed, "Then who does, if not for the mindless, who else takes the pain?"
"Is that what you tell yourself whenever you hit my mother?"
He grinned in disbelief, "Shoot the deer, Maybelle, shoot the deer. Do it. Put your arms like this, keep your finger at the trigger, and fire at the head. At the head, Maybelle, not the heart, the head."
"Why not the heart? The target is bigger."
"Because it's too risky, it will run amok. It will drive the whole herd away. We will starve. The head, Maybelle, the head."
The head.
The head.
She lifted her rifle and put a bullet through the side of Ashton Willis' head. The deer ran away, alerting his kin with his special call, skipping over rocks and fallen tree branches. Her father fell to his knees, a hole in his brain Maybelle could peer through. You're not real, I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare. You killed yourself, you killed yourself. I didn't kill you, Myra didn't kill you. You killed yourself out of guilt.
He gave her a bloody smile, "Do you honestly believe that?"
Then he fell.
The rifle disappeared from her hands, and bullets began ricocheting off the dirt, creeping closer to her feet. She looked up, searching for the attackers, she found nothing but the emptiness of her sunny illusion. The trees were devoid of anything but squirrels and sparrows. They never moved, oblivious to the bullets that whizzed by their tiny ears. The bullets came from nowhere. One planted itself into her boot, and it hurt. It munched at the bone and strummed the threads of her nerves. She cried, and began to limp away. The bullets fell like rain, of all sizes and colors. Golden, long. Grey, thin. Shining like stars.
The unending horizon of green suddenly vanished, turning into a cliff overlooking a rainbow-decorated waterfall. Baptized in fire, baptized in wind, baptized in water. Reborn, and reborn, and reborn yet again. She jumped, closing her eyes. Her ears almost went deaf—the waterfall was too strong. Like a volcanic eruption, the hum of a hundred engines. The water embraced her, and bullets followed her into the water, cutting through the surface like daggers. An unfathomable force pulled her downwards. She sunk deeper, deeper. Not attempting to pry off the invisible hands. Giving in. Drowning, suffocating. The deep dark like an airless midnight.
And at once, the force reversed, pushing her upwards. The hands threw her against the surface, and when she hit the air and the splash of water calmed, the water below her morphed into grey stone. The ceiling was utter blackness, a starless void. She looked to her side and found an unending tunnel with no promise of light. The other side—the same. She rose, still dripping wet. The tunnel was occupied with grey figures—everyday people that might've walked right out of photographs. They didn't notice her, but went around her, leaving her in an eerily perfect circle. She waved to them, their gazes that looked at the infinite sides of the tunnel. No one saw her, not one of them stopped to study the soaked, pale woman who looked obviously distressed.
On one end, the blackness made way for a sudden light, a figure that bathed in a white glow. The same wide-eyed woman from her other visions. She looked at her with those empty eyes, then pushed through the crowd. Her presence gave color to the passerby, whenever she passed by someone, they lost their greyish visage and regained the blindingly vivid colors. Maybelle strained against the growing light.
"Please," said she, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"What do you want?" May whispered, the presence of the woman warming her, making her feel safe and wanted.
"I want to be free."
Freedom, that's something Maybelle strived for all her life. The word rang in her ears, freedom.
"Let me help you," Maybelle said, and offered her hand. The woman was far away, but she moved closer, and closer, and she took May's hand.
Something cold and hard encased the woman's delicate hand, May looked down, and saw gold. Her gold. The gold she began searching for ever since she saw it for the first time. The woman's other arm was cut, to the elbow, and still bleeding, fresh.
"Free me."
"From what?"
"From this world."
Maybelle tried to find her eyes that were lost inside the light.
"Who are you? Why do you want to die?"
"I was before. My name is Yara, and I've been both dead and alive for thousands of years. I want to close my eyes. I tried, I tried to make it dark, but its light, and it hurts. It hurts."
"What? What hurts? Who'd done this to you? Where are you?"
"Free me." The woman pulled her hand away, taking the gauntlet with her. Maybelle tried to reach her, to get answers. But she was already far, far away.
The woman glanced for the last time, then sank into the darkness as if it was a tangible veil. Her light disappeared, and the bleakness returned.
Maybelle heard a crack. She looked down and found the ground splitting between her feet. Tiny pebbles jumped and danced in response to a distant shiver of stone. Cracks began tracing the ceiling, branching off and growing like an infestation of weeds. The ceiling began to collapse, rocks falling onto the walking people, crushing them, their blood exploding like Chinese ink. Yet none of them blinked an eye. The ground followed, sinking all at once into an unfathomably deep pit. Black was all around her; the grey people were falling with their faces indifferent. Their hats flew all around, the number of the falling headwear exceeding the people's. It was raining men, hats, and stone. The foreboding void wrapped around her, a vacuum, not even air survived, not even light.
She smiled, and let the fall take her.
She fell, and fell, then stopped falling.
She woke on the same chair in the main room, Will was sitting across, looking at her, concerned. His tongue swirled candy about, clink-clank, clink-clank.
Maybelle looked at him, trying to get used to reality. Her father's doomy glare constantly appeared in her memory like a flashing light. Mocking her. The sound of bullets bouncing off tree bark and dead leaves returned. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving with every memory she recalled.
Will's cherry-tainted voice, "Are you alright? You were breathing really hard for a moment, I thought you were suffocating."
Truth is, she's been breathing funny ever since he kicked her there. Seems like a long, long time ago. With a different person, not Will. Not this Will.
He lips quivered, she looked at him with teary eyes, "Better than I ever was."
"Was this time different?"
She nodded. He had no idea, nor will he. No one ever will know what she saw in there.
Then, Will's smile faded. He scowled, then examined her, as if he was looking for injuries, which was impossible… wasn't it? He sighed, then touched her cheek with a fingertip.
"Please don't do this to yourself again, don't mimic everything that I do. Because… well, maybe some of the things I do feel good, or are helpful, but they're dangerous."
She smirked, and the tears spilled when she blinked. One ran down and stopped at Will's fingers.
"Do you really care what happens to me, William?"
He sighed, looked at her in pain. As if looking at her, and touching her, burned him, wiped out all that was dear to him. But it was also a bittersweet fantasy, to be so close to her, with her face in his hands.
"A month can change a lot, kochanie…"