Holly dreamed.
The dark empyrean could be her eyelids, she mused, and she'd be able to sleep with her eyes wide open. She was in the void, floating, waiting, yearning. She wanted to see, to feel, to breathe, to be.
She wasn't dead, no, but she wasn't alive. She was trapped, like a feral animal in the dark, stuck in limbo, starving but not hungry.
But she dreamed.
It was lovely, like a white rose in a field of red, tangible to only her. She was alive, once, able to exist amongst the color and sun, a drop blood in a sea of flesh. She remembered the taste of chocolate, a ratty cupboard, and her mother's voice, but nothing else.
Still, she wanted more, she wanted to be alive.
The darkness, it was cold, leaving her numb and searching for warmth, alone and without anyone to keep her company, and fuck, she was cold.
Hello. Holly raised her head and stared into the dark misery, letting the darkness cling to her flesh as if it was nothing more than a parasite. Fear was foreign to her, but it was there, underneath her skin and without clemency. She hated it.
She was supposed to be alone, but this thing was in her misery, hers. It didn't belong, not with her, never with her. Get out, she wanted to growl, but she couldn't, not when her lips were sewn shut with twine. Not when she didn't have a tongue.
Do not be a fool, I wish to help.
No, no, no. It was lying, it thought her stupid, but it didn't stop the hope from building around her like a great hungry serpent. She was alone, intangible to everything and nothing, like a phantom, there but nowhere. Holly scoured her mind; she couldn't, she wouldn't, she didn't need hope.
But, she hated it. Hated the lingering darkness that confines her. Hated the horrible cold. Hated the misery that filled her prison. She hated it, but it was familiar and the closest thing to safety that she understood.
I fathom why I am even bothering to help you, it hissed lowly, curling around the base of her throat. You are pathetic.
Holly wanted to laugh something ugly, but she couldn't, it was right. She was pathetic and a little messed up, her pieces broken and scattered, but she was there. She was okay, except, she wasn't.
Good girl, it purred, know your place, respect me, and you will be rewarded. You want to be alive again, do you not?
Holly could feel hands, hands, touch her, squeeze her, card through her hair and trace her lips. She couldn't see the hands; she couldn't see anything but black. But, she could feel it, and it terrified her.
Alive. The word yawned open in her sternum, bringing her warmth, bringing her hope. The thing, whatever it was, could give her life. Yes, she wanted to scream, sinking to her knees and further into the darkness. Yes, yes, yes.
She wanted it; she wanted to be alive.
Perfect.
Holly didn't know pain could be so wonderful.
-X-
Fania dared to wear her heart on her sleeve, the green and yellow of melancholy bleeding from her damask cheeks. She was on her knees, holding her little girl's small hand, a prayer on her lips. Her feet were swollen, her hair was unwashed, and she hadn't slept in a proper bed in days.
Fania loved her little girl very much — even more than she loved herself. She walked with the universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings, and yet, she was scared. Her little girl, her everything, was in a coma, her body impossibly small underneath her pink comforter.
She couldn't see her baby's green eyes, couldn't see her smile, but she could see her little chest rise and fall. It wasn't enough, not nearly, but it was something to rely on, some solace, something to gnaw and chew at as her child laid motionless.
Ilya was in the doorway, a cigarette sitting at the bud of his lips and between his teeth as he dragged out the last smoke. He gripped his cane, his knuckles white. He loved, but he couldn't love enough. His daughter was dying, and he blamed himself.
Fania was barely holding herself together, the strings of her resolve waning as she clung to Holly. Ilya rubbed the butt of his fag to a pulp, flicking it into the ash tray, his eyes never leaving his wife's crumbled form. He knew his wife, knew her better than she knew herself, and he knew she'd never let go.
Bending down, Ilya coaxed her into his arms, resting his forehead on her shoulder. "You're okay," he said, barely above a whisper. "Holly's okay."
A watery smile curled at the tip of Fania's lips, coloured with vermeil and brimming with exhaustion. "I want her to wake up," she babbled, something akin to hysteria bleeding into her tone. "Why won't she wake up?"
"She is ill; she needs sleep."
Fania particularly seethed. "For seven months?"
Seven months ago, her little girl wanted to play in the rain, and seven months ago, her little girl collapsed in a seizure, tongue split and eyes wide, in the rain. The doctors were worthless, as were the nurses. They couldn't even begin to figure out what was wrong.
"Doctor said—"
"That doctor is a useless twit! He checked her temperature, drew some blood, and pulled shit out of his ass to make up for something he didn't even know!" she snapped, and then shut her mouth, frowning. She swiveled, straining her neck to look at him. "And you know, I'm right, don't expect me to apologize."
Ilya smirked. "Of course, I would die if I did."
With a roll of her eyes, Fania relaxed, if only a little. "Yes, you would," she scoffed, smiling weakly. She looked at him again, then, really looked, and something broke inside of her. "I missed you."
"Why?" he asked, knitting his brows. He never left her side, even for a smoke, he kept his eyes on her. He couldn't risk her getting sick too. He didn't know if he could be strong enough for her. "I was here, no?"
"Yeah, yes, but I—" Fania swallowed, falling back on her words. "We don't talk, Ilya. Not anymore, not like we used to. We sit on those chairs, and we wait. It's pathetic, and I miss you."
Ilya surged forward, their foreheads hitting, but he didn't stop, pressing his lips against hers. "I missed you too."
And Fania grinned, so widely and so beautiful, rubbing her forehead, and…
She froze, her throat drying up.
In her hands, Holly twitched.
-X-
You foul, loathsome—
Evil little cockroach? It supplied, the thing curled in the corner of the bathroom. It was a nasty little thing with whale-like tallow drawn across its mandibles; beady black eyes flung so wide you could see every single vein. Like a maggot, it squirmed, skulking in the umbrae.
Holly dared to take her shoe and squash it like a bug. She was three and learning how to potty train, and she hated it. It was beyond demeaning, but where her mind was developed, her body wasn't. This is your fault.
It snorted. You wanted to be alive, girly. I gave you your wish, not my fault you thought you'd end up in your old body.
I hate you. Holly pulled up her frilly, cotton dress, glaring at the horrid thing. You're enjoying this, aren't you?
A little.
Four months ago, Holly Potter was dead; until she wasn't. She could feel, she could see, she could breathe, and she could be. It was intoxicating, like a drug, but also like a drug, it was wrong. She could see herself, in the mirror above the hospital bed, and while it looked like her, it wasn't her that stared back.
It scared her.
The little girl, Holly Nikolaev, from what the thing told her, was dead — been dead for months. She wasn't stealing her body, not really, but still, the thought unnerved her. She was alive, and despite knowing she resided inside of something that once breathed without her, it excited her. She was alive.
Except, she was a bloody child, and where her mind was developed, her body wasn't.
She couldn't remember her past life, not like she wanted to, but she knew she wasn't an evil megalomaniac. She didn't deserve this; she didn't. She was a good girl. The thing, however, only snickered at her expense, taking utmost delight in her debasement. Holly vowed she'd find a way to kill it, whether by her shoe or her own hands.
I want to make a wager. The thing was still in the corner, deep-set eyes peering into her soul, and she huffed.
Don't care.
Pity. Holly scowled at it, dropping her dress, and headed to the sink. She stumbled around on her tippy-toes, trying to reach the faucet. I suppose you wouldn't like to remember who you are, then? That's much too bad.
Holly choked. What?
Eloquently put, princess, except you don't care, remember?
I swear to god, she snarled, sinking to her knees. She grabbed at the thing, squeezing its fat body in her tiny hands — she hoped it'd pop open like a blood vessel. It's like you want me to kill you.
What can I say? The thing shimmied out of her grip, dropping onto her lap. It looked almost smug despite not having a proper face. It brings flavor to our relationship.
Holly gagged, scandalized, before shoving it off her lap and leaping to her feet. If only she could find a way to kill it or maim it or both. She hated it so much. You're sick.
It chuckled darkly. Now, now, that's not very nice, no need to get your diapers in a twist. With that type of attitude, I should punish you.
Well, she huffed sardonically, since we're in such a loving relationship, why don't we skip the foreplay, and you tell me who I am?
And why, pray tell, should I do that?
Holly smirked, tugging at the ribbons on her dress in faux coyness. Because you love me, of course.
Of course, it purred darkly, and she winced in disgust as it curled around her ankle. How silly of me to forget.
Except, and Holly cried as the grip on her ankle tightened sharply, knocking her to her knees. She scratched at the thing violently, her tiny hands doing nothing as she balled into herself. What have you ever done for me, my love?
There was a ripping, popping sound suddenly as her ligament tore, and the quiet breaking of a stick as her bone burst from the back of her ankle. Holly bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming, powerless to look away from the piece of bone that stuck out her awkwardly, bits of mangled flesh dangling precariously from it.
Holly seethed, something akin to venom on her tongue. "You bastard!" she hissed hysterically, eyes erratic. "Gerroff me, get the fuck off me!"
Beg, then. The thing was moving up her leg, but Holly didn't care. She wasn't about to beg, she wasn't a dog, she didn't just roll over at the drop of a dime and take it. Beg, and I won't break every bone in your delightfully tiny body.
I'm no dog, she wanted to scream, but she knew her parents would hear, and she couldn't have that. I will never beg, not to you, not to anyone!
It sighed. Is that so?
You can't make me.
So, you wouldn't mind if I had a little fun with your parents? I'm sure they'll beg for me.
Her eyes widened in horror. "No!"
There was a knock at the door, then. "Holly, honey," her mother's voice called out, muffled. "I heard yelling, did you fall into the toilet again?"
Holly crimsoned. "M'kay, Mama!"
"Are you sure? I can come in —"
"No!" Holly cried out, in pain or necessity, she couldn't tell. "I can do it myself!"
"Oh, well, if you're sure." And she left.
The thing laughed suddenly, something dark and nasty, mandibles chattering like a couple of monkeys. It was wrapped around her thigh, squeezing teasingly at her flesh. How cute.
Holly snarled at it. Spare me.
You amuse me, girly. The thing was staring at her, unblinking. How about this?
How about what?
I'll feed you your precious memories.
Holly sniffed, as if. The catch?
The day you turn eighteen, you're mine.