Chapter Two – Drifting

Credence Barebone could barely feel himself. He was a floating wisp of pain and anger and fear. He knew he had to get away from the subway – from those witches who had cursed him with their bright magic, torn him apart… torn him to shreds… All that was left of him was one, tiny, fragile piece.

He felt the wind lift him, up, and away from the terrible people below. He writhed in the wind, but felt little. He was numb, with nothing but the thoughts in his head.

He was an aberration – the things he had done! A lifetime of hiding, of suppressing his fear, of crying silently in a corner, terrified of being overheard . A lifetime of fear and pain. He had been jeered and sneered at, had been beaten and cowed. In that moment it all came back to him, all the pain and all the rage that had been boiling in his chest. He had let loose that horrific power and felt a terrible vindictive pleasure as he had ripped and torn down the world around him.

But now that wave of fear and anger and resentment had subsided, and he was numb, aside from the single thought – what had he done? Ma had called him a monster, unnatural. She had been right.

His thoughts wafted through his mind as if through a fog. He didn't know what to do, where to go. He had no-one; there was no-one who he would inflict with his presence. Oh, why had he survived? Why hadn't he let that bright white light consume him, burn away his sins? All the countless things he had done – but worse, what he was. He was a witch – a wizard – but no, he wasn't, he couldn't be, because if he was a wizard then why had the others tried to kill him? He wasn't a wizard. He was a monster.

It began to rain, but the drops passed through his wisp of a form as if he were no more than dust in the breeze. The wind picked up, and he allowed himself to be carried by it, to flow gently whatever way it willed. Anywhere was better than here. Anywhere was better than home. He had destroyed his home, torn it apart. How was it that he was alive, after what he had wreaked upon his own home?

As he drifted, he wondered what had happened to Modesty. He liked her – but now he had no doubt that she hated him. He could feel the anger, and the fear, and it clutched and clawed at his chest, filled his body with buzzing tension. Even in this form, he was not free of the crushing sensation, like something outside was pushing him down, and something inside was trying to force its way out. Just thinking about his family, about Ma, Modesty, Chastity… They were all he knew.

The wind began to roar, and he thrilled along with it, unseeing, unfeeling. Perhaps he would end up out in the ocean. He did not know, he did not care. Only knew that he had to get far away, away from the witches and those people, all the people, all the ones who knew what he was. He had to hide, to find a safe place. He wasn't meant to live in this world.

He knew suddenly that he was slowing. For how long he had tumbled and drifted on the breeze he did not know, but to be sure he must be far away by now. The air current had drawn him down, into an alleyway, tight and cramped. He drifted down slowly, until he came to rest on the dirty concrete. He could vaguely feel the cold of the ground beneath him. He wondered if he could even return to his human form. After what those witches had done to him –

He began to cry, and slowly, slowly, he felt his own body return. It was painful – far more painful than it had ever been before. He felt like he was being stretched, and he whimpered. Finally he lay, cold and shivering, on the grimy alleyway floor. He thought he ought to crawl into the shadow of the dumpster nearby, but couldn't muster the strength.

Why bother, he thought, it was just as easy to die here than anywhere else.

He let his eyes fall shut, the fear and anger dulling a little as exhaustion and a longing for the end – for it all to just end- overwhelmed him.

He felt nothing.

To his dismay, he did not die. He woke the next morning, shivering and frozen to the bone. His coat and trousers were soaked and ripped, his hair coated with grime. He did not move, just lay there, insensate, trying not to feel. Every now and then thoughts would resurface from the cesspool of his mind, and the panic would grow again. He remembered Graves, face full of murderous glee as he barraged the other wizard with lethal bolts of electricity. He remembered Tina, her voice soft, pleading, telling him not to do it – he knew she had been afraid of him, and why shouldn't she be?

He remembered Modesty's face, full of terror, shaking, afraid, so deeply afraid. She had seen a lot of things in her life, but Credence had never seen her that way. And it was him that had made her cower so. The little girl who had taken their Ma's beatings with a stubborn, unmoving face, the girl who had tried to protect him – she had told their Ma that the wand did not belong to him, she was brave and proud, and yet she had hidden from him and cried.

The sound of laughter from around the corner wrenched him away from these thoughts with a start, and before he knew what was happening, Credence had shifted back into the tiny black form, fleeing into the shadows as footsteps came closer. Two young men, laughing together. Their voices were loud and hurt his head.

He waited for them to pass, and then let himself drift again. Drift on, until he found another place to hide.

His life was a blur. He floated on the wind, hid in the shadows of houses and alleyways, slept under bridges. He drank little water, and ate no food. Dead men don't need sustenance. Monsters don't need human food. Death came quicker to the hungry. He was nothing. He floated and existed, but he did not think, lest the panic come back. Every thought about home, about Graves and Modesty and Tina sent shards of pain like white hot metal through his chest, and the tightness of his torso stopped him from breathing. Tears came often, but then they always had. He was weak, angry, sinful –

He drifted for days, weeks, months (he did not know), and tried not to feel. Settled each night, and hoped, without passion or caring, that it would be the last one, that it would end, and he would die.

So when he awoke one day, in a bed, in a sunny yellow room, he was justifiably surprised.