Et in Arkadia ego - Latin, "Thus I always go into Arkadia"
Bright, ever-blinding light.
The fluorescents roared in her ears.
If she squinted hard enough, the blurred lines displaced between the light would form into the squares of the ceiling, lined in geometric fashion that crisscrossed her vision and left her in idle wonder. It was a wonder borne by a burning sensation, burning so intensely that she felt herself melting in its presence. Her entire body was burning, hot and stifled by the long-sleeved flannel she wore; it scratched against sensitive skin and boiled her in its cotton embrace. But her hands, bound by the tight grip of duct tape, were frigid; the room's temperature bit into her fingers and the imbalance made her feel uncomfortable.
This was all disregarding the fact that she shouldn't even be here.
Ah, it's a dream.
The thought came to mind many times already, but she didn't have the conscience to act on its warning. Her dilated eyes stared up at the ceiling, until she was finally pulled from their reverie by the voice of the other occupant.
"Oh, Rachel," they cooed.
She could hear the sound of encroaching footsteps upon the tiled floor. Even when laying upon the white canvas backdrop, she felt the presence of someone calmly walking towards her. She turned her head, not enough to look at them but enough to make them continue their spiel, "Of all my muses, you've been the best I've ever had."
Rachel was struck by the sincerity of the voice. She ought to be wary of it, wary of the implications that lay behind the words spoken aloud, yet she couldn't help but feel touched by the honesty within those words. This particular trip to the dreamland was touching on the more intricate aspects of her lover's past this time, she assumed. A hand reached down, gloved and calloused, yet comforting as it took hold of her chin and guided her face. She found herself being analyzed by a spectacled gaze, accompanied by a wolfish grin and it was now that she realized how unusual this whole situation was.
Rachel concluded that she was definitely tripping, and that she must've gotten a little too drunk from the shots that Nathan kept giving her and had passed out. It seemed to be one of those lucid dreams again, where everything was so vivid and realistic, she'd have a hard time separating it from reality. She definitely knew that the man, now towering over her with a digital camera in his other gloved hand, had never been the kind to go about this much foreplay before getting intimate. She'd been around him long enough to know that he was an impatient beast, even if he carried the façade of being stoic wherever he went.
"I had dreamed many times of how I'd capture you in moments like this. You play the role so perfectly," he coos down to her, "a shining star in the void of society, so beautiful and divine."
Her beloved now crouched, bringing himself close enough for Rachel to smell the cologne he wore. It became the air then, drowning her with its slick poignance, and she suddenly found it difficult to breath. Had she known any better, this would signal a sense of danger within her mind, but she didn't care much anymore. His words floated into her head and rung with the melody of a gentle lullaby, so perfectly placed that it made her crack a small smile. Her entire being was alight with interest, so hot to the touch that she worried she might burn him. Heaven forbid the flames would really come back, after all these years—
"Whatever excuse for me not being here, just can it, alright? I didn't mean to forget my flash drive!"
Damnit Nathan, right when it was getting to the good part!
Rachel heard, no, felt the rush of another pair of footsteps distant from where she lay. The photographer above her turned his gaze somewhere beyond where she could see, his features morphed into a scowl before reverting back in a heartbeat. The footsteps crossed the room, stopping over where she remembered there to be a desk, a computer sat atop it and with it the source of Nathan's frustration.
The footsteps started their path back but froze short of the exit. She could hear the subtle shift in stance and unknowingly held her breath.
"Wait, what the fuck—?" a baffled voice blurted.
"Is something the matter, Nathan?" replied its cooled counterpart. The man decided to saunter over to where Nathan was, so Rachel was stuck to losing herself to the lights again.
"What the hell is she doing here?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Nate. You know exactly why she's here."
A pause. Rachel wondered how long the dream would last. Whenever it got into a boring sequence it would usually shift to something more entertaining. That is how dreams worked, right? She couldn't recall ever having a boring dream before—weird dreams definitely, but never boring ones.
Perhaps, this dream she's in is only partially controlled. Maybe it's actually a whole realm of time and space, unbeknownst to the sober mind, and exists here, in this lucid tranquility she's floated into. She doesn't really know if it's true; she doesn't really care.
"I thought we agreed on this—" there's an emphasis on the last word, whether it means her or something else, Rachel can't tell. What she can tell, is that she really wants to wake up and text Chloe, and ask her if she'd had any weird dreams as of late. Well, maybe if Chloe'd stop being sick. What's her luck that her girlfriend comes down with a cold just before the party?
"On what, Nathan?"
"You could go after any of the others, but not her. I thought we were fucking clear on that."
Rachel thinks of how Chloe would blow up her phone whenever she had some crazy dream, especially when the flames were involved. She found it comforting that the phenomena surrounding her wasn't just a thought in her head, that she had someone to speak about it with. Her girlfriend always found a way to bring that sort of excitement to her, like a kindred spirit meant to give her a light in the dark, ever faithful, everlasting. She feels at ease thinking of the dreams with Chloe, of spending time together, talking of the rain, or seeing the beautiful trick of the light on the harbor in the late evening, or watching the sky shift hues in the early hours of summer's morn.
"Let's be real, Nathan. Do you think those shallow whores are worth even half as much as Amber over there?"
"That's the fucking point, I don't care what you do with the rest of them, just keep her the fuck out of this."
"Au contraire, she's no clue of what's going on. So long as the dose you gave her was enough, we'll be fine, but you just don't seem to get that."
"The fuck you mean, that I gave her? All I gave her was some shots, ain't no way it was me—it was you who slipped one into her cup, not me—!"
Eyes half-lidded, she lost herself to the haze of fluorescent white, her head filled the void of light with the colors, swirling, gleaming like stars. How she longs to be one with the stars, so bright and free!
Aren't those stars up in the sky only what we're able to see, and not what they truly are? What if they're truly dead and gone?
She is the star, burning, burning bright.
God-damn, this dream is boring.
"Nathan? Is that you?" Rachel rasped, her throat is dry, but she's bored out of her mind laying on the sidelines while her mind rants to itself with others' voices. They say something again, but her ears have trouble discerning it, drowned out by a sudden ringing, loud and piercing and she winces. She's burning up real bad, and it's not getting any better. Flames flicker at the corners of her vision—
The pines are roaring, the winds are moaning. The fire is red, its tendrils are spread. The Raven is slain, but its wrath cannot be contained. A ghastly blaze, the whole of Arkadia has been set alight!
She opens her eyes again, and the fluorescents above her are swallowed up by the looming shadow of two figures, their faces blurred and dimmed with shadows, so Rachel closes her eyes again and pictures them from memories before. She pictures Nathan's bright blue eyes, cold like ice, piercing into her, with his cocky smirk and his indifferent attitude to everything but her; or the photographer's eyes, little brown abysses that have nothing yet everything within, how they look upon her like she was Aphrodite herself, graced from the ripples of the bay and indescribable in perfection. How the man's wolfish grin would ease ever so slightly whenever he noticed her, his presence like that of a rock, solid and assured in every action. She opens her eyes once more.
Then came the glistening of metal, so small, so insignificant, Rachel barely noticed it. It treaded closer with a whimper, or was that Nathan? She wasn't sure now if there even was a sudden cry. Was it her that whimpered here, in this dream? Tears flooded her eyes as one of the figures crouched down, the blotch of red clothing was all she could focus on, it stood out so vibrantly from the blacks and whites. Rachel couldn't take her eyes off it.
"Nathan—?"
The prick of the needle struck her neck. Tears fell, and her world sharpened in the blink of an eye.
It's not a dream.
Rachel stiffened, making the puncture hurt even more as the plunger was depressed, and molten liquid burned under her skin, hot and shrill with stimuli and she choked on the urge to scream. No sound came forth than this choked noise of surprise, as she set her eyes on Nathan, himself pale and stricken with a kind of sorrow that she'd only seen in him once before. Prescott looked at her like she was his mother in the stories he'd told Rachel of, watching as the one he cared for slip from his grasp again, unable to do a thing to save her. He numbly stood up and shrunk away from her field of view and was replaced by the man, her beloved, his eyes glinted from the refraction of the fluorescents off his glasses. His face was somber, yet cold as the room, uncaring.
"I'm sorry, Rachel. This is far too soon to say goodbye, but it was bound to happen, one way or another. May you live on in spirit, forever."
The last thing she heard before her ears gave out and her vision was swallowed by black was the loud, harrowing sobs from Nathan, ringing off the walls, so anguished and raw and pained.
With one last exhale, she breathed no more.
Scratching her face against the hallway carpet, she rose from her spot—and was jerked awake by a subconscious panic. That feeling of panic seized her heart and she whimpered to herself, to anyone, as her back braced against the cold surface of a wooden door. With frantic calamity she looked down the length of the hallway, left and right. The many towering shadows of the doors lining the hallway told her she was in the dorms.
There was no one.
She was surrounded by darkness, by shadows.
Darkness is the mere absence of light. Be not afraid.
She waited until she could discern the individual beats of her heart before she stood from her spot, and tightly clasped a hand around the door's handle to support herself. She was shaking—every bit of her skin was cold, so freezing cold, the handle in her grip felt brittle to the touch.
There existed nothing but the cold, and the dark.
Stiff-legged, she hobbled haphazardly towards where she remembered to be the bathrooms, and wheezed in relief at the sight of light, outlining the edge of this door. Clasping its handle, she pulled the door open and scurried inside.
The lights were brutal on her sensitive eyes, and with careful steps she trudged to the closest sink from the door and leaned her hands on its sides, tired and sick to her stomach. For even with her fair skin being ice cold, she could see the angry red marks on her wrists where something had once been. She can't recall what it was.
Raising her head to the mirror, she was greeted with a ragged, tired looking stranger. This poor stranger had her hair—blonde, and once silky smooth—laid as a mop on her head, these locks of hair were matted and dry as she ran a hand through it, catching on many knots along the way.
Hollow, dilated hazel eyes stared back at her. This stranger had a fearful brow, and through the haze of the bright light she could see the glimmer of the small, golden cross dangling below their pale face. Tears welled in the corners of their eyes.
Kate should have never gone to that party.
Rolling up the sleeves of her roughened black coat and white button-up blouse underneath, she cranked the faucet on and eased her cold hands into the running water, which grew warmer by the second. She stays that way, finding solace in the flowing warmth, washing away the feeling of grime, cupping her hands and splashing away the cold sweat and the tears from her face.
It's not even close to the comfort she imagines, of being in bed wrapped with her soft olive blanket, or reading the Book of John, or even studying for an upcoming midterm in English. The feeling of emptiness in her chest grows at the longing for such simple fragments of peaceful monotony, so she douses her face again, and focuses on the warmth.
The faucet squeakily shuts off, and paper towels from the dispenser are snagged on shaky fingers. When she finishes drying, she looks again. Gone is the stranger, in their place is her reflection. Those dull eyes still gaze back at her.
Kate makes for the exit and treks as silently as she can in the dark, her flat-footed shoes brushing on the carpet. Eyes adjust, and she shuffles closer to her dorm room, gripping the door's handle and turning.
The same sight that greeted her in the late afternoon greets her again, but there's no smiling from her, no assurance nor comfort. Even in her own little abode, there is nothing but the cold.
She stumbles to her bed, tucked in the corner to the immediate left of the room, and flicks the lamp perched at the nightstand on, its light a beacon of dim yellow glow. Sitting under the nightstand was her purse, and in it, her phone. As she turns it on, she noted with wide eyes the time of night—just past four in the morning—and that creeping panic grew tenfold seeing the sheer number of texts and missed phone calls from so many people. Whatever small number of contacts she had, she'd no doubt received something from almost all of them.
One step at a time, now.
First came the texts from Juliet and Dana, the two who had been with her in the beginning of the night. They'd met up with Kate just as she was considering turning back and had encouraged her to join them. She remembered the bright patterns of colored lights, the deafening music, the red plastic cup of wine that ended up in her hands. Everything else was a blur. Through the many messages that had been sent to her, Kate realized that she'd been separated from her friends not too long after they met up, a fact which sat like a rock in her stomach. They knew nothing about what happened to her then.
The next messages she read were from her parents. They were not helpful for any context; what had happened between when she'd gone to the party and when she woke up? What on God's green earth happened to make her end up in front of her door, shivering cold?
It was a relief to know that her parents had not a clue about her outgoing, but the thought of having them find out kept her on edge.
She noticed that there were no messages from Max, her best and closest friend since she first arrived at Blackwell. Not that she expected any: Kate had talked to her brunette friend earlier that afternoon on whether she should go, and even despite Max's protests, she'd been so curious. She just wanted to know, she just wanted to be normal. She'd been so assured then that eventually Max believed her confidence and had wished her the best before going off to finish some spare homework. As far as Max was concerned, she's had the time of her life at that party.
Sadness grips her heart and tugs at it painfully. She wishes she could talk to Max now.
There was one last message, and what gave Kate pause was that it came from an unknown number. It was a simple message—a link to a YouTube video. Perhaps this was the missing piece to the puzzle.
With cautious fervor she clicked the link. Whether it was a prank or not, she had to know, she needed to know. It was a terrible feeling, having a hole of memories in her mind, a period of time that simply does not exist for her, yet exists for everyone else. Her phone loaded a video with a plain, all lowercase title, and dread swelled as she read.
internationale party 10/4/13 - kate's gone wild!
Her thumb hovered over it, shivering the slightest.
Just one tap would be all.
She could see herself in the thumbnail and tried her damnedest to pin any recollection of memories, anything at all. Yet that dread inside her festered evermore, as nothing stuck out in her mind. Mere static, then a soft voice, faint and whispery like a doctor's, then blinding bright light. Nothing more.
With a shaky thumb, Kate pressed play.
It was a finicky thing, but she'd be damned if it wasn't one of the few things in her possession that was dependable. Assured that this sixth attempt at what she wanted to text was good enough, she presses send and the message goes forth. She then slides her faithful blue switch phone into the nook of her jean's left pocket, and from the right pocket she pulls out her lighter, its metal case cold in her hand as she flicks it open and alight. The cigarette's tip glows beautifully, and the feeling of smoke in her lungs warms her insides so completely she nearly forgets to exhale. She still hasn't gotten used to the smell, though.
Chloe looked out through her windshield to the small bustle of students that she could see coming out from the gymnasium, the building closest to the school parking lot and the only thing to take notice of at this time of day. It was a perfect distraction to her fidgeting, for even with the relieving presence of the nicotine her leg bounced sporadically, nervously. Her hand clamped down after a few seconds, willing the dread to go away.
He'd be there, that's for sure. She knew he would. In the few instances of seeing him and hearing him talk, Chloe knew he was a prideful bastard, and would do anything to save himself given the chance.
Perhaps he was as nervous as she was. It's not every day that someone as crazy or as bold as her decides to blackmail the heir of the Prescott family for hush-money.
Another drag, another blowing cloud of smoke.
She should've known it was too easy, at that bar, not even a couple days ago. She should've known something was up when he thought of her as someone new, someone from out of town. She should've known those cold, devilish eyes were sharper than they were in the haze of the bar lights, when he obliged her to a drink. She let her guard slip trying to suck up to him and was fooled at her own game.
It made that mistake all the more bitter when she woke up in the bastard's dorm room, with him leering over her with a camera in hand. Like a prize, with the picture as his own trophy.
She shudders, then takes another drag. The cigarette was burning away faster than she liked.
Once she had made her escape, she spent the better part of the day out of her house, and away from the worried looks her mother would have given her, and from the god-awful lectures of her stepfather. Oh, how he'd lament to her time and time again that he only wanted to protect her, to keep her safe from the many boogeymen that plagued his mind. She sure as hell didn't need him yelling into her ear how it was her fault that she was outplayed. She didn't need someone telling her something she already knew.
One last drag, and the embers were snuffed out in the ashtray. She sighed, heavy and tired.
She stayed like that, sitting in her rusty weathered pickup truck, so tired of it all. Ice blue eyes flickered to the glove box, and with a reluctant hand she opened it and took hold of the single item within. It was a photograph of her and her other half—her best friend, her angel, her only living, breathing constant. There existed a crease that stretched vertically down the middle of the shot, where Chloe had used it as a reference for those missing posters she'd put up months ago. Seeing the photo made the guilty feeling inside her grow, for she'd lost faith, and gave up with those posters not even weeks after her disappearance.
No one cared. No one asked. No one said a word when Rachel fell off the face of the earth and was never seen since.
A hand brushed away the tears threatening to spill, and whatever sadness still existed was swiftly replaced with anger, a burning hot anger. She may have no direction left in her life, but she also had nothing left to lose.
She knew it was him. It had to be. Nobody else cared enough, as they've clearly shown.
And so he would pay. With money or his reputation, he would pay. She would make sure of it.
A buzz came, and she saw that he'd messaged her back. Finally.
Nathan: meet me in the girl's bathroom, main building. come alone. no fucking around.
She smirked, then wiped away that smile from her face. She couldn't let that rat fucker get to her again, she had to be the one in control. For herself, for Rachel.
Chloe gave the photo in her hand a gentle kiss goodbye and placed it back in the glove box. With one last sigh she opened the cab door, got out, then slammed it shut, walking briskly to Blackwell's main building.
A/N - The chapter title is a reference to the painting titled, "Et in Arcadia ego" by Nicolas Poussin, 1637-1638. It relates to the ideals of Memento mori, or the symbolic reminder of Death's inevitable arrival, even to what we perceive as an untouchable utopia, free from entropy. Further referenced by a sticker under the same title, that can be found in Max's journal in Life is Strange.