IX. "The Future"
Something… hurts. She can't tell what it is, but it's a sharp pain. Colors flash before her eyes: whites, reds, and then solid black. Another jab somewhere… she supposes her stomach. White hot pangs run up her spine, and then the cold embrace of marble coats her body.
Once all the confusion is gone, she's left in a vat of black nothingness. She can't even see her own body. Then the real pain begins. Her bones crack and scream as they twist almost poetically, aside from the sickening sound of marrow breaking and merging again. Her muscles contort over and under, braiding and unraveling, hugging her bones until they snap. She can feel her veins swell and burst, painting her insides scarlet, while others shrivel and wither and turn to dust within her. She opens her mouth to scream as her eyes turn white and roll back into her head, and she's just glad she can't see her own brain.
Then, as soon as it begins, it stops. A cool breeze washes over her, and her bones and muscles are lush and healthy again.
"Open your eyes," a paternal voice beckons, and she obeys it.
She's on the floor, kneeling in front of a man dressed all in white.
"God," she mumbles, and tears run down her cheeks.
The man smiles, reaching a hand down to her. She clasps it with all her strength and he effortlessly hauls her to her feet, making no qualms when she collapses against him. His arms wrap around her, enveloping her in safety, and she can feel the soft cotton of his robe encircle and cover her naked body.
"Would you like to see?" he asks, a vague statement that she deciphers without thinking. She nods mutely and he cradles her in his arms, carrying her to a shining plate of glass – a mirror.
Making an effort, she turns her head and looks at her reflection. She looks past herself and her God, at all the others watching behind them. There is the azure-haired one, looking on with distaste. There is the tall, thin one, waiting for a sliver of her skin to slip from underneath the robe. There is another one, shorter with sad eyes that watch her with interest and melancholy.
"Not at them," says the man, setting her down but still bearing her weight. "Look at yourself."
She does as she is told, as if submission is second nature, and beholds herself. She looks normal, she thinks, with orange hair cascading past her shoulders and fair skin. There are only the slightest of differences in her appearance: a small hole where her heart used to be and fragments of skull framing her face like a tiara.
The man leans down, wrapping comforting arms around her. "You are," he whispers into her ear as happy tears stream down her face, "beautiful."