Locked in ^

Everything hurt.

No, not even hurt; hurt was too small a word to approximate the blinding agony that ravaged every molecule of every atom of every cell that made up your body. What you were experiencing was beyond words; beyond even thoughts, because what string of letters could properly describe this? It was everything and nothing all at once. You felt everything—every time your bones shattered and reknit, every time your organs folded in on themselves and returned to normal, every single time your flesh was lit by a fire under your skin and extinguished just as quickly—and yet you also experienced nothing.

You would’ve scoffed at the dichotomy if you didn’t feel as if you were dying and then undying a million times over.

Snap. Your bones—all 206 of them—had just shattered like a wine glass dropped from atop a balcony. You felt every one of them all at once; heard every groan and creak as the hard calcium warred against the oppressive force, before giving way with a sickening crunch. They must’ve bent like rotted wood, you supposed, eaten away by years of termites and water until it looked more akin to Swiss cheese than wood. That rotted wood was now inside you, fragmented and fine as the shards sliced into the soft tissue of your organs like a hot knife through butter.

Every inch of you wailed, but was it really you? Or was the world itself screaming, and you were simply the vessel for its unheard cacophony? Did it even matter? Your eyes were unseeing, and yet everything was too bright. Your ears were unhearing, and yet everything was too loud. Your mouth was unspeaking, and yet your throat was raw from screaming. You were here, and yet you were also not here. You were everywhere and everything, whilst also being nowhere and nothing.

Crack. Your bones were now reforming. The marrow pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own—could marrow pulse? You weren’t certain—each fragment of the decrepit wood of your tree re-fusing with agonizing slowness. You’d read once that marrow looked like a sponge. How fitting, that your termite-infested wood look so akin to your bones. Every delicate thread pulling the shards back together felt like a needle being dragged through your innards, sharp and strangely cold as it strung the fibers together. The process was too slow for how quickly you had broken, as the soft and pliant new bone calcified. You were like the very plants you handled, you realized with a start; having a new growth forced into the weeping wound of your corpse. How cruel.

It was like the very energies of your being had entered a state that didn’t exist so much as simply… you didn’t know the word for it, if such a word even existed. All you knew is that you’d long since lost the ability to distinguish where the pain originated; your body no longer a body, but rather a mass of parts that your mind recognized and yet didn’t register beyond the overload of signals frying your mushy brain.

Squish. That was your organs, though you weren’t certain which one; there were 78 to choose from, after all. Was it your lungs caving in, the oxygen forced from your blue-tinged lips like a dog toy squeezed too hard? Was it your stomach eating itself, the enzymes failing to distinguish life from death as it devoured like a swarm of flies feasting upon a ripened cadaver? Was it your arteries, swelling with coagulated blood, before bursting like over-ripe watermelons?

Why?

Perhaps this was death.

Perhaps you’d grown stiff, as the ATP left your muscles and joints like sand through cupped hands. Your eyelids would go stiff first, concealing the milky white stare of death as potassium formed behind your cornea, alongside the other small muscles of your face, before marching on downwards with a single-minded determination. You’d be a stem, stiff and unyielding, before the plant fibers gave way.

The thought—singular, cold, like being dunked in an ice bath, cut through the searing agony. It was clarity that your fractured mind could do nothing but cling to, chanting that single syllable endlessly:

Why?

Perhaps your body had already grown cool to the touch; and your congealed blood, stagnant as it pooled with nothing left to pump it, had already stained your flesh a mottled purple. Would it look akin to marble, you pondered? Veiny and strangely beautiful? Or would it look more like a flower? You’d be a disgusting, fleshy, petal; brilliant, ghostly white contrasting with a hideous, vile violet.

Why was this happening to you? Why did it have to be you?

Perhaps you’d already bloated with gas, a cacophony of buzzing as fly larvae- or beetles- or whatever- devoured the softened tissue left behind by your stomach acid’s feast. Their pincers would chew through your foul-smelling carrion, gnashing and tearing mindlessly as they pillaged. They’d grow fat and happy on you, uncaring of whatever life you lived before becoming their meal; not unlike a flower, no? Nobody cares what life that flower lived beforehand, they merely care that it looks lovely in a vase.

You wanted to rage at the unfairness of it all. Wanted to kick and scream and thrash at the sheer cruelty that was inflicted upon you.

Perhaps you were already dry and decrepit, your bones picked clean and left to slowly become dust. You wouldn’t be like the famous skeletons kept in glass boxes, propped up for people to ooh and ahh at; no, you would be the quiet type of skeleton, nourishing the earth with what little you had left to give.

You wanted to sob. You wanted to curl up into a ball and sob, because how could this have happened? What had you done to deserve it?

Shlick. Your organs were repairing themselves. You could feel the cells splitting apart and duplicating. Over. And over. And over. They pressed against one another, forcing their malleable bodies into every nook and crevice like an overpacked sardine can, as your collapsed lungs, and devoured stomach, and burst arteries, mended themselves. You were splitting apart at the seams with each perfect division, overfilled and simply too much for your own body.

Death was too kind a fate.

Again and again, your body broke and repaired itself. You died and were revived more times than you could count. You experienced everything in a split second, and then experienced it again—as if for the first time—in the next split second.

Everything and nothing, all at once.

Everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

The question that had pulled you in—your shining light of sanity in a mind of muddled sobs and curses and incomprehensible pain—repeated itself like a mantra. Why, you asked yourself. Why. You were a broken record on repeat, your nubs sanded down by countless uses until only that one word rose above all else; and in that repetition, wispy memories, ones that seemed so far away despite happening that day, clung to the edges of your crumbling psyche.

“Prithee, dost thou plan to seek employment elsewhere, (Y/N)?” The voice, so calm and deceptively polite, echoed in your mind, “Thou art far from home, after all.”

Yes… you recalled it. He’d been so polite about it; conversational, even, in a way he often wasn’t. You’d been trimming… a bush? A tree? The specifics eluded you, but you knew you’d been working; you could still feel the rough gloves on your hands, and the sweat on your brow as you worked.

But more than that, you’d felt his eyes. They’d bored into you with an intensity and weight that’d put you on edge, the hairs at the nape of your neck standing up; and when you’d looked back, he hadn’t flinched, simply continuing to stare at you unblinkingly. You’d always thought he had eyes like a fish; empty and glassy, as if staring right through you—as if the idea of seeing you was an inconvenience—but in that moment…

…It’d felt like you were the only thing in his entire world.

You’d shifted your weight, as if trying to shake off that blank, and yet all-devouring, stare, before looking away. The question had been sudden, sprung upon you with no preamble, but what were you to say? Yes? No? Something noncommittal? You yourself weren’t certain, really. Was dealing with this worth it? You’d wondered that more than you cared to admit.

 …But considering his track record, you’d simply answered to the best of your ability.

“No, Imu-sama.”

He’d hummed at that, the sound strange and soft. You hadn’t been able to tell if he was pleased or not.

“Art thou only saying that to save thine own skin, (Y/N)?” Imu had asked then, your blood running cold, “do not lie to Mu.”

“No, Imu-sama.”

You’d doubted he believed you; though, had you even believed your own words? Even so, Imu hadn’t made whether or not he’d believed you apparent.

He’d been at your back, then; you couldn’t recall the exact moment he’d moved from a polite distance away to right next to you, just the way your throat closed up and your heart jackhammered against your chest when you’d heard him speak right next to your ear.

“Thou art Mu’s favorite, (Y/N).”

“Thank you, Imu-sama.” You’d choked out; even now, through your torture, you could recall how deeply unsettled you’d been.

“Thou are not like that traitor—” you recalled how he’d spat that word, as if disgusted even saying it, “—Lili, yes?”

“Yes, Imu-sama.”

“Thou shalt never leave Mu, yes?”

“Yes, Imu-sama.”

“Mu wouldst find thee if thou shouldst abandoned him, (Y/N).”

“Yes, Imu-sama.”

“Mu knows upon which island thine family lives. Dost thou care for thy family, (Y/N)?”

Had it been a test? You would never know. All you’d known was that those words carried weight. Your breath had caught, stomach dropping and shoulders tensing… and yet you continued.

“Yes, Imu-sama.”

How many times would you have to repeat that phrase, before he dropped it? He’d been growing more invasive up to that point; never anything as overt as the night he broke into your room whilst tipsy, thankfully… but you’d noticed. The quiet stares, the way you wouldn’t see someone anymore if they spoke to you in Imu’svicinity, the way he’d randomly refer to something about you that you knew you hadn’t told him… it’d all been slowly building.

It wasn’t like you could’ve run.

“Good. Thou art loyal, unlike the rest of them. They only want Mu’s power; but you… you see Mu, nay? See… me?”

“Yes, Imu-sama.” That was all you could’ve said.

You’d felt his hand on your shoulder, then; digging through your clothing, indenting the flesh underneath with a grip as tight as death. Imu’s eyes were wide, somehow horrifically empty and manic at the same time, as he leaned over you. You’d wanted to push him away, to run as fast as you could until you no longer felt those damned eyes boring into you like a drill.

“Thou art lying, just like that harlot.” He’d began, voice low and dangerous, “just like everyone. Thou intend to abandon Mu!”

“No, Imu-sama.” You choked out.

“Liar.” Imu had hissed in your ear, eyes narrowing to slits, “Mu shouldst wipe thine pitiful home from history for your lies, so that thou may never think of leaving him again!”

You hadn’t been able to force a response at that. You’d merely frozen up, feeling the way he practically trembled with sheer hatred.

And just as quickly as his rage had set in, it had abated; or perhaps, merely hid itself. His grip loosened marginally, and you’d been aware that he’d been breathing heavily.

“Prove it.” Two simple words, torn from his mouth, guttural and forced. “Prove thy loyalty to Mu by allowing him to bind thee to the Covenant.”

And you, still recovering from the sheer whiplash of everything, had simply agreed. What choice had you had? What could you have possibly done? He hadn’t told you what the process would be, or what the Covenant even was, he’d simply made a demand and levied an impossible price against it. Your family—your home—or staying with him, bound under some… thing.

               The answer was obvious at the time.

You’d allowed him to lead you to the middle of the room, silent as a mouse as he conjured some strange book out of seemingly nowhere. You’d allowed him to draw a pentagram beneath your feet, the heat licking your ankles and a strange sense of dread creeping up your back. You’d allowed him to mutter a few words, too quiet for you to hear, as your vision went dark.

And that was when the pain had started.

You were pulled out of the recollection of what led you to this moment in time, then. The memory dissipated like morning dew under the summer sun, whisked out of your fingers—though you knew not where your fingers were—as you watched on helplessly. With it, your only comfort in the question of why was also stolen from you; your lighthouse extinguished mere moments before you found your way through the storm. The thorny vines of this horrific ritual wound its way around you once again, piercing through your temporary reprieve, as if mocking your mere attempts at even a moment of peace.

And with it, the weight of your own actions. Your own compliance.

You’d done this to yourself. You spineless coward, unable to do anything for yourself.

 How long had it been? You’d lost track a long time ago; though was time even important, in this instance? Perhaps it’d been more moments, and perhaps it’d been hours; you didn’t care anymore. You felt all too much and all too little to care about something as cruel and ruthless as time.

You deserve this.

But where time failed you, you had the feeling of being torn apart and put together, didn’t you? It thrummed underneath your skin, like bugs. A part of you wanted to tear yourself open once and for all, if only to rid yourself of those skittering bugs. They crawled and burrowed and made their little nests in your body. They had their little bug families in your body.

You could feel their eyes, itching to burst from your corpse like plague boils ready to erupt. They were feasting on you, weren’t they? Just as you had suspected earlier.

No. There are no bugs. There is only your own failure.

The hum was quieter now, you noted numbly. You simply told yourself there were no bugs, even if a part of you doubted your own words.

Why would you believe yourself? You are the architect of your own misery, after all.

Had the pain lessened, or were your nerve endings simply too overworked to fire anymore? You didn’t know. The experience was still harrowing, of course, but you felt a strange numbness wash over you; like when you press down on a headache long enough, and the pain becomes a mere hum, rather than ever-present. It was like being submerged in water, your limbs like lead and your head calm as stagnant water left out to sit. Perhaps you were drowning, but was drowning truly so bad?

No. The sounds were muffled, and the embrace of the water was comforting, in a sick way. You didn’t even know where this came from, but… it provided some level of comfort, now that you didn’t even have the question of why to soothe you. When you looked down beneath you, you saw only inky darkness… and a dot of light. Just a glimmer, hidden amongst the abyssal blanket of this metaphorical sea… but there, nonetheless.

Oh, it was oh so beautiful. The most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life—or unlife, you no longer knew—and you longed desperately to reach it.

You did this to yourself after all, didn’t you?

Your bones were shattering and reknitting again. Again, and again, and again. You pondered if maybe you were feeling someone else’s bones break.

Your limbs were not your own, and yet you reached towards it.

Your organs were dying and reviving again. They gave way to the relentlessness of their plight like a balloon slowly deflating, before swelling up again. Bile rose in your throat.

Your mind was not your own, and yet it screamed for you to give in.

Your flesh was burning and healing. You felt it in every shattered, broken, bruised part of your pitiful form. You could almost sell the sear of your skin, sizzling and extinguishing ad nauseam.

This husk of a body was not your own, and you ached to shed it.

You were dying, and you were being reborn.

All you had was the concept of you, though even that faltered under the agony.

But your beautiful light grew farther away. The current turned upon you, whirling you away until you could only watch in misery as your salvation was stolen from you.

And when the first breath of air, the first resurface you made from under the crashing waves, washed over you? You would’ve wept, had you any tears to cry. The water longed to pull you under—and the aching part of you wished to resubmerge—but the rest of you; the sensible part, what little of it remained at least, wanted to breathe. Your lungs screamed, and your eyes felt ready to burst free from your skull… and that cruel, cruel primitive part of your brain acted.

You breathed.

Your eyes shot open, chest heaving and heart jackhammering like never before. Thump, thump, thump. Were you happy to hear that unsteady rhythm? A part of you, yes… but another couldn’t help but despair at the sound. Was this truly better for you…? Why couldn’t you have just… rested?

You were coated in a thin layer of shimmering sweat, your skin tacky and mouth dry as a desert; dried bile coated your lips, foul and crusty as it cracked and flaked at the edges, and your throat burned with a prickling fire. Your gaze was bleary and swimming, eyelashes damp and heavy. The burning hellfire was waning, though your limbs still felt like lead, and ached. The pain pulsed in long, dull bursts, interspersed by periods of exhausted numbness.

You just wanted to rest.

Your head was propped upon something, you finally realized, though you simply couldn’t bother to find out what it was. The fabric was soft against your weary head, at least; and when your gaze dragged upwards, slow and gingerly, you saw him.

A shadow leaning over you, crimson depths devouring your reactions as you finally awoke. He looked like an angel of death, from this angle, or perhaps a devil. You didn’t care.

Your head was currently rested in Imu’s lap. He stared down at you, breathing steady and even, and eyes endlessly calm; though then again, you still didn’t know what he looked like beneath the veil. He seemed pleased, though; perhaps even giddy, as he brought one hand up and dug his thumb beneath your lower right eyelid just hard enough for you to feel it, before carefully dragging it away. He wiped one singular tear—you hadn’t even noticed you shed it—away, head tilting to the side in an almost bird-like manner.

“And now, thou art Mu’s.” Imu breathed, voice soft and shaky, “forever.”