bonmotxโ
This body was dead. It was lost, lost in the empty expanse of nothing and chalk and salt.ย
Ophelia cannot live. Ophelia used something too powerful to survive. Ophelia took her eye out, ripped out her lifeline to the world. Ophelia is dead. Ophelia cannot be alive. Ophelia, a human girl, so inexperienced that in her own mind she could not even properly be called a woman, was dead. A human could not survive that power, and so, she must be dead. There is no world where Ophelia Phamrsolone could be still alive.
Yet the chest, shallowly, breathes.
Yet something in her shape exists here. It is not truly breathing- its chest moves in the motions, yet none of the actual process seems to be happening. Itโs the rise and fall of something pretending to breathe. Itโs an imitation of the motion, absent of any understanding why it happens- it is more like a lurching rise and fall of her chest and her stomach than truly breathing at all.ย
Yet the right eye which remains is red, and it opens without any awareness. The sclera is filled with burst capillaries and smokes of red, the iris is red, the pupil even has spirals of red bursting out from the center. This is the wrong eye- the one under the eyepatch is what should be red, what is missing from underneath that piece of cloth should be red, what was given up was red, red, red.
Yet it isnโt.
The pulled back eyepatch is the first thing to burn. The fire spreads, spreads yet doesnโt burn anything but the ground, like a phoenix renewed, now what runs even in her veins. It is burning, it is hot, and it is heavy, and it smells like-
Ash. Her skin is speckled in it like freckles, like constellations, and it becomes obvious as the eyepatch burns and the flames seem to constitute something-ย
-aย โblue eyeโ. Herย โnormalโ hue sits there, innocent, innocent as the red streaking through it like a starburst is not. Her lips part, like the dramatic picture of a woman dying, and ash falls from them instead of blood. The flakes sit upon her lips and tongue and contrary to the motion of her chest, no air pushes them past, no breath that should have stirred them from their resting place.
This is not a human. It does not breathe, it does not have blood, her veins a still and almost purple-blue, and the smell of ash permeates past her lips. This is not even โaliveโ.
Yet something latches onto Beryl. Not onto him, physically, but like something looking over him, a warm ray of sunlight as if curtains had parted. Something inhuman โlooks overโ him, not human either, and then the cold resumes as it seeminglyย โlooks awayโ.
Both those unseeing eyes close.
Opheliaโs body steams, a visible heat haze aura around her, against the earth, like a chemical reaction. Cracks form in the stone where her fingers rest. With a sudden flare of heat, her lips scrunch shut, and then-
A cough. Suddenly, it breathes. Her chest does not merely rise and fall, and her breath escapes in steams and clouds of ash. The body jolts forward, as if tugged forward by the spine, an unnatural jerk, coughing and choking on the ash now blanketing her clothes as her hands clutch at her chest.
Opheliaโs eyes gain a sense of clarity, finally, the tears from the effort of her coughing streaming down and leaving paths in the white, powdery ash on her face.
They focus on Beryl, finally, despite the heaving of her chest. Her eyebrows furrow, and when her breath is finally caught, the first words past her lips, naturally, are-
โOf fucking course- ghhck, hghaahck-ย course itโs you-โ
โWelcome backโ to โlifeโ, Ophelia.
Ophelia is Huitzilopochtli, burning, burning brightly. He watches the flames devour her with insouciance; he half expects her countenance to melt like a beeswax taper. Ophelia, Hamletโs prospective wife, liquefied against his shoe's fine Italian leather like one of Daliโs melting clocks.ย
Death does not frighten Beryl Gut; he longed for it all his life. For a moment, he almost envied Ophelia for the beautiful stillness of her frame, which only un-life could perfect with the adroitness of Michelangelo. The girl, formerly known asย โbalut,โย gave him purpose, the single-most factor his aimless existence lacked. But the longer they spent apart, the more his resolve to survive withered. It seemed he was approaching the denouement of his story. The final curtain call was upon him.
Yet, in every sentient being existed the innate drive for survival. The red-blooded thrum of adrenaline rush; the greedy beat of a heart glutted fat on cruor.
Beryl Gut, although more beast than man, was no exception. He had learned the meaning of fear before anything else. His mother taught him of terror in place of love. She imbued him with panic instead of compassion. When the Witch of the End crushed him, he would crush something else, in turn, out of hatred for his own weakness, his flesh, for being so supine. He would run to the pond abutted by Alder trees. Then, grabbing the first guileless, wild thing that a stroke of terrible fate had led to him, smothered it. His favorites were the frogs; he would press his thumb to their rubbery heads and apply enough force, so their nyctalopic eyes squeezed out from the sockets like pus from a pimple head.
Through this ritual, he learned to sympathize with the woman. He understood that he was the frog, had always been the frog, and his greatest secret was that he was a creature predisposed to delicacy for those of the flimsy disposition, held the most tremendous potential for cruelty.ย
In the same wise, he had justified his motherโs transgressions. He was weak, and she was strong, and the strong dominated the weak.ย
He would never again fall victim to the fallacy of Darwinism.ย
Beryl knew that Ophelia was stronger than him. For that alone, he cannot allow her to proceed beyond this point.
โWell, if it isnโt Sleeping Beauty, tampering with fate again. You never learned your damn lesson, did ya? So, did you fake your death, or what? Trying to get tall, blonde, and handsome to spare a few pence of pity your way? Should have stayed dead, then. You two wouldโve made for lovely mimesis of Persephone and Hades.โย
Silver plumes of smoke mingled between them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old switchblade. It was worn; the cutter dull, and the wood hilt engraved with a relief of a wolf insignia. Beryl threw it at her feet with the recklessness of sticking oneโs hands through the bars in a lionโs cage. Dried blood still caked the blade.
โI killed him.โย
