Born of starlight and shadows

~Part seventeen~

You're not alone.

Not alone.

Not alone.

First it's the dark-haired girl's voice I hear in my ears, trying to make her words sound believable.

Then it's Jade's.

You're not alone, Midnight.

Not alone.

Not alone.

Pleading.

Not alone.

Then to her voice: cruel and harsh and unshakeable, just like all my other memories. But I'm almost glad to hear it replace Jade's voice. With her absence, even the good memories have a bitter edge to them.

You're alone, little one.

Who is here to help you out?

Who is here to save you?

The memory of her laugh fills my ears-terrible and piercing and happy to hear my screams, proof of the pain she was more than ready to inflict on me.

I can feel myself trembling, but I can't stop. I can't even force myself to wake up, really wake up from this half-asleep, in-between place, because it wouldn't change a thing.

My fingers reach in my pocket, brush against the familiar ridged surface and I feel the tiniest jolt of strength. It's not much, but it's enough.

And then, my eyes open.

I'm surprised to find that its morning, early, early morning, but morning nonetheless. I'm not used to being able to sleep for longer than a couple of hours at a time before jolting back awake. But this time, I think it must have been longer, maybe four or five hours.

It was the dream that did it, I'm sure of it.

Strange as it was, it was a pause from the endless stream of torturous memories, overwhelming grief and despair and fear that invaded every second of my life.

It was your voice I was hearing in my dreams.

I can picture the girl's face easily.

What I had told her was true: until that moment, I had never seen her before in my life. Not that I could remember.

I finally sit up.

I run my hands through my hair, thinking.

So much has happened since the day everything began-but I can still remember the details.

Cold cold cold. Cold. So much cold. I could see my breath in the air, feel the tiny snowflakes brush my skin. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold onto a tiny speck of warmth.

Footsteps. A blurred figure.

Then.

"What's your name, little one?"

For a moment I felt a sort of mental fog surround me. I could hear the words, but I didn't understand them, not at first. But a moment later, they became clearer. She was asking who I was.

What's your name?

Who are you?

They meant the same thing, really.

A name meant an identity. A name meant she would be one step closer to understanding me.

But I had nothing. I had no past. No history.

I couldn't tell the woman who I was because I didn't know myself. So I didn't answer.

She asked again, her tone less gentle.