The Day My Dream Died

56 - ****'s Body

— 56 —

****'s Body

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From her place in the cart, supine, Lise looks up at Eclait. "You wouldn't happen..." She says, gasping, "...to have anything for pain?"

The woman grunts with exertion, "I wouldn't. Sorry."

Lise closes her eyes, practicing patience. The pain will not kill her. Drive her mad? Perhaps, given no respite—and, well, she can't rule out a slow death, or the pain keeping her vulnerable to a quick one... The pain will not kill her this moment. Drive her mad? Probably. She feels powerless, caged in her own body. Impuissance... I can only practice this bitterest patience.

"How long until the next town?" Pelanea asks through her panting, pulling the cart alongside Eclait.

"There is no next town."

Lise's jaw clenches, There is no next town...

"What?" Pelanea begins to panic.

"It's The Dwelling or death now." That silences her utterly and Eclait sounds satisfied to leave it that way.

There is no next town... How long until the next respite? How long must I practice patience? In that thought, she finds an unconscious assumption. Will there be a next respite? The thought terrifies her. What if there's no respite? What if this pain never abates? Since being wounded she's known only decline. If there's a limit to my patience, and none to my pain?

I can't think about that. I can't think about it. Stop thinking about it. It serves no purpose to think about it. Stop. Stop... I just wish the pain would stop. I wish everything would stop. I wish everything would cease. She feels the recurrence but can't cork a torrent. I want to cease.

Under Death's nulling gaze, all this flailing is cast void.

She feels the pull. That ever-present desire—lurking in that deepest crevice of the mind—comes creeping forth, beckoning. Pain is her jailer, keeping her confined to wakefulness. But always another way lies in wait—a fiendish escape. She might follow the desire down the deep, and emerge free. She might follow and forever follow. To beg of the jailer; biding for a respite which may never come—or to Death's domain seeking true release.

As she feels her mind pulled down (drawn out curled round reddened iron searing) another part watches, detached, (blisters suppurate and pop, sizzling) marveling at how her mind turns in on itself, (writhing, cooked flesh comes away sticking) horrifying and curious at once.

She ends it, I will talk to Akota before acting on these... I cannot see well enough past these bars. The part of her which observes comes to the front; the part which suffers is relegated to the back of her mind.

The moon makes its journey across the sky, marking the cycle. Just before reaching its apex, it catches the world's shadow, and, without wavering, relinquishes it.

She breathes a painful sigh, feeling a fraction more herself—but a new fear is budding in her. She is shaken, feeling fragile. It is unsettling to acknowledge, and her sense of urgency folds over on itself.

Lise comes back to herself, "Can we stop a moment?"

"What for?"

"I need to relieve myself."

Lise longs to cleanse herself. It is a mild discomfort beside the pain, but a discomfort she might alleviate. Her hair is matted and oily, and dry and brittle otherwise—and she can only dab the last drips with nearby stones and leaves so many times before she regrets the indulgence of soft paper. Not to mention whatever other odors remain to be discovered beneath her mud-crusted clothing. Hygiene is a luxury she misses dearly.

Grotesque as she was, at least she'd kept clean—now she can't even claim the semblance.

Another cycle passes, and another, and she is suffocating. She is begging sleep again, envious now of the gift she's so long taken for granted. Even as Pelanea complains of cramps and can hardly move for her exertions, Lise resents her ability to rest.

The terrain changed with the passing of three cycles—no longer the black, rain-soaked flats; the cart rolls over hardened hills, packed dirt cracked by the cold. Dusty white trees stick out on the land like fattened ticks, heads embedded in the surface—leafless branches, short and feeble, protrude from bloated trunks. Lise recognizes the trees, though stripped of fruit and leaves they appear malformed, the wretched semblance of their daytime complexion.

She is a different being herself since day's passing. How different her view had been, riding to The Dwelling two years ago. Wistful is an understatement. Not that she'd been of particular cheer back then but she longs to feel even that dubious enthusiasm for her future.

Sitting on the edge of the cart, she plays the cold-cracked skin around her fingernails. Picking at the dead, back against the fire, she looks upon the land with still pools for eyes, breath brume on the water. In her examination, a memory leaps to the forefront of her mind; a memory of running alongside the cart Akota drove, laughing freely at some absurdity he claimed.

She longs to run and laugh as she once had, if ever brief, and be unburdened by this relentless weight. I would be satisfied to walk and smile, but even to that pain bars me. At some point, this vessel ceased being my own. Rather, ceased being entirely my own... Was it ever really mine?