Gardens of Ash

Chapter 1

The smell of dead bodies never truly disgusted me. It always intrigued me. What's the reason for the stench? Lack of blood? Lack of air? Lack of life? I'm not quite sure, but it's an interesting thought. I have just killed two more of my soldiers. They tried to kill me, but I killed them first. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Nobody is ever truly alone, especially in my kingdom.

My crown is heavy. I've had people try to kill me for it. However, they never seem to make it. I can't exactly blame them. They attack me out of fear. The fear that under my rule, I'll take everything away simply to remind them who has the true power.

How many have I killed? 576 bodies in total. If I include the two lifeless soldiers lying at my feet? 578.

I pick up my knife and trace a line on my upper thigh. That makes 577. I grit my teeth as I trace one more line for 578. Trails of blood trickle down my leg, but I quickly wrap a piece of cloth around it. Is it cruel to wear lost lives as a showpiece? Probably. However, I can't find a part of me that cares. I spent my entire life bleeding. These little... cuts are nothing of importance.

I hear I knock at my door and my moment of pride is over. I reluctantly open the door with an annoyed look on my face.

It's my incompetent best friend, Idris Grey. He's tall with muscular arms, pale yet perfectly toned skin, messy light blonde hair, and he's roughly 5 '11 or 6' 0, and soft blue eyes that rarely look cold. Idris is out of uniform, which I don't care about when it comes to him, because he does what he wants anyway. He's wearing khakis with a plain white tee shirt and he's propped up against my door frame, with a smirk I would love to smack off.

"Hey Lils',"

Idris has never been great with taking social hints. Or.. hints at all. He walks past me, props himself on my bed, and sighs.
"Grey, do you need something or are you just here to remind me that you were right?" I sit down next to him on my bed, sitting up straighter than him. His posture has always been off.

He puts his face in his hands, "I don't know. I've tried to tell you people will try to kill you and you never take the proper precautions. I get it, you're scary as all hell, but sometimes-" His voice trails and he takes a sharp intake of breath.

I refuse to make eye contact with him. It annoys me how much he'd do to keep me alive. The fact that he'd even consider doubting me is ridiculous and disrespectful. I've worked tirelessly to get where I am. He is my best friend and I gave him the role of being second in command. I trusted him with a whole kingdom, and he couldn't seem to trust me with my own life. Utterly ridiculous.

I sit up a little straighter, still facing my window and the dark clouds of Asmen. I try to keep my voice calm, my words are honest yet tame, "I am perfectly capable of handling my life on my own. I am in charge of everyone in Asmen's lives. That being said-"
He cuts me off and puts a hand up in objection, "But you killed off half of our population, Lilith-"
"Choose your next words very carefully." I refuse to listen to this nonsense. I did what I had to do, so I could be successful and so would our economy in Asmen, but he doesn't see what I do. Idris barely does anything. I'm always around, always working, and never late.
He goes to interrupt me but I stop him and continue my thought, "We have an understanding that I value your opinion, as long as it is not contradicting my positions or capability to fulfill my duties. Correct?"
He stays silent, his eyes trained on the floor, I stand up in front of him and meet his eyes, "Yes or no, Grey?" I say this in the sternest voice I can muster.

He looks up, meets my eyes, and whispers, "Yes, Lilith."
The patheticness and childish tone of his voice is sickening. This is not the man I have known for 17 years.

"Speak up, Grey."

"Yes, Lilith," He says louder, more sure of his words.
"Now leave."
He gets up from my bed, stands up straight, and exits. I don't have time to think about his words. There are still two bodies on my floor.

I press my pager, and within exactly thirty-seven seconds a clean-up crew is at my door.

"Get this mess cleaned up."

I walk into the bathroom through the side door of my room and close the door behind me. As I unlace the black laced corset and unzip the back of my black flowy gown, with dark navy tulle sleeves that fall at the shoulder, I turn on the shower. I unpin my hair from its braid crown and unwrap the makeshift tourniquet on my upper thigh. I trail my fingertips over the healing cuts. The bleeding has stopped.

I step into the shower, as steam fills my vision. I face the wall and let the burning water hit my back, neck, and legs. I press my forehead to the wall of the shower and trace the tile with my fingers. Feeling things has always helped me.

Derealization is no tea party. I either feel everything or I feel nothing at all. The mix of the two is quite confusing, to say the least. I have to constantly remind myself that I am in a body and the body in which I am is my own body. Sometimes, it tends to work in my favor. I remember when it first happened.

I was eleven years old, and my mother was singing me to sleep, it was late. My father had just gotten home from the neighborhood pub. He was not my father, then. Although, he's never really been a father. My mother hears the front door slam, and she jumps to her feet. I hear things crash in the kitchen, then the living room, then on the stairs. He was on his way up, to my mother, to my room.

My mother whispers, with a fearful look in her eyes, "Just wait right here, okay? It'll be okay. Mommy will be right back. I promise." She brushed my long dark brown hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. We both knew the terrors that awaited. I heard shouting, as she exited my room and into the hallway. She screamed for him to stop. He didn't. I pulled the sheets over my head, hands over my ears. I tried everything to block out the petrified screams of my mother and the shouts of my father. Then all at once, it was silent. Not a sound was made. I imagined I wasn't there. I was in a garden, a beautiful one. Roses, lilies, daisies, poppies, marigolds, all of the flowers flourished with life. The sun was warm on my skin. I was wearing a white sundress, dancing in the garden. Then I was brought back. Back home.

The garden became overgrown with thorns. The flowers were nothing but stems. The sun had gone cold. My skin was scarred. My dress became torn. The music of life I once danced along to, became screams of agony.

Here I was, dragged into the gardens of ash.