Author Games: Panemdemic

The Death of Elm Woods

Elm drifts amidst empty dreams, the world cold and dark in his mind. He withers in silence, blackened fingers curled to his palm, weak and stagnant against his skin. The wind is far too bitter, and it encompasses him in sovereignty to which he is powerless. Black agony tears through his skin, crawling up his spine and clogging his chest. He breathes through bloody lips, ragged breaths a result of the undoubtful pain in his suffocating lungs. The weakness that inhibits him from standing, however, can't shatter his love.

There's a warmth that settles in the air, and at its presence, Elm finds the strength to remain still, pain numbed and forgotten. Then, his name is in the air—sweet, melodic, and beautiful.

"Elm..."

The bluish-gray of his eyes swirl with yearning as they open promptly. He breathes in the scent of freshly sawed lumber, which is rich and raw, but within it, linger the unfitting scents of the smoke and blood of the arena. It's her scent, he knows, and this brings a smile to his lips, however much painful it is to move his mouth. Then, fingers—hers—brush his shoulders, from which warmth blooms, spreading like a wildfire throughout his body. His lips part, and he inhales a breath, focusing on his heart which pounds in his chest as a single thought dominates his mind.

It's her.

He wants to move and embrace her, but sickness has conquered his body, causing destruction in its wake. He wants to declare his love for her, but he doesn't need to, nor does he need to move to embrace her.

First, it's the brown, dark and rich, that he sees. Then, it's the pink and orange, intense and gorgeously bright. And when the gold follows, brighter than he's ever seen before, his heart swells, love raw and at the core of it all. As he closes his eyes, the warmth meets his lips, and for a moment, he can feel her soft lips against his own, and the taste of something—is it love?—sweeter than honey. And just as a smile spreads across his lips, his heart explodes inside of his chest. His glass skin shatters, and the emotions that have been caught inside are released, strong and powerful.

And then, he feels something he's never felt before—he feels full.

But such a moment never lasts. When the avarice to see more than colors, to see her face, captures his heart, he opens his eyes, greedy.

And then, the world falls apart around him.

The warmth vanishes, and the atmosphere freezes. The air becomes cold and desolate. Elm falls to the ground, limp. Blood taints his lips. His fingers still. His heart slows. Black reigns, triumphant, as it slithers from the tips of his toes to the cusps of his hair.

And Elm faces the greatest loss of all—that she is gone.

The world is cold, and he is impotent, but he can't bring himself to care. She was there, in his arms, and now she's gone.

Blood leaks from his palms, where the black plague has dug too deep. It's warm and sticky as it dribbles down his forearms and merges with the red of the scrapes on his elbows. There's a constant pounding inside of his head, and it hurts far more than it should. The soft skin behind his ear feels raw and exposed, burning with a sting that won't go away. However, Elm ignores all these things. His thoughts focus on the kiss, on the colors that flash before his eyes—pink, orange, and gold. His mind focuses on her. He shakes; it's only a little at first, and then more and more.

"Aspen," he whispers through trembling lips. "Aspen..."

He sees something in the distance from the corner of his eye. He turns, gaze settling on something brown. Is it her hair? It's dark and billows in the wind; it's like soft, rolling waves. His eyebrows furrow together, and then a question on his tongue. "Aspen?" All traces of the brown vanish.

Elm's gaze falls in defeat, but a shimmer catches his attention. Just a little to the left is a puddle of murky water, washing over the blood-stained cobblestone below. He pulls his knees close to his chest as he rolls over on the ground, nearing the puddle. The stone is rough as it slams against his cheek, but the newfound pain is something he ignores. The water is tinged with red, but ignores this too. His focus remains on the reflection—her reflection. She glows golden.

He turns, lips parted. All there is behind him is the cold, empty air and the scents of blood and sickness. He glances back at the puddle, but the reflection has changed. There is a single pair of eyes, tinted red, but all that Elm sees is orange. "Aspen," he calls, louder, more confident. Then, a demanding tone. "Aspen."

Gold. Orange. Gold. Orange. The colors flare in front of him. They flash to the right, to the left, behind him. But where's pink? Where are her lips, soft and sweet against his own?

Gold. Orange. Gold. Orange. Gold. Orange.

He turns his head faster and faster, eyes darting in every direction.

Gold. Orange. Go—

"ASPEN!" Elm roars in a voice that takes all his strength. He falls, weak, lips trembling in pain and in fear of what's to come. His cry, however, is not a failure. As his body writhes, head shaking violently as his chin and cheeks slam against the ground, he sees pink.

No, he doesn't see pink; he sees her lips.

His head stills. The shaking becomes mild. He looks up, hopeful. Her name is a murmur on his lips. "Aspen..."

Her hair is short, cut unevenly at her ears; it's white with streaks of gray. She wears black, which contrasts her skin. It's lost of color, pale and without radiance. She has lost her glow. Crimson paints her irises. Shades of red and black swirl venomously inside her eyes. Elm's eyes graze over these changed features once more before they settle on her lips. They've remained the same—pink and soft. His gaze lingers, and something—is it lust?—sparks in his chest, within his heart.

"I love you." The words are hollow on his tongue. "Kiss me again."

She is still—and silent—in return.

"It's been so long since I last saw you," Elm pauses, "and I just want you to know that I love you. Aspen, I lo—"

"You promised to save me."

Elm smiles. "And I did save you."

Aspen frowns and takes a step back. The sound of her shoe hitting the cobblestone echoes in the air after Elm's words. "You didn't."

"You're here now," Elm points out, "because I saved you."

"No—"

"We're both here now," he continues. "We can go back home together."

"Save me."

Elm shakes his head. "I already did."

"Save me," Aspen repeats. "Save me."

He tries to push himself up, but his knees wobble. His legs are too weak. His arms hurt too much. He falls, his back slamming against the cobblestone. It hurts too. He looks towards Aspen, but she takes another step backwards. He raises an arm, fingers stretching towards her. "C'mere. We'll be together, Aspen. Kiss me. I love you. I love you so much." His words are dry. His promises are empty.

She flinches at his words, taking another step backwards. "Don't touch me."

His arm falls. The pain is too much. Tears slip from his eyes as he writhes in agony, black nearing his heart. His gaze remains on Aspen's retreating figure. The words are dry in his throat, and it's arduous to speak, but he has to; he forces himself to. "I love you."

She turns, eyes blazing red. Her hair is wild in the wind, white and untamed. Her lips are no longer pink; they're a shade of red darker than her eyes. She scowls at the desperation on Elm's face. He wants to say more, but his lips won't allow it. He breathes once more, the tears which have leaked from his eyes freezing on his cheeks. They're cold on his skin, but what Aspen says next is far colder than any temperature he's ever known. "But not enough."

Then, she's gone—pink, orange, gold and all.

  And he is too.