Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

twenty-four | gone

  
   When the time for my presentation came, I stood up, feeling less than conscious, and took slow, wobbly steps towards the stage. I didn't feel my own actions, only the numbness in my veins.

   As I plodded toward the stage, I tried to put my soulmate out of my mind. And the fact that he was dying, right now. I could feel it, could feel him fading.

   Right on time.

   I imagined him lying on a dirty table somewhere, surrounded by bored prison guards, as they got enough witnesses in to legally inject him with liquid death.

   Or maybe they'd hang him. Wait for his neck to snap.

   I had no idea what method of slaughter they preferred. But I guessed I'd find out soon enough, because I'd feel it. I knew I would.

   I kept walking down towards the front. The stairs seemed eternal, like a twisting labyrinth that never ended. They seemed especially steep, and my legs felt thin and gangly as a spider's. I ran over the plan in my head:

   For his last wish, George would request an ink pen.

   I tripped over my own feet, deep in thought, and sensed a snicker rumble through the room. I didn't care.

   Of course he'd never be allowed a pen. He was Inked; that would be stupid. But he'd promise the guards something, he'd swear, they could hold a gun to his head - he wouldn't write a word.

   He wouldn't need to.

   Finally, I reached the stage. My legs functioning on autopilot, I ascended the mountainous steps, slowly. I wasn't scared, except I was.

   They'd give him a pen, laughing. What was the point in a pen you couldn't write with? Oh, they loved to laugh in someone's face. So he'd get one.

   Then, I was on the stage, staring out at the expectant faces of people who had no idea about any of this. My breathing felt shallow, but at least I was breathing.

   Then, they'd realise.

   My plan would come into action. Well, the word action was a bit misleading - there wasn't a lot involved, really. It was a short plan, with an abrupt end.

   They'd see my message, the blood one I'd written half an hour ago, and realise.

   If all else fails, myself have power to die.

   I began my "presentation", ignoring the dazed look of my audience, all confused as to why I had no artwork to display. Glancing to the side, I made brief, icy eye contact with the Professor. I felt nauseous. His eyes said, Don't mess this up, Archie, as if he knew what I intended to do. They were just a little sad, too.

   Those guards, they'd realise that once they killed George, I'd— I'd take my own life. Either we lived together, or we died together, that's what I'd said. Scared as I was, I would stand by it.

   But why would they care? Why should they? They wouldn't, not until they saw what George was going to do with that pen. If he was going to die, I was going to die too, and I was going to show them up doing it. They wouldn't care if I died, not usually, but if we died together, in the best way we knew how, then they would care.

   If we died Inked, they would care.

   The Government would never have that. Because they wouldn't win. We'd be showing them up, breaking the system: we'd become an example. And others would start following suit, questioning the laws that imprisoned us for something we couldn't control.

   They'd never have that. They'd never lose at their own game.

   'So, you're all wondering why I have no project to show you,' I started. I'd never been good at public speaking, but my voice was crisp and clear even without a microphone, if a little shaky.

   From there, the plan was in the hands of fate. We could both die and pray we'd leave a legacy, and people would rally for the cause in our name. I wanted to say the thought filled me with a warm energy, dying for the good of so many - but it didn't. It filled me with dread. I didn't want to die, despite everything that had happened. As long as George didn't either.

   If they were sensible, they could let him go and prevent a global newscast, maybe even a civil war. But this was the British Government, unpredictable as ever. They were not sensible. They couldn't even pave roads.

   All I could do was hope.

   'If any of you know me,' my eyes flickered past Matty, who was in the audience looking tired, 'You'd probably assume I didn't prepare for this exam, or make any art, just because I'm lazy, and you know what? You're almost right.' I swallowed. 'Almost.'

   I couldn't stop now. My insides felt like they may have spontaneously become liquids.

   'Our project is self-portraiture, and yes, that's who I am: I'm a lazy person' I continued, gesticulating wildly. 'I admit it. But I'm also thoughtful, and funny, and a decent artist.'

   I swear I made eye contact with every single person in that room, all at once. I remembered my earlier thoughts about myself, my self-loathing. Although I wasn't quite sure I believed in what I was saying, it sounded good. So I went with it.

   'How can you love someone else,' I was grinning now, and gaining momentum with every word, 'if you can't even love... yourself? For who you really are?'

   I knew I was smiling like a maniac, and I didn't care. I knew this was all cheesy but I needed something to fill the time, and it wasn't exactly a bad message.

   'I'm not a waste of space. I'm not worthless. No in this room is, no one in the world is, no good person ever has been or ever will be. Because who you are is who you are.' I took a deep breath. 'And this is who I am.'

   Right on schedule, I felt the inking begin. That same feeling I always got, like music, ripping away my body until I was just breath and a beating, bodiless heart, pounding to the endless rhythm of my own drum.

   I tore off my jacket to leave my bare arms exposed, watching as the inky patterns stained themselves there: flowers, dozens of them, being put there by the one I loved - my soulmate.

   George's final wish, his pen - he was dying and he was drawing with it right now, and what he drew on himself, he drew on me. No words needed.

   My plan.

   If he died now, we would both die Inked. We wouldn't die as criminals like they wanted. We would die in love, and that was what really mattered. As long as we were together. It never really washes off, as the Professor had said.

   My final project: self-portraiture. Because that's who I was. I was him, and he was me, and we were one, in that moment. We were the same. We were human, and we were brave.

   The other students, my audience, sat silently in awe and shock. This, what I was doing, was unheard of. This power, this Ink, should be a dirty secret, something to hide at all costs.

   So, being me, I shouted. 'I AM INKED!'

   My skin was still losing its usual pale colour and turning black with the desperate beauty of flowers, tulips and daisies and sunflowers and roses, covering it, masking it until I was a living, breathing piece of art.

   'I am my own artwork,' I continued breathlessly, 'because I am human.'

   And so is George, I thought, almost a silent prayer. Don't let this happen to him. Let them be smart—

   Even as I thought it, though, I knew it was over. I could feel it. The Ink had faded. He was dead. George was gone, and I was alone in the world.

   And then, just like that, I felt every single bone in my body singularly going numb.

   I felt the shards of glass buried in my heart.

   It didn't matter, not really.

   But at the same time, nothing had ever mattered more.