Ash and Cinder

30| Kitchen Knives

Hyperaware oHyperaware of my heartbeat, my pulse in every tiny vein, beating blood to every locked-up limb. Static blankets my vision and crackles in my ears, blocking out everything except the wheezing of my own lungs. Beyond it: screaming. Endless, piercing screaming of someone in agony, making my blood run cold and my muscles spasm with shivers. My shaking legs ache under my weight, pressing into the floorboards with too much force, bruising straight to the bone. Tears sear my eyes, burning worse with each passing moment, and no matter how hot the tears get, they don't warm up the rest of me.

I can hear her.

I can hear her.

I can hear her.

Make it stop, make it stop, please make it stop.

My hands climb to my chest, where my heart fights to escape my ribcage. They reach my neck, then my ears, where one stays pressed with bruising force against the side of my head and the back of my neck, where the other digs in sharp fingernails as if that will help me catch my failing breath. No, no no no, no, no, no. All I want is for it to be quiet, all I want is some peace. No, no, no. I can't keep seeing them die, I can't keep watching them fall.

"Trick, can you hear me?"

I gasp at the intrusion into my cocoon of static and screaming. A warm, soft grip pulls my hand away from my jaw as easily as peeling paint off a wall. Empty, my fingers move of their own accord, clenching and unclenching jerkily until they're pressed against smooth skin. Little hairs tickle my palm, the ridge of something bitingly cold presses the edge of my hand.

"Open your eyes." Someone using Yana's voice tells me. I pry apart eyelids that I didn't know were closed, the static fades but tears blur everything in its place. "What do you see?"

I see shallow scratches on the hardwood floor, I see two sets of knees; mine, and a pair covered in thick yellow linen. I see curled hair, and crystal eyes, and a bent elbow attached to a hand attached to fingers that lace through mine, pressing an ice cube into the palm of my hand. I see the danger she doesn't know she's in, being so close to me when I'm like this.

Yana stretches out her arm to slip her fingertips over the precariously tight grip I have on the back of my own neck. "What do you see?" she asks again, while her fingers nudge mine.

"You," I breathe, fighting to stay perfectly still, to not accidentally squeeze too hard.

"And what does that mean, that you see me?"

"It means you're not safe," I rasp out, cold trickles of fear slide down my throat, my cheeks, my back. The bruises on my legs are growing still, soon all I will have is purple skin and dented bones.

"No, it means I am here to help you. You understand?"

"No."

"You are safe."

"I don't want to hurt you," I whimper, fresh tears shed from my eyelashes. I don't want to hurt anyone, I'm sick of it. I'm scared of it. Yana tilts her head, her forehead is mere centimeters from mine, I can feel her breath skirting my nose.

"You will not," she soothes.

Five finger-shaped bruises cling to the arm bridging the gap between her and I.

"I already have."

"It won't happen again."

I don't know how she can be so sure. I've never been less sure of anything in my life.

Scared and tired. Seated once again in Amiah's kitchen. Palms damp and cold from the ice cubes. That was a neat trick. Yana's lucky it worked. I'm lucky it worked. My hands are mottled and my fingernails are split and stained from scratching grooves in the hardwood. Voices buzz in the air over my head, hovering around so I can hear the words but their meaning is lost. It's a little disorienting, only hearing them on one side.