Bask in the Unknown

fragile bones

The frightened, blue-eyed boy followed me to my demise. A short moment passed before I heard a scream. I'm not sure why, but he jumped in after me. He could have been attempting to save me, but even in a drunken state he couldn't have possibly thought he could truly save either of us.

I woke up the next morning in another hospital, except my room was smaller. I looked down at my hands, and I saw tanned skin. I remember fumbling for a reflective surface, and I pulled my plate from the tray the nurse had brought me, and I was met with a confused blue. I tested out my voice, and it was less wobbly than it had been before.

-/

My third death was completely by chance. I was in college then, and I couldn't remember where I was or where I was going. I was by myself, and it was pouring rain so hard it looked like a harsh grey fog had settled on my small hometown. I was stumbling through the damp darkness, and I didn't see the car speeding toward me; the headlights had been drowned out by the rain and the driver's windshield wipers had snapped off like toothpicks by that point.

I don't remember a lot of what happened, because I had been too consumed by the alcohol swimming behind my eyes, making every shadow seem like it was out to grab me. My habit I carried over through passing was getting worse with each night I spent alone, and yet I always managed to make it home safely. This time, though, things had gotten out of hand, even for me. Maybe that's why I jumped into the road.

I remember a scream, but I wasn't screaming. It was a child's scream, high pitched and innocent, and so very close to me. I saw a flash of dark curls, and then I was blinded by headlights. After, I was suffocated by the familiar shadows.

I woke up two days later with dark, curly hair and large dark blue eyes, stuck inside another temporary body. Routinely, I talked to myself for a few seconds, trying out my new vocal cords. I was willing to bet that if I screamed, it would be high-pitched.

-/

I died for the fourth time very recently, and I had managed to scrape by to the seventh grade. My bus driver wasn't the most careful of people, but I had trusted her all the same. Perhaps it wasn't trust, now that I look back on it; maybe it was more of a resignation to danger. I was no longer scared of dying, or surprised when I did. It was just a normality now, and there was no reason for me to hide from the darkness.

Darkness was my only constant companion. The Woman in White, she had become the darkness after my second death; I now called her the Dark Mistress. Her voice was smoothly perfect, and I found myself drawn not only to her, but to the shadows that hailed her with their entire beings. Every breath she took, they fawned over; every step she glided into, they kissed the ground she walked upon; every life she took, they made it so much more painful.

Growing up in my fourth life, I had given the impression of a dark child. My parents hated to socialize with me, out of fear that I was going to open my mouth and darkness would slither up and out of my throat. My friends that I had had before the hospital cowered when I spoke, my voice unnaturally crisp and clean-cut. I wore dark colors to blend in with my shadow companions and Dark Mistress, and they welcomed me.

They were the only ones who did.

It was on a field trip to the zoo, and I was all alone in the back seat of the bus. As I mentioned before, everyone was wary of my presence, so it was no surprise that even the bus monitor shied away from my dark eyes. I was staring out the dirty window at the depressing animals, as well as drawing pictures in the fog my breath caused against the false-glass. I was watching the shadows as they clung to the bus on my side, fighting for my attention.

It was a stop sign that got the driver. She thundered straight on through it without missing a beat, and so did a semi. I had gotten used to coincidence by that point, so I felt no surprise when a red truck stomped the life out of my young body. I was not worried about who would mourn me, because they would get over it. I was not frightened of the prospect of dying yet again.

The familiarity of the shadows that snatched me away was the only thing that scared me.

Why did they protect me from Nature, from actual Death? Is this what I was destined to do for the rest of my life? Were my fragile bones going to snap repeatedly, just to prove that humans were delicate creatures? Was this what I was here for?

The Shadows' Mistress greeted me this time, and I did not wake up in another temporary life. My body was the same as it was before the semi had killed me, but I was comprised of constantly darkening shadows. The Mistress told me I had proved myself worthy of my position as a Shadow, and no one could ever replace me.

"In all honesty," she admitted, "nobody has ever made it past the second death."

"There were others? Like, actual, living, breathing people?" I was shocked, to say the least. Others had been reborn, replenished? And I had been the only "survivor" of this kind of ordeal?

The Shadow Queen laughed like I had just asked if the world was really round. "Of course there were!" Her laugh got louder, and the wind picked up around me as the shadows of her followers followed her lead. Her laugh then abruptly died, and the darkness consumed me.

It was like I had been dipped in frozen ink and left in the freezer. I could only watch as She overtook me, and then it was dark for a long time.

A long time.

-/

Now here I am, a lonely Shadow with a frozen future. My Mistress is not kind like she was before, but maybe that is because I refuse to worship her. My Queen, she keeps me frozen by day, but allows the demon I become at night loose, and I cannot remember the amount of damage I have caused.

Shadows, we prey on the innocent and weak-hearted, engulfing their emotions, their very essence, so that they may become a dark void like us.

But is that a surprise?

As creatures of the Night, we surely crave some sort of companionship; we crave others like ourselves, and that is why we feed off of innocence and gift to our meals despair. There is no other explanation, and I of all people must know the truth of my statement is unquestionable.

I don't like what I do, yet I still do it. I hate myself, but not enough to incur Her wrath.

I am worried, but I refuse to speak.

I am scared into submission, into silence, because I am comprised of fragile bones, and She could snap me with a look.

So here I will stay, forever. I will do as She says, but I will not like it.

After all, can you really ignore the voices in your head?