THE OMEN GIRL | Wattys 2020 Winner

𝟓

Lumi, on the ground. There is no one else around.

She sits up slowly, slowly, with the white of her robes glowing. She turns to me. I can see the hills and valleys of her eyes, nose, lips, through the silk of her veil, her veil like a funeral shroud.

She opens her mouth and says hey, Sozo.

Why did you kill me?

#

I wake.

The ceiling is not a ceiling I recognize. My heart is pounding. I fold my arm over my eyes, but am too stunned to cry.

I haven't cried in a long, long time. I don't know if I'd even remember how to.

Esp. The Omens at the tent. The Decade-Races.

Did I fail the Joining? How did I survive?

What happened to the Omens at the tent? I imagine some of them must have been caught by the guardians. I imagine some of them must've been caught inside.

Esp. Did she get away? Did she see everything? What did she do with, with—

I stay brewing that way for a while – arm over my eyes with my body wound tight – but eventually, I pull my arm away.

I look around and take the room in.

The walls are mint teal. It is dark outside. The curtains are sheer white, and they ripple in the breeze – not the breeze. There's a fan in the room that squeaks as it turns. There are other beds in this room, white, with railings, sectioned by more curtains. No one else is in the beds. I am in an infirmary.

My bones ache. My joints feel bruised. My teeth feel like I've been sucking on a lemon, and my hand is bandaged. It stings. I do not scratch it. And then I notice my robes have been changed. My veil is gone.

I startle up from the bed and touch my back through my new shirt, and feel–my skin, my bone. I don't know if I can feel my scab. I wrench the blanket off of me and stumble out of bed.

There's a mirror on the wall, and I go to it.

Briefly, I see myself – wild eyed and hair tousled – before I turn around. I tug my shirt up from the back and over my shoulder, and stare. My shoulder blade is bare. My skin is smooth. My stain is gone.

It's gone.

All my life, I've fantasized about this moment.

And then, like the way blood bleeds into sheets, blackness begins to spill over my skin. My omen stain is returning. It stretches like it is waking from some sleep, and then reforms around my shoulder blade, the way it always has, my constant companion.

I don't know how, or why, but my contact with the star must've jolted it dormant while I was out. Now that I am awake, it also wakes.

The door opens. I yank my shirt back down.

Several adults enter the room – all of them tall, some of them old. Three of them are wearing headdresses like fans, red like the setting sun. The fans are studded with golden spikes like sun rays.

These men and women, moving slow and regal, are High Suns – the high priests and priestesses of the temple. Out in public, like with Veils, their faces are kept obscured. Now, I can see their faces lined by age. I can see the crow's feet by their eyes, and the dark moles that splatter over some of their cheeks.

Behind them is another adult, a guardian. Her hair is shaved. Her neck is long. Her lines are hard the way a tall tree is hard, and she holds herself with a stillness that reminds me of Esp.