________ ♛♛♛ ________ ♛♛♛ ________ ♛♛♛
The song of the chapter is: Colours by Halsey
Everything is blue,
His pills, his hands, his jeans.
And now I'm covered in the colours,
Pulled apart at the seams,
And it's blue.
________ ♛♛♛ ________ ♛♛♛ ________ ♛♛♛
CHAPTER TWO | CROWN OF THORNS
The bonds that constrained me chafed against my wrists and ankles, rubbing and tearing. Each time brought a new wave of burning, causing a strangled yelp to burrow through my throat before vanishing into a wisp as it evaporated in the hot air. I pulled and pulled, my muscles trembling from the strenuous activity, stretching to their maximum. I murmured something, my lips forming a thin line, beads of sweat coating my skin.
He was there, I could see that now. His steel grey eyes glittered with a certain malice, his lips a pale blue colour adopted from death. Ghost-like skin spread over the sharp contours of his bones, radiating a translucent vibe; a walking cadaver. As he walked closer to me, a lonesome light bulb swung idly overhead, the yellow light flickering on and off, smidgens of dust floating in the air. Slowly, my eyes travel upward, the breath rattling feverishly in my flailing lungs. Save our souls. Blood on the walls.
Inhumanly fast, he ran, crouching to my level, his Cimmerian coat rippling enchantingly like oil behind him. It caught light and dark alike, absorbing tendrils of smoke into the cloth. A high-pitched yell reverberates from the depths of his throat, a blood-curdling reptilian voice and I shrink away instinctively while sniffling, pathetically raising my hands to my ears. Stop, I say. But no sound comes out of me. Stop. Go away.
But he shuffles closer to me anyway, and in the flicker of the bulb above, my breathing halts momentarily in shock as the shape of his skull glows ― a silhouette. I part my lips to say something ― I don't know what, a last plea? A scream? ― alas I am too late as bony fingers clutch my neck, squeezing, shaking, squeezing.
So cold, I think, as the light from my eyes dim. I'm so cold. My trachea convulses as it struggles to revolt against the choking fingers of the Cimmerian clothed man before me. A shout gurgles in the pit of my voice box, however, only the remnants of one swims out into the hot world.
He slams one hand downward, forcing me to look directly at him as I languidly succumb to the coercion upon my writhing spirit. Fight, it whispers, fight. Nonetheless, no matter how much I try, I cannot muster the energy to push him away, to crunch the bones of his fingers from my neck like I know I can.
His eyes are the only luminous items I can see as my own fail to catch light. As the softened edges of my vision blacken and contort, the steel grey gaze which is abhorrently calm, stares back tranquilly, almost detachedly. Then, as I give my last sussuration, the light flickers again and his eyes change colour.
Pools of blue.
My spine lashes upward, and my eyes broach open, patulous and panting. The chilly air conditioned breeze flutters the ends of my hair, comforting against the torrid temperature gradient of my gooseflesh. I swallow loudly, pressing my eyelids closed. A hand makes its way to my throat, gripping the places where the he choked me. "It's just a dream, Mel." I mutter, dragging a hand through my bedraggled hair. "Just a dream."
Suddenly feeling out of my own skin, I untangle my legs from the duvet and throw it behind me. I force myself to stand, gently pushing my toes apart to accommodate the presence of my slippers. Rubbing my arm to pat down the goosebumps, I stifle a yawn as I walk to my tiny kitchen. A blue-tinged neon-lit dispenser stands at its corner, and I brush my fingers against the rounded metallic surface, twisting it open. A gush of cold air flutters against my sweaty skin, and for a moment, I stand there with my eyes shut as I attempt to calm my body.
You left all that behind. Time to start living again.
I reach a hand to one of the blood bags and slip it out of its hook, bringing the nozzle to my mouth. As I ingest the beatific life giving fluid, my thoughts run ahead. How was I supposed to live? After living a liberty-fuelled year at New Orleans, I no longer craved the shadows as much as I did before. I did not want to hide anymore, and deny myself the luxuries of the vampire life like I had been sustaining myself over for the past few months here.
Regardless, however, of my innermost desires for the life I temporarily lived in that cursed city, I knew that I had not healed entirely from its wicked manipulations and scars curving upon my mind, and my very soul. I had grown to love the people in that city and watched them perish only to watch in shock as they resurrected from the grips of death. Nightmares plagued my nights, scorching trials that demanded even more of my sanity. I did not know when the utter dementia would stop, when I would finally stop seeing the Cimmerian cloaked man rustling in the darkest shadows of my apartment. When I would stop the torrents of guilt swathing my entire being whenever I brought myself to recollect the exact shade of blue his eyes were.
Over the course of these turbulent months, I had a lot of time to reflect in retrospect upon my actions in the extreme past. Whilst I did regret running away from the man I loved a thousand years ago, I only did so because of the emotional lacerations I had left upon those I cared for. But I knew that, although I had not necessarily done the right thing, I had made the best of my circumstances. I had not forgotten, from the subtle correlation of direction of our eyes, or the soft touches, or even that glorious kiss we had created a fire from that havocked our belief in each other, the nauseous flame that licked at my conscience whenever Nik and his family came back to us with blood crusting upon every naked exposure of skin, coating his clothes like a tertiary surface.
When, as he would lean over the makeshift basin, wiping off the crimson paint, the water had bubbled and thickened with its equal consistency and colour. The lies that spun its way from his fraudulent tongue as he told me that they were hunting a particularly wild boar, my trachea tightening, heat claiming the sides of my eyes as I nodded at Nik, letting him believe that I believed that he was still the same person I loved.
There was absolutely no possible manner in which, had I stayed, our relationship would have endured the strain under his tightening of the strings, like he was the puppeteer and I was his marionette that he could manipulate whenever he thought he would lose me. Through his hand, he had forced me into a life that I did not desire, and by taking my choices away from me, I was reminded ― suddenly ― of my parents, and their coercion of marrying Luke because I was a girl, and I would not particularly amount to much, except reproducing, cleaning and cooking. Whilst I had no issue with women who did chose a life of marriage, I did believe that the life my society set out for me the minute I was born was far too mundane for me. I craved adventure, discovery, my own freedom. Nik had promised me a life of liberty, a life of my very own choosing . . . but by sipping the blood from my tarnished neck, he had done exactly what he vowed he would never do, subsequently decimating all the faith I had in him. In my eyes, in becoming that monster fleshed out of the blood and bone, he had morphed into every man I had known in that time: greedy, lustful and selfish.
And my baby brother, my poor Emmanuel. He was so young, and Nik, in believing that I was dead, had left me upon the bloody, leaf strewn forest floor. I remember the agony that wrecked my body, bones protruding my flesh, my gums aching with a sweet misery unknown anything else I had experienced. My stomach gnarled into knots and I was so afraid ― so fucking scared at the heightened sounds of beating hearts, lights of life whilst I limped in the dark and the fruitful scents of people's emotions, like golden fruits hanging from its branches, ripe for the taking. I was broken, my brain screaming in panic as everything swirled in a hurricane of colour and senses, each and every pore of my skin bleeding with an invisible torment that only I could perceive. I did not know what disease had gripped my being, the beginning of night time creatures clawing at my soul already, demons that, in my future, would rip me apart on a daily basis.
And the hunger, God, the hunger. And the shame, the guilt, the hate tearing at me, at my eyes, at my heart, my belly, my hair ― slumped next to Emmanuel's tiny, shaking body. His tiny gasps piercing the air and the fear in his eyes at seeing his only sister, his supposed role model, covered in a colour of evil, like I was destruction's queen, a crown of thorns upon my head.
I could not bear being in the same room as my brother as the booms of his heart quietened to the flutter of a mere butterflies' wings. I knew what my parents would think: monster, monster, demon who killed our only son. To this day, I wonder if my parents would have scrubbed the blood from my body and clothed me in white and wedded me to Luke, or to any of the other unlucky candidates to relieve them of the shame. Or perhaps, would they have run screaming from our hearth, alerting neighbours? Would I have struggled weakly and be dragged to the pyre or be able to overcome them as a result of my fresh kill? Would the fire, ripping at my flesh hurt less than the immense hurricane of guilt and hate and shame within me? Would those emotions be flung into the air as I screamed?
No, I chuckle humourlessly. The screams had not even evaporated into the bizarrely frigid night of that spring. Instead, they had been sucked into me, forced down my throat, squeezed down my oesophagus to my belly and had resided there in its cavity, and I have been screaming ever since, the insides rotted to a bloody carcass.
The nozzle makes a dry, sucking sound and I look down at my blood bag, only to see that most of the fluid has been practically inhaled. Sighing, I reach out the tip of my foot and press against the lever of the plastic dust bin, its top lid slamming open. I chuck the empty bag into the dustbin and let out an exhale, lifting a hand to my hair and ruffling it slightly. Raising my eyes to the glowing green numbers on display, I decide to retry the idea of sleep, hopefully, this time without the nightmare of the Cimmerian cloaked man.
Pulling at the sleeve of my shirt, I cover the patch of skin that used to be prone to frequent sensations of burning and brain-numbing pain and stumble to my bed, letting out a puff of irritation at the state of my bed sheet. I grab one end of it and beat it down, smoothing it over and pressing my fingers into the gaps between the mattress and the wood to keep the sheet in place. Finally, I press a knee down into the soft mattress and incline my body to fall into a fitful sleep.
My phone vibrates on my dresser, shuttling across the oak wood like a scuttling crab. I stare at the name that illuminates my screen and the vicinity of my room, my breath halting in my lungs, unsure of what to think. In fact, all my thought seemed blocked, and curiously lethargic to the point where I was not able to process anything but why, why now?
But it had to be important. He had stopped calling my number roughly two months ago, probably having given up after my resolute will of refusing to answer. A doubt flits across my brain: either there is a pressing issue to be resolved or he's started to try again.
Ring-ring. The tone blares loudly now, each tune making me flinch even more. Ring! Ring! A part of me needed to hear what he had to say, whereas the other had Rose's warning in tow. "You worry too much about other people, about Niklaus. You should be selfish on those matters, and think about what you need."
But what had Nik's selfish deeds amounted to, one thousand years ago? A chain of events that affected everyone in both families in a positively negative light. What if, by not answering this phone call, I would be setting off a similar chain of events that would hurt everyone even further? I had so many people to think about now: Hayley, Davina, Rebekah, Elijah, Nik, Aaron . . .
"Oi! Shut that fucking phone off, it's the middle of the night!" One of my neighbours banged on the wall separating this apartment, making my skin crawl in disgust. It was times like this that I truly craved the privacy offered in New Orleans, the fervour in which people would speak to me with, that I had grown to big-headedly enjoy. "Fuck off, you hypocrite!" I snarled back, my temper getting the best of me under such duress. I mutter angrily under my breath as I scoop my phone up and lift to my ear.
"Melissa, hello." His voice sounds relieved, a tiny exhale passed with each syllable. I purse my lips, remaining silent as I wait to see what he requires from me. "Hello? Listen, I can hear you breathing on the other line."
I shut my eyes, silently cursing the shit-head next door for getting me riled up. He sighs deeply, practically resignedly, before starting again. "Very well, I shall get to the point. New Orleans has been silent since you left, cracking under that quietude's pressure." He pauses slightly, pressing on, "Hayley . . . she's not coping well with Hope's missing presence. She's ― she's spiralling Melissa, and I don't know how to help her." His voice is laden, and I can tell that this helplessness he feels is true, a helplessness that has stolen my own body over the lumbago I was being sustained in these past few months. "Eli," I speak gently, "you know that I can't come back there."
There is a longer pause, in which I hear Elijah delicately swallow. "It is truly good to hear your voice again, Melissa." Such unspoken words in such numerous pauses. "Yours too." I reply through a blockage in my throat at such a familiarity comforting to me.
"I am aware of the toils that you might experience if you were to return to this city, but you need to come back home." Elijah says calmly, more like his usual way of speaking. "Home?" My voice cracks and my lips curve into a sad smile, blinking drops of moisture away. "That sounds nice."
"It is your home, Melissa. As long as we rule this city, you will always be welcome here."
"And what has your brother said about that?" I rebut immediately, the acidic words springing from my mouth. Silence. "Yes, that's what I thought." I bite the corner of my lip, looking down. "And besides, I thought you were angry at me. Why in the world would you want me back?"
"I am not ― I was not ―" Elijah lets out an exhale, as if that air could string the words together, unlike the usually eloquent man that he is. "I suppose I was hurt at the utter flippancy of your abandonment and return to us. You have to understand, I thought that you were dead for one thousand years." He explains carefully. "Yes, when Nik and the rest of us discovered how to create our own individual sire lines, I did have my doubts regarding your sudden death. But I assumed that since you hadn't shown your face in such a long time you were well and truly gone to us. I ― all of us ― loved you dearly and we all felt your loss starkly."
I remain silent then, because, well, what can anybody say to that? "You know," he speaks again after a while, his voice low, "I thought that you were the luckiest of us."
"What?" I ask in disbelief. "Yes. You had escaped a world of hurt and blood and murder. You had died, and you wouldn't have seen the monsters that we are." My stomach clenches in abrupt worry, and I blink upwards, taken aback at the utilisation of 'monster'. Elijah was the noblest Mikaelson, and whilst he did feed to survive, he was not as dastardly as the rest of us. Had something happened? "Elijah?" I question concernedly. But he resumes to give a short, tightly-strung laugh. "What fools we were."
His voice is pensive and light, giving me the impression that he was not talking solely about me, but rather about his past experiences. Internally, I curse him, knowing that each words was carrying me deeper into the Original's spun web of conflict once more. "I give you my word Melissa. I shall not let my brother harm you." He speaks more assuredly, as though he had caught his drift once more. I sigh in relief, glad to know that Elijah was back.
"I'm not afraid of your brother, Elijah."
"Then why did you run again?"
I pause, measuring my thoughts upon the tip of my tongue. I lower myself crookedly upon the edge of my bed, pushing a hand through my bedraggled hair. "Because I was afraid of facing the utter hurt he felt. Elijah, I don't ―" a block rises from my throat and I find that I need to stop for a while before an overwhelming sensation clouds my judgement. "I don't know who he is anymore! He's changed so much, I've changed so much that I . . . I don't know how to be there for him, comfort him. How to make him understand why I left when everybody in the supernatural world knows that Niklaus Mikaelson is not an understanding man!
"And I spent the last thousand years fearing him, fearing his wrath. When push came to shove, all the warnings and precautions that had lived with me thus far overwhelmed me to the point where my judgement become dynamic with red warning signs." And Rose, I thought. But they don't need to know about her. "I panicked and I ―"
"Ran away again." He finished for me. "Do you regret it?"
"I'm rather ashamed of my panic. I realise that there could have been a more mature way to deal with this. Apparently age doesn't proffer wisdom, all it does is gift you immense paranoia." A pregnant pause ensues before I break it once more. "But I still don't think I can return. It would be cruel to everyone I left behind in New Orleans."
"How so?"
"How long until I have to begin to lie again?" I exclaim loudly. "The city is not as . . . violent as it once was." Elijah defends. "With my brother living in a state of reclusion, and Marcel's vampires shoved to the far side of the river, you need not lie. You need not hide."
I take a moment to actually comprehend the paramount of his concealed meaning. "I can't just take it off, Elijah!" I shout angrily, "what, you think it is some sort of menial task for both me and the witch responsible? It has taken a millennia of blood magic to get my mask to the state of power that it is today. And you want me to, what, rip it off my real face and throw it in the bloody dumpster?" I scoff at the preposterous claim, my eyes swirling around my darkened living room as my body thrums in rage, heat gathering at the back of my neck. A slip of sunlight filters into my room as the sun rises, and with it, my resolution to never return to the family who affirmed to keep my best interests at heart.
"You won't ever return? Not even for your best friend?"
I close my eyes, my chin beginning to quiver as it physically hurt to try and stop the warbling notes of my voice. This always happened with Elijah. Unlike Nik, who usually got his way with violence and threats, his older brother burrowed for the chinks in your armour, at your moral vulnerability and extracted them with a painful tool.
"Hayley is a grown woman. I won't always be there for her, and she has to learn how to dig herself out of her own holes . . ." the lies pile up on my tongue, souring the taste of my mouth as I try to desperately cling onto my integrity, onto what I know is the right choice.
Then why have there been doubts floating through my brain these past few months?
"Goodbye then, Melissa." Palpable disappointment coats his voice and filters through the speakers of our phones, diffusing into the air and attacking me with large doses of guilt, like spoonfuls of medicine mothers pushed into their children's mouth as they gagged. A final bleep sounds, the finality of our tense conversation abrupt and jolting.
The complexity of the line between what is right and what is true can somehow mean two very divergent things. The verity of my consciousness pleads me to follow Rose's desires for my safety, which is what I will be throwing to the winds the minute I step into New Orleans. The web of conflict in that cursed city is vast and expanding, with blood and bone crunching underfoot, monsters and men lurking in the shadows behind the skulls of buildings. The stillness of peace would yield eventually, I knew. Time never stood still there, never immortalised in stones of amber like the toiling emotions preserved between Nik and I. The logical thing to do was to stay away from the family with neon red targets on their backs, to stay away from the pain I knew would ensue. But what was right was to rescue my best friend from her own demons, the dancing demons that chanted in my own cranium, singing for blood.
It was time to don my crown of thorns again and bleed from its pierces.
❦❦❦❦❦
I hope you aren't disappointed with the development of Mel. I plan to retain that article of realism within OBB as well. I enjoyed writing this chapter, as it was produced after a four month hiatus (not by my choice) and I think it came out pretty well considering. Mel is definitely not at her strongest, beaten down by the triviality of human life and pretending to be one of them, and torn between the choices of what is logical and what is right. She is by no means perfect, and as a result of a millennia of mistrust and hiding from the Mikaelsons, suffers from some degree of paranoia which clouds her judgement. I know that after the explosion that was the finale of OMM, this might seem a little OOC. If you have any queries or concerns regarding her characters, just comment here! I'm glad to comply.
Moreover, I finally gave you a little insight as to what occurred after she got bit (that sounded soooo Walking Dead, sorry been on a binge lately haha). Months of human triviality has made her time to recollect and thereby is therapeutic to her memories and what she thinks of them, making her open up. Perhaps this book will show her more open about her past than before . . .
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rebecca_inspire | inkblots
If you want, go check out my brand new novel, Cold Water!