evanna
THE LATE AFTERNOON sun that hovers above us is blotted behind grey clouds in a sky bleeding with colour.
Hit the left. It's all they're saying. Hit the left.
The snow reaches my mid-calves, but it doesn't bother me. There's something off about it, though, something- something wrong... The snow should burn my bare skin, and I know it: I remember reading articles from mountaineers that dies with faces blackened, charred from the cold.
I look down. It feels like I'm standing in nothing. The prickling from the cold that stands somewhere in the back of my complicated, maze of a mind fails to surface. That was a different me— or maybe it's a false memory.
Perhaps that was me, and now I'm not even sure who I am.
"Parrish, hit the left!" I turn around. Two men, clad in identical winter clothing dyed an identical ugly shade of khaki green adorned with a, frankly useless, camouflage pattern, stand in the snow beside the open steel door.
Not exactly what I'd call a pair of incognito suits, if they're supposed to be going for surprise attacks. Where are they even from?
The padlocked chain that had been keeping me trapped inside lies in pieces in this white wasteland- already it's disappearing underneath more falling snow.
Both men have now assessed me, labelled me as a threat. Both of them point handguns at me, a little metal block in their hands that's supposed to fire a bullet. A bullet. Some animal instinct within me tells me to flee, that standing at this end of the barrel is a bad thing. Instead, I want to laugh. In another life, I would have cried and stood there, shaking, hands up. But I was only little, in that other life. A child.
And now, I think, not today.
The younger one holds his gun unsteadily. He's unfamiliar to this, probably more afraid than I am. I think of the plug that was in my body what feels like mere moments ago, and come to the conclusion that I must be something different. I have to be something different. Not- human, or not quite so.
It makes me feel indestructible.
Anything is stronger than a human, than a sack of blood and meat with a bit of bone to keep it all standing. Poke them with a knife and all the contents leaks out. A knife. Interesting.
It's too late to go back for any instrument of that sort, however— any scalpels in the laboratories I passed are too far within the complex behind me, most of it hidden underground. If I turn tail, they will fire. That much I know.
"Shoot it, Parrish!" His finger coils around the trigger, his tongue passes nervously over his lower lip.
I advance, stand directly in front of the young man, my gaze calm as it settles upon his features, tout with concentration. I can hear his breathing as he stares back at me, lips drawn into a thin line. With my right hand, I take the barrel of the gun and direct it between my parted teeth. "Go on," I say. He seems taken aback by the sound of my voice- I see his grip slacken on the trigger, the muscles in his index finger loosening- just a twitch. "Shoot me," I hiss, the words slurred by the barrel.
Shoot it, Parrish! And he does. The bullet explodes through my cheek as I twist at the last minute, grazing the hinge of my jaw. But there is no blood. There is no pain, just a dull ache in the corner of my jaw. Parrish appears to be confused with this- as am I. There are no endorphins* running through my body, nothing to help cope with the pain- because there is none. When I touch my hand to my face and feel around for the hole that should be in my cheek, it's disappeared.
A small smile curls my lips up in satisfaction. I want to mock him. He is young and ignorant and foolish. His superior, who stands more than several paces behind him, enveloped in the falling snow, is not much better. They are not threats, they are playthings.
"Automatic cellular regeneration," I muse. After a moment of observing his befuddled expression, I say, "unexpected, isn't it? Fascinating too." I don't give him nearly enough time to reply. Reaching out again, I yank the gun from his hands.
Three sharp, clear notes. Beautiful and sonorous.
▿
I hear him choke on his pain after the first bullet digs into his stomach, but I wrap an arm around his back and hold him close, swaying slightly with him, the snow crunching beneath his boots, the barrel of the handgun pressed up underneath his ribs, pushing into that gentle, curving dip beneath the bone, pushing against his bulky military uniform.
"Come on," I breathe, our faces incredibly close as I stare him in the eyes. "This time, with me. Come on," I whisper, grabbing his hand and putting it around mine, between us.
His fingers grip my hand, tightly, his nails digging into my flesh, trying to persuade me to do otherwise, but I am beyond him. I will not be swayed by some ridiculous human.
I pull the trigger, a grin on my face- and he goes still, eyes rolling. I take a step back and he falls to his knees with a howl that stops midway as one of his lungs collapses and he's left heaving for breath. Excellent.
He makes another choking sound and shakes his head. "No," he says, and his expression contorts itself into an ugly, desperate grimace. "Stop." It's the grimace of a coward, the sort that'll cry before they die, because they're scared of what'll come after. So I decide to pull on his soul, just a little more before I finish the job and kill him. I decide to comfort him.
"Tell me... Parrish. Tell me, where do you think you'll go, hm?" I kneel down beside him, slide my bloodied fingers into his dark brown hair, pull back on the strands to show him the sky. "Will you go to heaven...— or will you go to hell, Parrish?" I whisper the last part in his ear, the word hell rolling from my tongue like a forbidden, filthy word.
We make eye contact again, and this time, he's shaking uncontrollably, silent, suffering, in such pain that it gives me great satisfaction just to watch him.
"Do you want me to tell you something?" I continue. "There's nothing, after death." The hand that lies splayed across the small of his back tightens on the ugly, patterned green fabric of his uniform. "Nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. And you won't live on here, either. Look at me, Parrish." He does, slowly, and coughs lightly, viscous blood and mucous dripping down from his lower lip. "Do you know why?" I ask.
My other hand presses the barrel of the gun against his forehead, the corners of my mouth tugging my lips upwards into a demented, sickly smile.
"Do you know why, Parrish?" My voice turns into a confident, secretive whisper. "Because nobody's going to remember you. Got that? Nobody."
▿
I step away from his corpse and toss the pistol down, turning my back to the scene as I walk away, my face sprayed with the blood of an innocent.
I lick my lips, and a sweet taste fills my mouth- not acrid, no, but sweet.
Why?
Because innocence is just as sweet as revenge, and the more lives I take, the sweeter killing will get.
It has become my purpose— and it will become my obsession.
*endorphins - a variant of morphine that helps with the suppression of pain or generates a rush of pleasure
A/N: thank you for reading this edited chapter of Shiver! I split it up this time: for those of you who remember, chapter 3 was split into both Evanna and Vance's POVs. I made the pretty tough decision of splitting into parts 1 and 2. Anyways, don't forget to leave a vote and a comment! I'm interested on what you guys think of Evanna's interaction with Parrish!
Thank you so much, I love you all!
Love,
Sarah xx