Outlines Of Our Hands; Ella

Blood swims down the currents of this violent river as the four of us try to thrash against it’s tyrannical waves. My body is bounded to the grounds of this artificial earth, and yet my mind has drifted off beyond the walls of my our prison. It’s hard to accept my surroundings - hard to accept that I’m actually here. Every step I tread forward is lightweight and delicate, as if I’m scared my footsteps could shatter the glassy dream I’m encaged in. The only thing is this is no dream, and nothing can shatter this reality.

The muddy water has washed away any remnants of blood that might’ve lingered in the valleys of my fingerprints - but the stain is still there, embedded to a part of me that no amount of scrubbing or washing could erase. My ghostly hands have assisted in the demise of lives, and even if their death hasn’t swallowed them whole today, it will eventually, and it is the scars I gave them that led them down that path.

No blade or knife has pierced my flesh yet, today. But I can still feel it's metallic claws slicing across the goosebumped fabric of my body, painting pictures across the canvas of my skeleton with a silver brush and red, red, red paint. And, like everything else, not even an ocean of tears can cleanse me of it's imprint.

I have been crying ever since the blood on Demeter's body pin-pricked across the pads of my quivering fingertips. We bandaged her wounds as good as we could with our own bare hands - but what good is that when we'll all fall apart anyway? Volatile battles erupt along the banks of the river, and when Demeter and Ailis stride out towards the bloody ribbons beginning to ebb towards us, I cower behind with Learna by my side. As I flee the opposite way of the emerging fights, something inside of me wonders if I will see the girl from Two and Twelve ever again. But, in these rocky rivers with waves built to take us down, I know I have my own fights to worry about.

Learna looks nothing like her sister. The girl with rich hair, tan skin, and a spear in her eye ironically seemsed more alive than her pale faced and blazing haired sister. A year ago, Penelope Libertine was just another dead girl pixelized through a glassy screen. Today, the bones of her name is clothed with the flesh and blood of a tangible sister.

"You don't look like her." I say without thinking, letting the words slip effortlessly through my mouth as easily as silk.