memories left by the day ✞ attend&anyana

The sun disappeared behind the horizon like a drop of hope in an ocean of disbelievers thirteen times whilst he sat in that cage. Thirteen times it slipped in-between the cracks of the wooden prison he sat in where the air seemed to smell of mould and blood and death. At first he’d wondered whose body had been in here before his, how many people had died before he had been sentenced to this doom. The air had bellowed the lyrics of a death song; it’s twisted darkness clawing at his scarred skin as soon as he’d been pushed into its confines. He’d breathed it in, letting the darkness sink into his body, accepting the fate he’d been sentenced to. It burned holes in his lungs, and the first few hours were agony. He had no real understanding if why he was there, he’d done nothing wrong.

They’d hurt him, punished him and left him for death when he had done nothing. He’d done his job, he’d let that foul rich lady play with him, touch him and present him to her friends. He’d let them all do as they had wanted with his body. The mere thought of their touches still made him flinch. He’d hated the way they’d looked at him, their eyes hungry, as though he had been some item, a bought possession to be used as they deemed fit. That was what happened to Avoxes after all. But then that greedy, jealous son of theirs had hit him and hit him and beaten him and hurt him. Even when every inch of him had screamed to fight back he hadn’t. Somehow he had still ended up being shipped off, being whipped and left to rot.

Thirteen times he had stretched out his pale fingers and felt the warmth of the sun on his sickly skin. When he’d gazed downwards at the light that filtered in his eyes burned, the cracks in the wood allowed for no more then a few hours of light each and everyday. He’d hold his hand out, fingers grazing the rays that seeped into his cage, he’d stare at his hand as the light slipped past his fingers, he’d twirl the fingers, watching as it moved and danced and changed, knowing that, unlike him, it was free to leave whenever it wanted. And every single day it did. And he’d watch, he’d watch as the shadows lengthened and the light, which had once encompassed his entire hand slip to the tips of his fingers. He’d watch the dust and dirt swirl in the lights reflections, settling over his skin and he’d watch as it slipped away, like a glove being stripped off.

No matter what, though, he knew it would always return.

Those were the few hours he loved; those were the few hours that kept him sane. On the thirteenth day Attend Cage did not see the light. (“We need a man, a trial of sorts, have you got one for us to use?”) At some point between the night and the day a man had come into his prison and shoved a needle into his arm. (“Yes, I do. We’ll bring him to you.”) The light still came, as loyal and trustworthy as ever. It slipped into the cracks of his cage and remained there for a few hours, slipping, slipping and fading, lighting up the space where his hand had always been to reveal nothing. Sometimes Attend wonders if the light misses his touch, because he knows that it still returns, and he knows that it always will.

”He seems good enough. What’s with all the scars though?”

”That couldn’t be helped. Will he do?”

”Yes. He seems desirable enough.”

”Very well, return him when you-“

They dance had the edge of his subconsciousness. With a groan he awakes, legs shifting through the material that wraps around them. It smells clean and fresh, as though the scent of the dead has been forbidden to enter.

”He’s awake.” The voice is brisk, it’s a female, and seconds after registering the words strong hands thrust him upwards, roughly shoving him against a wall. His feet scramble for a purchase, sluggish and weak. Opening his eyes he blinks rapidly, trying to gain an understanding for his current situation, as the fog clears, and his view becomes clearer he notices a lady standing a meter or so in front of him. She’s staring right at him, as their eyes meet she moves forwards, roughly grabbing his face and tugging it upwards to meet hers. ”Tch.” She huffs, a scowling forming on her face, he’s still rather out of it, and doesn’t have the strength to pull his head out of her iron grasp.

”Take him to get cleaned. I’ll have one of the girls show him what to do.” She lets go, spinning around; he doesn’t see where she disappears to, as the two men holding him begin to drag him forwards. Each of them are holding tightly onto his forearms, he’s been so numb to his surroundings that he hardly releases that their fingers are digging painfully into his skin. Instead he attempts to keep up with their demanding pace. They round a corner and before he knows it they’ve opened a door and he’s dumped into a room.

It sits there, this pulsing, looming glow of darkness. It steals its way to the edge of my vision, drawing itself around the edges of the shadows, sucking it all in, it’s impending disaster, it’s doom, pain and suffering and every now and then it’ll stretch out its fingers and swallow a part of me. It’ll encompass my heart or my soul, a leg or an arm and there will be this unmeasurable amount of pain following along with its touch. Badoom, badoom, badoom, the echo of my heart is its own beat, shrinking and expanding with every pulse of my heart. Forwards, forwards, forwards it moves, ready to consume the rest of me.

This time when it stretches forwards I don’t have the strength to move backwards, it looks different though. It doesn’t hold the normal entanglement of darkness; it isn’t the pure picture of blackness, a shadow from within the shadows. It… it’s almost as though it’s warm. But that can’t be right, anguish is cold and deadly, there is no warmth. I shake the very thought away my trembling body shaking with even more desperation, the poison in my body a thick blanket over an already fogged mind and I can no longer make sense of what is happening around me. The fundamentals remain the same, a stain on a piece of torn paper. Instinct has told me that no one comes near more, asks anything of me or does anything for me if I am not to suffer in some sort of way. There is no warmth here, no light.

An almost grey like beast slips out of the darkness, a long hooked claw extending to touch the side of my face and for a split second I wonder what is about to happen. Will there be blood? What does it matter? No matter the wound or the injury there will be pain. With what little strength I have left I try to pull away, eyes shifting away, before flickering shut as though being unable to see that approaching pain will make it sting any less. I hold them tightly together, hands drawn upwards and to my stomach, white knuckles a ghostly image against the dark shirt I wore.

Stop, stop, stop, make it stop.

Not again, please. If I had a tongue I’d have pleaded with them to stop hurting me, if I had a tongue I’d have said anything to stop the pain. If I had a tongue I’d have told them to fuck off a long time ago. I’d not have stayed with those first people; I wouldn’t be here at all. I’d be back in district One, safe, happy and living the life I had fled from on that morning. I wouldn’t be so broken and beaten. I wouldn’t be this frail, damaged sculpture of who I had once been. This silly thing that could be taken away with a breeze? This world had made me into this.

Deep within the folds of a broken heart is a small dying flame and it dies with every second I cannot express myself and that’s my parents fault, it’s their fault I cannot breath a single word, I cannot be the person I wanted to be. It’s their fault I’m in so much pain; it’s their fault that I must su-

My mouth opens and a cry escapes my lips as the hand touches my face. It’s a sound of terror and swallows me whole and before any part of me can recognise what is happening there are tears streaming down the side of my face, carving their way through the dirt on my cheeks. I look upwards, a sob escaping my lips, and my body goes numb, shock slips into my veins like ice, the surprisingly warm touch a contrast to the deadness of the air. The world is a blur as the tears continue to fall, but I hold myself upwards, mouth hanging open, I don’t understand what’s happening, why there is no pain, why there is a warm tingling feeling on my cheek, why, when I look upwards do I see a ghost?

Her name sits on the edge of my lips, it pulls at the chords of my heart and I want to say it out loud. I don’t want to sit in silence as I make sense of that short brown hair, of those warm, caring brown eyes, of that pale skin, those tender hands—Anyana. I want to say her name, and the words right there, it’s right there and I try, I try to say it, to speak it, so she knows, so I know that she’s truly and really there in front of me.

Anyana.

My dear, dear sister.

Anyana.

But I cannot speak a single syllable; instead there is just that awful grating animal like sound. My hands slip forwards, and I’m trembling. I tip forwards, my face landing in her lap, and the trembling increases. My big sister. We’re both so broken. I don’t have the strength to wipe the tears away, or to hold myself up, to be her brother. I’m just too scared.