pick a star :: on the dark horizon || calbraxas

it started out as a feeling
which then grew into a hope
which then turned into a quiet thought
which then turned into a quiet word

It began with a feeling, a twinge of something's different in my gut. In the midst of emotional turmoil, I hardly thought twice about throwing up in the morning. Not even when I checked, over and over again for months, for a drop of blood down there — and to find nothing. And all the same, denial. I always had a special talent for lying; it ran so deep, twisted its webs so thickly and tightly, that I could even lie to myself.

It didn't all unravel until there was a little bulge, just enough to be noticed, in my stomach. The clues could only lead to one conclusion — the morning sickness, the lack of a period, the bulge. I felt every loop and tangle untwist itself and split apart from its brothers; everything came undone and I knew, I knew there was only one answer.

Fuck, I hate the truth. It's an ugly, dark thing, stark as blood stains on a white tile floor. I hate it, but that doesn't mean I don't have to face it. It stares me in the eye, tears me open and peers right into my soul, if I have one at all. No matter how hard I try to look away, the truth holds me in a steel embrace; there is no escape.

For once, this is a situation I can't get myself out of, let alone ignore.

So I don't.

The house is quiet, too quiet — eerie — today. It is not unusual for it to feel this way, though there is definitely something more off than usual, or maybe it's just me. The house of the Delacroixs will never be as lively as it once was, with Percy running around on her daily adventures, throwing confetti or sliding down the railing of the stairs — because she's gone, I remind myself. And the empty space where she should be had turned thick and unbreathable, like tar. Sometimes it seeps into all of the air around me, and my movements become slow and heavy and my lungs labor for breath — or maybe that's just this feeling deep down that I can't shake.

That is what happens when people die. They leave behind rot and despair.

I have grown used to acting cold, like my chest is nothing but an empty, cavernous space. It is what carried me through all these years. It's why I was able to tear my assailant apart when I was fifteen and scrub up his blood afterwards, why I could warm beds for the sake of manipulation, why I could break skulls with bullets and walk away without looking back.

But I can't do that anymore. Not with Percy dead, not with all these chinks in my armor for Abra. I used to cover myself with steel so I could take knives in my back and bullets in my heart, but now it's all ragged and rusted and falling apart.
Now there's nothing left.

I walk from my room where I've been holed up for the last hour or two, watching the sun rise into the sky and eat away at the darkness of the dawn, and onto the balcony looking over the entry hall of the house. Even when I was sitting on my bed watching the sky, I was dressed and groomed, but I just needed to gather some piece of mind before really starting the day. (And yet it still feels like I have none.) Peering over the balcony, I can see the brilliant silver chandelier, black velvet rug extending from the door to the end of the entry room, but no Abra. He must be somewhere in the adjoining living and dining rooms — my hand curls into a nervous ball at the thought of seeking him out.

The moment I walk down the stairs, it hits me again, that sinking feeling in my stomach. Reluctant to face the confrontation I know I must have, I go slowly, running my hand along the dark blue paint on the walls and the other on the black railing. Abra is somewhere else downstairs, but I'm too damn nervous to directly approach him or look him in the eye, so I just call out, "Abra?" and I say the words that can never mean anything good.

"We need to talk."

and then that word grew louder and louder
'til it was a battle cry
i'll come back when you call me
no need to say goodbye