claudii vinolentia {day seven}

Taken chance times two
I’ve seen the long strife that
Melts into self-hatred
Every third time. And

Against all the odds I am
Regarded as weak. But
Retribution it seems
Is only mine now to seek.

Long table set proper and clinking teacups aside, I am left with an aching in my body that does not burn away with the sunset. However, that dull throbbing in my bones was not one I wished to ever forget. It led to memories of actions that had not been taken since the time I left his side and probably would not ever be taken of again. The sign of the times was that religion was nothing more than falsification of a woman’s body, and for this reason alone I sought to become the greatest speaker of heresy the world was yet to see.

If my name was plastered upon anything but the grave, it would be for crimes and offenses I could not even imagine in a state of anything less than sober.

But drinks aside and divinity curbed, I find myself flat on my back, staring at the sky and searching for nothing in particular. There was nothing in comparison to the feeling left behind by intimacy— by being so vulnerable that a slit throat and broken bone were to be expected. Behind these events not coming to pass, any other undesirable effect was cast into the shadows by the very nature of survival itself.

The difference between falling in love with one’s self and being enamored with another was simply the words one chose to describe the distinctions.

When I speak of myself, I speak of a world on fire yet never burning— of the ease of falling but never finding the ground.

When I spoke of Lucas O’Hara now, I would speak of ice constricting in my veins— of a numb heart never fearing the last beat.

I am not sure which of the two I prefer.

Contemplating this underneath an unbiased sky, I am brought out of meditation by the sound of the anthem, but it shows no faces and plays a quiet song. It is not deafening tonight, either due to the nature of circumstance or the lack of heightened senses that were flowing through my body.

Either way, it felt euphoric, and I could wish for nothing more.

But when the morning sun comes to pass, the feeling is gone, and instead I am left with no sense of self and an identity stripped away.

The roses and their background color added and scent wafting on the breeze have become main intruders of my mind, and their colors shift as I bring myself to unsteady feet and attempt to put distance between us. I apologize as I pass them, speaking in excuses and reasons for why I simply cannot stay, and when they do not respond back, I take their silence as disappointment and turn on my heel and run.

Stray tears brushed aside when they are no longer gnawing at the corner of my mind, I find myself back at the exact spot where this all began— where I struck out with fists still pliable, where I fell in love with Scarlett Storms, where I knew that time cut short was not a punishment but a luxury only few could afford— and I know that being here now, I am no longer afraid but devastated.

With this in mind I take another look at the Cornucopia and sprint towards it, slamming hardened fists against its surface and not giving second thought to the dull pain of throbbing knuckles white turned red. I want to find the words that fit the guidelines of apologies and eulogies, and monologues, but there is nothing to say to a world that has gone deaf to anything that is not satirical in its foundation.

And just then, when a boy appears just to my left and says nothing, I draw the purple knife still gracefully in my presence and wait for him to strike at my skin— that exposed and protected and every joint in between, but blood is never drawn and flesh is not torn.

Instead, his blade turns upon himself and I gasp. Unable to understand the circumstance that leads to the precipice of suicide now instead of seven days prior.

The thought crosses my mind to speak, but the path between mind and tongue are interrupted by a voice smaller than my own, “Have you guys ever thought about it? If I hit myself and it hurts… am I weak or am I strong?”

Answer unknown and foundation shaken I look for something less than metaphorical and am met with the sight of the girl turning her weapon on herself as well. The tears left behind in the rose garden begin to once again surface as the inevitable fate of turning my blade upon myself crosses through my mind and rests upon my shoulder.

I am here because I could not carry out the task on my own and was searching for someone willing to take the blade to my heart without hesitation, and now I am met with circumstances similar and even more terrifying when hanging by a thread in the unknown.

Your mind was a canvas,
Or a spectrum of sorts.
Undertaken by hands trembling and
Heart quivering
And
Vulgar words not abhorred.

My knife grazes my own flesh, stinging but not suicidal— only scoring my skin and causing red to rise to the surface but not run over. I wonder where the will of mind I believed myself to once possess has gone, and further, if it will ever return. Despite the temporal answer denying me the death I have now pleaded for at the feet of another, there is still the sinking of my stomach and the trembling of my heart that convinces me of other events that are destined to come to pass.

I have not managed to catch the boy in our presence’s name, but there is no necessity in the notion and so I let it fall to the wayside, instead watching with wide eyes of terror as he raises his blade toward the two of us, grumbling and grinning with teeth as sharp as his knife blade. I know I am easily within his reach, vulnerable and splayed out on the ground as though there is not a weapon crafted of human hand that could end my life a moment before I was ready for it to terminate.

Instead, when he strikes, his knife sinks deep into the skin of Wylla’s left shoulder, leaving blood to fill the space now left between humanity and human. His laugh cuts short the thought of my horror, and if it weren’t for fear of the repercussions, I would have taken no time to backhand him hard enough to knock a tooth loose.

No respect could be found for or anywhere surrounding him— he was nothing more than desperation sheltered by a god complex that there was no use in trying to shatter.

Let a man die a false god and he’ll find himself on a rightful throne.

With false hope in my throat and fear paralyzing my mind, I know that there are many things I should now be saying— to him, to Wylla, still towering over me with warhammer in hand and wisdom in her heart, “I think you will, but I don’t know when. Maybe soon, maybe not. Maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, maybe in another life.”

But there is no satisfaction in her reply, and instead I am left with disappointment filling the space between my bones, the sobering reality of my situation coming to mind and causing my thoughts to become lightheaded in the absence of a drowning nature.

Face first and fearful, her voice meets my ears once again, “Would your sister want you to do this?”

I could not know what Cha Leviane had truly wanted if she had outlined it in a will addressed to myself alone, but there is something in the nature of my submissiveness that leaves behind a lingering notion of her disappointment.

Before I can reply, she has closed the discussion for me and reprimanded me with soft grace, “Don’t die like this. It isn’t how your story should end, it isn’t how any stories end.” Another pause— a moment of collection and thoughtfulness, “Happy endings are real, so fight for them.”

Despite a desire to believe her, to devote my thoughts to her philosophy and guide my own mind by them alone, I cannot bring myself to speak agreement. Protest rising on my lips and souring my tongue, I go to speak and am once more cut short, “And I don’t mean fight yourself.”

I do not know if my sister was an advocate of the honorable in its rawest sense, but I knew with all certainty that no matter how much I wished to deny it, her death was not self-triggered. My own desire to find finality’s thought and rest easy in the darkest nature of the night sky starlit was nothing more than mine alone.

And if I was truly to bring this fate to pass by my own hand, this is a fact of family heritage I would have no other choice but to accept.

Caught between desire and despair I bring myself to both feet, with neck burning and heart racing and blurry vision clouding it all, and it is in this moment that for the first time in the past seven days that I realize that there is no true pain here.

There are momentary flashes of depression and plenty of bouts of death, but the true form of pain— that which lingers on for years past the moment of its birth, has not graced any of us here. Each of us knows that despite the repercussions there is nothing here that is anything more than temporary, and it is this logic alone that frightens me much more than it brings me any sort of comfort or consolation.