our stars were meant to fall { flynn + sera }
Aug 26, 2024 8:54:10 GMT -5
Post by Cait on Aug 26, 2024 8:54:10 GMT -5
❦
There’s a few precious seconds every morning when you wake up where the world seems right. Your memory resets – defaults back to a factory setting where things were better, simpler, brighter – before the grey starts to inevitably seep back in. I found myself clinging to those blurry moments stronger than ever after Izzy died; when you only get a few seconds, you do all you can to cherish them. So it doesn’t really surprise me that the first thing I think of when my eyes start to flutter open is my bed in the orphanage where I’m curled up beside Iz in the middle of Winter, using her warmth to fight off the frost of dawn. And I tell myself that I’m ready for the shift that’s coming – for the world to be thrown off-kilter when I realise that she’s not here anymore, that it’s just me alone in that same room that feels colder than ever.
But today is different.
Today, there is no orphanage. I can tell immediately I’m waking up in unfamiliar territory, because the walls here are sanitary clinical white rather than ageing mansion beige. Fragments of memories attempt to surface as they always do, but today they struggle to become anything more than half-formed blobs of stifling heat and crimson rain.
And then the pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place.
There’s music, distorted. There’s flames erupting from a knife’s blade, borrowed. There’s a gift of orange poppies; there’s abandonment. There’s murder as a label, a clock counting down only to get stuck on the number ‘2’.
My heart’s racing even before the physical exertion of hauling myself out of the bed I’ve been cocooned into hits me. And I wonder how many people before me have lain in this very same bed, their bruising bodies nestled against starched linen, concoctions of clear fluids being pumped into their veins. Tomorrow, I might be lauded as a Victor, but the chilling reality of the infirmary reminds me I’ll never be anything more than a number. I’ll never be any better than the people I’ve killed to be here right now.
When I close my eyes, I still see the faint glow of an afterimage of ‘2’ blinking at me mercilessly. It’s all about numbers.
The irony isn’t lost on me at the sight of the 1-9 keypad on the wall by a steel-enforced door. I do a quick survey of my body – no severed limbs, that’s a silver lining I guess – before approaching the door on unsteady feet. I’m greeted by a bright green neon sign strongly suggesting I’m not supposed to leave the room. But weren’t rules made to be broken anyway?
I push some buttons. Key in a random arrangement of numbers. Place my hand against a glowing scanner, surrendering my DNA to an evil overlord before considering the implications of the manoeuvre. In the end, it probably doesn’t matter. I don’t think there’s really anything of sacred of my own left for myself anymore; it’s all been stolen from me. So I continue to try everything under the sun in the hopes of cracking the code and breaking out of my cushy prison cell, succeeding only in making myself increasingly annoyed with every failed attempt and the accompanying sounds of rejection.
I bang my hands against the door in frustration, half-expecting a few exhausted tears to escape from my eyes. Still haven’t cried. Maybe there’s something permanently wrong with me now. I kinda already suspected that anyway.
Guess I’m banging harder than I realised, because there’s a soft thud of something falling off a bedside table onto the floor behind me. I turn around and actually laugh out loud at the sight that greets me.
Behold: a walkie-talkie.
What a conveniently placed coincidence and hilarious callback.
Tentatively, I pick the electronic device up, surprised at how heavy my arms still feel despite the low-effort action. I know I should probably still be resting. I cast a glance back over to the unkempt bed, appearing so eerily out of place amongst the pristine organisation of the room. I don’t get the chance to bury myself in it though; as if summoned by magic or some telepathic tether connecting me to him forevermore, the walkie-talkie crackles to life and Flynn’s tinny, tired voice immediately fills the room.
“Are you going to talk to me now?”
The barb hits me square in the chest, penetrates one of the last remaining soft and squishy squares of unmarred flesh. Supposedly, it was only two days ago I’d thrown the phone across the desert after leaving Flynn a voice memo akin to a suicide note. I say supposedly, because I don’t actually know how long I’ve been holed up in this room for now – but it’s obviously not long enough for Flynn to have forgiven me.
Goodbyes are always easier when they’re one-sided… as long as you’re the one doing the talking. I can lie to myself and say I was just trying to protect us both, but that sounds like something one of my exes once said, and I’m not gonna stoop that fucking low. So I guess I can’t really blame him for being pissed off. Probably deserve to have him hate me. I wonder if that’s what it’ll take to make me feel better.
I shake my head, sigh softly to myself. Extend an olive branch as I echo words of a lifetime ago – I guess the past writes the future – down the line of the phone: “Yeah, I suppose. You’ve gotta get me out of here first, though.”
FOX
