AGNUS DEI. D7. FIN

I don't know.

And then it was dark and light and my eyes hurt and something.

I need coffee. 

There was an old man ( i seem to remember this vividly, even as the trees change color and leaves litter soil ) and he seemed very concerned about the hurt-and-grief-at-once on my face, and so I managed to cease my banshee cries and turn my fractured gaze over to the man whose face has wrinkles like the rudimentary sketch of the sun's rays. An anvil has fallen on my head, and o do i feel the anvil.

she's dead. he's dead.
he's dead. she's dead.

anvil.

anvil.

anvil.

AND HER BLO- is. on. my. hands. If I scream, I will fall apart. I know I will. And I do not scream. Anvil. Sirens wail, and I avert my gaze from the headlights of cars, light too bright in losing eyes. It is not my fault. A mantra, as I chant to myself, until the words blur together and it becomes a ceaseless mumble. I will never be thwarted. Yet here I am. I told my broken mother that it would be my last excavation before I retreated to the suffocating household that my mother calls family, yet here I am. Please, don't let this be happening. I raise my head to the newborn-navy sky and pray to the god I do not believe in. Please lord, let this be a dream. Fingernails score at skin, raw skin, the first sanguine drops of blood dotting the inflamed flesh. Eons pass, and only now I realize that this is reality. Anvil. Anvil. 

The world tilts, and I forget.

---

I am in heaven. Heaven is blinding white with no reprieve from pristine aurora. Anvil. Pain comes invading, storming into my very cells in a ruthless mob. Anvilanvilanvil. I attempt to move my limbs, and they are as heavy as ingots of gold. And even with the trying-too-hard ambience, humankind's sixth sense screams of something somber, sinister, and with horror, I glance at my hands. Her blood is gone. I saw her, I insist. She had walked to the zenith of the goddamned clock tower. (And reader, don't you forget that every district has a clock tower to call its own. ) It was a tepid summer eventide, and there was no wind to claim the heavy ambience, no hazard, no risk. There was a twist of a breeze that lifted her curled coiffure ( it looked near black in the darkness ) and she let herself be claimed by the wind. Headline news: Nox Decides to Die. 

Anvil.

Anvil.

Anvil.

I am never going to look at the-the-the clock tower ever again, never going to look for a suicide note ( which will bring forth more anvils ), never going to call her my sister. I pray that she hasn't survived the fall. Vae, I wanted her to die. I wanted her to die. I prayed to the god that I don't believe  -- let her die. Andandand she caught a plague that ate away at her muscles, and I prayed to the god I don't believe to LET HER LIVE. LET. HER. LIVE. Let her live, please. Please. And she became well. And then

I 

shunned 

her.

Die, Noxæterna. Get out of my sight. It seems the gods are always in my favor. I wish-

I have stopped wishing long ago. I was like ten-eleven-twelve when I realized that wishes did nothing to help you or gift you in this tragic wreck you call a world and so be it. I also am a lie-hoarder -- but you have to be careful. As soon as you say that your grandma's sick, your mom will come into your room with some really bad news about her pancreas and you know that little white lies do not cause cancer, you will feel guilty for the rest of your life. And-

Oh gods. My hair. A cornsilk rat's nest irritating porcelain nape. I had Nox's eyes -- a prelude of blue-green, an in-between color that might be called glassy, the swell of the tides. Nox. Anvil. Anvil. 

Agnus, you've grown so cold. 

Noxæterna. Come back. Please. I'm here and you're not and I miss you. Okay? I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Please. I am torn between killing myself and everything around me. Please. 

Before. Before all this, I lived an uneventful life in a modest house -- the stereotypical District Seven family. My father, a burly lumberjack with coffee-ground hair, my mother, a porcelain beauty with hair of wheat fields, and Nox. Nox, a dark-haired beauty with the blue eyes and hair of my father. I had my father's eyes and mother's hair. A generous balance of genetics. And then Nox made me mad. I swear, I didn't hurt her. But but but I let loose an anvil upon her world, and now she's a broken girl and I want to kill myself and please. Help. I. DIDN'T. MEAN. TO. Give her back. Give Nox back. And as she fell and fell and fell and fell, I also fell with her, and and and oh lord. I do feel that anvil. 

I do. I do. I do. And they always say I'm sorry too.

And I immersed myself into depression, and Nox came into my room and she saw my pills. She said "oh, i sometimes feel depressed too." I hate when people say that. They don't know. They don't know anything. Anvilanvil oh lord help me. I think I hurt her. I shouted and screamed and threw stuff. Guilt.

I need some wine. Now?
 
And I pray to the god I do not believe;

Please stop the goddamn anvils.

And then comes the biggest anvils of all time.

God.