Going Your Own Way, but with Magic

Chapter 9

I throw myself at the door, my feet barely touching the ground. It's locked. It's locked. I wrench the handle like that'll do anything and the shadows are around me and Cecelia is shouting something and I don't want to die you have magic. Use your magic, use your goddamn magic. "Red!" I scream it, so loudly it isn't a word. It is pure magic, pure fire. And fire comes at my call, burning the door to ash in seconds. Cecelia hesitates. I don't. I leap through. I have a notion, somewhere, that the heat is unbearable. I have a distant sense of tomorrow's burns. They sound like a dream, not a threat. I want to live to tomorrow. I run down the corridor, faster than I have ever run. The power is strong and bright and it gives me energy. I go fast. So fast. And then I hit an invisible wall. It stays no matter what I hit it with and it hurts when I throw myself at it and Cecelia is walking towards me. Her smile is fixed in place again, even with splinters in her hair and ash on her dress. It looks like a gash. "SHOVE!" I don't aim it. Control is an idea long gone. I hurl pure energy in every direction I can. Cecelia stumbles and then falls and the shield slips for a second. A second, maybe less, but it's enough. I half-fall down the stairs, never keeping my footing for long. There are running footsteps behind me. I don't look back.

The receptionist is downstairs and I look at her like a messiah. An adult. A sensible, normal adult who will be very shocked by all of this and call the police. I can act shocked, and then slip away in the confusion. It will all be okay. I stare at her, smiling. Dark hair, heart necklace, pink nails. Ghostly pallor, glazed eyes, total stillness. Knife. Sharp knife. I almost freeze. I almost freeze and I almost die. She lunges at me and I jump out the way. There is no thought anymore. All that is left is animal instinct. Survive. Run. Cecelia is coming down the stairs. I know the front door is locked. I know it. There is no time to think, so I jump through the window. I am in incredible pain. I am aware of it, calmly and abstractly. And then less calmly and less abstractly. I scream. It hurts. It hurts. I need to scream. I scream. I make myself scream while I run, each step excruciating. There is blood in my mouth. There is blood in my eyes. I keep running, never looking back. People look at me with concern, but no one can quite be bothered to stop me. They turn away and hope the problem will sort itself out. I thank the lord for Londoners. I don't stop running until I'm on the train.

I am in so much pain. Everything hurts and no amount of compartmentalisation or forced rationality is helping. It hurts. I sit with my knees drawn up to my chest, ignoring people's disapproval. I hurt. I hurt everywhere. I've wiped the worst of the blood off in the bathroom. It's worse, now that no one knows. I have always been tough, but this pain is tearing me apart. I am tired. It's only six, which feels surreal. This morning, I ate breakfast and laughed at Mr Bates's jokes and waved goodbye. This morning, today, I did that. My ring hasn't stopped burning. I try to make my thoughts clear. Cecelia/Raven/Whoeverthefuck was going to kill me. I am sure of that, there is something deep inside me that knows. Wow, one near-death experience and I'm turning into a hippie. The idea of laughing hurts. She was going to kill me. She was. She was going to kill me and dump the body and never give me another thought. I would be dead. I saw it. There was something in her eyes, dumb as that sounds. She was going to kill me. I was going to die, if I didn't fight. And I fought. I can't bring myself to feel guilt. I would've died. And I did some pretty cool magic. I am proud. This'll probably make me sick later, but that's later.

I am going home. I whisper it to myself, the words taking on a talismanic quality that shines through the pain. I am going home. Home. I have a home, a home that I nearly lost. If she killed me, I would never go home again. The thought makes me shiver. I see my own death again, and it's much less anonymous.

Missing, presumed dead. I think Cecelia knows what to do with a body. Mr Bates. He would notice. I hope he wouldn't assume I ran away. He'd be devastated, either way. He'd give me a proper little funeral, with flowers and candles and everything. Daphne would find her way back to him, and keep waiting for me to come home. Even Lizzie might get the news, and mourn me a little bit. I have people who care about me know and the thought is terrifying. I cannot die cleanly and anonymously. I cannot leave the world without so much as a splash, as quietly as I entered. It's been the one thing I've been sure of for a long time. I could die, and my body would rot in a ditch somewhere. There'd might be a little spread in the newspaper. If there is anything more to anything I could hang with my parents, and if not slipping into dust sounds peaceful. Now I can't do that. I'd leave people behind. My death would hurt people. And that's not something I want to do.