ʍoɹplǝss, ᵇⁱˡˡⁱᵉ ᵉⁱˡⁱˢʰ

015: Blind

       Eira slammed her gold staff down, a thrumming vibration fizzling up my body. I bit down, rattled by how she conquered my mind. Never had she done that before; she always watched from the outskirts, rarely interfering.

"You're staring down a black hole, Ambrose." Eira leaned in, detaching her rigid back from the red-upholstered throne. Her palm sunk down on her thigh. "The ledge you are standing on is made of gravel. Be careful where you step."

I looked down foolishly, knowing well that there was nothing below my feet. Just... nothing.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ambrose." Perhaps her voice was the black hole—it was dragging me forward by some invisible force, dark and heavy in my ears. "You mustn't be blind."

"I am not being blind, Eira."

"If you weren't, then you would see what I am trying to show you." Eira stood. Her robe cascaded from her shoulders, red like the blood that flushed out the gaping hole in her stomach. It was hard to tell the difference between cloth and gore as she stalked over to me, across the endless roll-out carpet that stretched forth behind me, lined with gold.

I strayed from the hole. It brought back a red and black memory, but it was fuzzed, like a thin sheet of cotton were capped over it.

She wasn't injured earlier... I thought back to Booker's office, fidgeting with the skin between my index and thumb. Eira was nearing, the scratch of her staff thumping. It was heavy, and I supposed Eira was leaning most of her weight on it because of her mutilated abdomen.

"Look at me, Ambrose." Eira tapped my head, and I looked. Her lips were red, slit at the corner. "I sense an evil. A familiar one."

"There's no evil here."

"Yes, there is. There always is. Don't be naïve. You of all people should not be naïve." She slicked a finger along the rim of the cavity in her stomach. Coated red and dripping, she pressed the pad over my forehead. A trickle fell down my nose, then my lip. Familiarity. Then a throbbing pain off my skull, and Eira frowned.

"Pity. You don't remember all that well." Her finger slid down to the inner corner of my eye and pressed hard before she retrieved.

Retrieved. She didn't retrieve her hand... it was gone. I stared at the flimsy sleeve of her robe, but there was nothing.

"Eira—"

"Be bright, Ambrose."

The sun flickered through the curtains, dawning on my pounding head. I rose from my beneath my sheets, muscles sore down the lines.

"Fuck..." I breathed, curling in on myself. Phantom pain hovered under the skin of my forehead. I tore off the blanket and planted my feet on the cold tile. "It's Saturday."

—

"Morning," I said as I stepped into the kitchen. Beside the stove, a bag of Quaker Oats, jar of milk, salt and sugar. My mother scurried across, chugging a mug of piping black coffee.

"You. Make yourself that or don't. Just don't starve." She walked past, clinking her car keys as her mind wandered. I spotted her work binder beside the fridge, on the counter, and handed it over.

"Have a great day at work, mom," I said as I locked the door once she left. The air of the house fell just then, killing the noise. I feared breathing, like I would awake something long dead burrowed under the laundry.

But I breathed anyway, and I started on the oatmeal. Pour milk into the sauce pan, add the oats, stir, salt, stir, sugar, stir. I wondered if I had ever gone a Saturday without making myself oatmeal.