Devil to the Damned (Prequel #2 )

2|13 - Cracked Fault Line

I reappeared without a trace.

The atmosphere pressed against my sudden form and both my ears pressurized. I let my eye close, and every one of my senses dulled.

That visual remained. Ilvon's expression of agony and the squelching of his brutal death created warm pockets in my spine.

A sporadic forest surrounded me on all sides. Pillars of oak and birch equally absorbed and rebound the morning sunlight as the dew collected leftover gleam, and refracted it like crystal fragments. Chipper birds called from the woods and a single deer drank from the small pond between us.

I stood just within the pond; the soft wet dirt sucked my feet in half an inch, and the babble of a stream entering through a beaver dam created tranquility I immediately resonated with.

I turned my torso left and right, surveying the land with sight and aura to confirm isolation. Quiet. The static burn in my throat started to lessen, and the verdant color around me came into absolute focus. About a mile from my back, was a house hidden among the irritant bark. A house ignored by those who grasped a hint of history regarding those within and associated. In that house, resides a little girl with secret malevolent fuel and a frightening future. I have not visited her in many days, though she is still fresh in my thoughts. She always is, along with her late mother.

I, however, do not exist in her mind, and nor will I until her time arises. I often wonder if she can sense me so close by. If the horrors just outside typical view leave hints in any way for her to discover.

I shook my head feverishly; the blackened tar of heinous visuals infecting my dulcet serenity. Looking down at my body, I could see the blood had already started to dry from my emittance. My fingers dabbed the juice and it stuck like sap. The smell was horrid, even for my standards. There was something about the crime we shared that added a bitter retch to the typical slosh of death.

It had only been pondered a few seconds, and already I couldn't stand it. I awkwardly waded into the pond, and right away the chill swept across my body. Only ankle deep, I carefully pulled the taught gown up and over my head, and dropped it into the water. I then placed a small rock on top to prevent the fabric from floating away. Deep red escaped the dirty fabric and spread like a cloud of ink; tainting the natural source in no time at all.

I waited for the ripples to stop, and when they did, I was met with a near-perfect reflection of myself. My frown intensified. Sin didn't keep mirrors in his chamber, or anywhere closeby. In all of my outings and memory, the only time I witnessed my appearance was in a puddle, glossy blood, some far-off recollection, or as a little blur in his narrow eyes.

To this day, I held dearly onto the image of what I believed myself to look like. That young average girl with sunken bold eyes and messy dyed hair. A thin frame with many scars and marks from years of growth and collapse. Desperation and yearning carved in my face, and a propensity of self-detriment blackened the underside of my eyes.

In truth, what I saw was even more pitiful.

My skin was entirely grey and lifeless. The left side, from my ankle to the scalp was nothing but dark wrinkled flesh; scrunched tight together like warped leather and bulging with veins attempting to surface. That side of my head lacked hair at all, except for a small patch of dead, white strands above my ear; dangling lifelessly to my jaw.

The right side of my body was starkly smooth and thin, matte and almost artificial. What hair I had left was barely shoulder-length, uneven, and a dull cyan. It never grew in all the time I've been awake.

I can still recall many moments of internal shame over pockets of belly fat, old scars healed as a lump, and skin marks from losing weight by starvation. Petulant, childish concerns that only I cared so much about enough to sabotage myself daily. Those things didn't quite exist anymore.