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THROUGH EIR'S MICROSCOPE
Sometimes, you just want / something so hard you have to lie about it, / so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute, / how real hunger has a real taste.
Ada Limón 𓆏 Bright Dead Things.
Eir supposes that credence in boy-gods, and swearing to the dingy light in the sky as if it were a bat-shaped, misty sort of halo for God's strongest soldier to come forth and feed the people salvation, like Euchartist's drink wine, and Eir bites her tongue, would simper away the coldness that accompanied Bludhaven. But it does not. Instead, she resigned to holding her holy vow in her mouth, where it would remain safe and untouched, bloating with the better parable. Feeling herself expand with only self indignation, and self trust.
It was the folly of Blüdhaven's crime record that left Eir choking on the vision of her overseer in blood, and the folly of her own that had left her unceremoniously in name for the missing research. She felt sick, walking into the laboratory and seeing nought but shrapnel of what those years work had been, seeing her mentor dead not a week later. It had been doom, five years in the making. The carved hollow space of a team of five had become a team of three, and her, cloying at where she met Adam's rib, like it should birth her something divine and unarguably true. Like repent came from bone the way Eve did.
The love of her parents, framed in anxious calls, and food deliveries, was what took Eir to ingest resurrection. The lab had become a haunted house, and what little research remained was put away. It was turned to other things— better things, fears that all other researchers a part of the team would next find themselves slaying the same albatross. But it bound her, working under other projects, that her head was never not on the chopping block anyway.
A sorry space of unknowing parted.
There had been soft muttering about investigation, but Eir knew better that most folk did not engage in what terse, steadfast pose warriors took. No-one would want to end up like their project leader. She had told herself that it was then her that would have to wield the sword and find truth; but the sanctimony of it knew that what she felt, in her gut and her throat and her chest, was the fear that came with awaiting the knife; not the vengeance, nor the self proof. It ached to think that they'd come back.
Whoever they were.
There was hurt, in the thought of staying, but there was hurt in the thought of leaving as well. It was this double edged sword, old and worn from ache, sweetened by dew, that she'd wield when resigning her position, and choosing instead to relocate to the forensics unit in Blüdhaven's Police Department. It was this double edged sword that she'd find catching her time and time again when she stumbled. That would touch cold metal to the ripe of her belly, and thin of her back. Her mother would call them growing pains, when they talked over the phone. Eir longed to believe that. She longed in the way she longed to believe many things that her mother had instilled in her. But when Eir prayed, she sees a God with her mother's laugh, more than anything else.
