Resurrection {NaNoWriMo}

Chapter 16

His chest burned, his lungs heaved. He wanted to bolt from his house; he wanted to cling to its remains. He hated what it had become, and loved the people who had lived in it. He could remember his father, see his face, though now somewhat blurred, his reddish hair and bright brown eyes. He could hear his laugh that was so deep it felt as if it rumbled the entire house. He could smell his mother's perfume faintly, roses and violets, see her black ringlets and sea-blue eyes, depthless. He could hear her softer laugh, see her touch her hand to his father's in unconditional affection. He could see a tiny Alana, huddle close to their mother's side, and her long blonde hair braided and looped behind her head as she demanded for what was so funny. He could hear his own laughter, warm and free as joined them. His mother would lead Alana and him to their room, ignoring Alana's protests, and his father would call out a goodnight from behind them. She would tuck them each into bed, both so blissfully young and small, and kiss their foreheads as she crooned a sweet lullaby, sweeping them into sleep. He would be woken up to Alana poking his side and already nagging him to explore with her. He'd pretend to sleep for as long as he could, until she jumped on top of him and began to slap at him in the way that little siblings do. Then he'd have no choice but to lead her outside and they'd run through the hills, tumbling and rolling down their soft sides. Alana would usually find a way to get hurt, a supposedly broken thumb or toe, and cry, and he would come to her rescue, holding her and comforting her until she giggled once more and ran off, never a dull moment in her presence. He would laugh himself and run after her, both playing some role in a fairy tale.

There were no fairy tales now.

There was no family.

There was no sister.

There was him.

He clenched his eyes shut, felt his body tremble. He was lost in his bubble of self loathing and anger. He shook in rage, in fury, as a wrath like no other burned him. It was so unfair. It was so wrong. Why such wonderful people? Why his family?

Why little Alana?

People like them did not deserve to die, and people like him did not deserve to live.

It was hard for him to discern the voice that sounded outside of his realm. He was being swallowed by his memories, his vision tunneling as he remembered.

"Alias," Acacia murmured. "You don't have to tell me if it's too difficult to talk about."

He became aware of the pain searing his hands and her genuine concern through the bond, her need to reach out and help him. He had felt the same insane urge towards her when the bond acted up.

He took a step back, allowed himself to breathe. He looked down to his hands, saw the scrapes from how hard he had gripped the wall, Alana's wall, and see the blood dribbling from his cuts.

"Let me help you," Acacia said, stepping in front of him as she reached out for his hands.

He instinctively flinched from her touch, but she was determined, and she leaned for them again and held them, eyes fluttering shut as she utilized her power, let it heal his bloodied and cut palms and fingers.

He was too lost to mumble a reply, to thank her for the favor. He simply stared at the wall, and remembered leaning against it with Alana and the stories they'd make up together, the big dreams they'd share about the future that would never come.

He pulled his hands from her grasp and balled them into fists. He looked down from Acacia. She hurt to look at.

"Alias, what is it? Please tell me." She pleaded.