M.I.A.

Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Mia

They stand over me, watching and waiting. I know who each and every one of them are. Not their names, not where they are from, or what their lives were like. I know them by their true identities, the thing that made them who they were in the end. The thing that they will be remembered for.

The tortured.

The dead ones.

The victims of the blade.

I recognize the marks on them. Whorls, lines, etches...things that bleed, things that swell, things that infest you with heat and bee stings. Demonic art that breathes and bleeds.

I mentally name each piece...

The Wounded stands to my left.

The Lacerated just beside him, like a little girlfriend.

The Cut holds The Stabbed's hand. I can't look into The Stabbed's eyes, she's too little.

The Butchered stands at the end of the bed, tall and screaming like a banshee...an angel of death...a harbinger of impending doom.

The Hacked looms in the corner of the room like a punished kid, as if uncertain why he's here.

They've all come, cycling in and out as if I'm the one on exhibition...the centerpiece of the gallery. I wonder what they call me. The Frightened? The Captive? The Tortured? The Dying?

But what's in a name?

Nothing you could call me explains what's inside of me.

And even though these are empty shells, no words fully explain what they are—who they have become—either.

No word or thought or empathetic feeling could embody the thousand little things that made them different from the rest of the world.

All I know is that I don't want to be like them. I don't want a tragic, embodying name like The Slain. I don't want to be one of them.

The other victims. The other kids that Cutter killed. I know them. Whether they are a truth or an imagined nightmare is irrelevant. They aren't here to help—I know this for a certainty. It's like they've come to verify their own existence. To be certain that their own end wasn't a dream.

They aren't comforting—not like Corey. They aren't benevolent, not like the new stranger who sits on the edge of the bed, face stony and determined as a gargoyle. He watches them, mouth grim...face...frightened. Even imaginary ghosts are afraid of these creatures.

They are haunts. Taunts. Demons. Showing me what I will be. In hours, in days. Whenever I give up living. I will join their ranks.

It's their presence above anything else that keeps me alive.

I see the frozen expressions of agony, wide eyes full of blood, gaping mouths screaming dark emptiness, taloned fingers clawing at the air, and I force myself to keep breathing.

My eyes trace the lines in their skin, sisters to the ones I wear. Beatific, horrific scarifications that never healed, that glisten fresh with blood and pus. Bare skin and festering wound. And I focus on the blood pounding in my ears, making my head ache, and I welcome the pain because it means I'm still there.

I count them. One, two, three, four...and each time I wait for my heartbeat to match them. Once around the room, back the other way. Thump, thumping out a ballad of, "I am not dead. I won't be dead. You can't make me. I refuse."

When Cutter's feet take the stairs, I say "Live. Live. Live." Twenty-one times. That's how many steps.

When Cutter whistles his song, I sing my own song...

...I won't die, your sisters can't take the life from me.

I won't die, your scissors and blades can't take the soul from me.

And although you try, your efforts won't strip my breath away...

I say, "No." Out loud, in my head, with every stroke of the knife when Cutter comes into my torture chamber.

The taunts stand around him, watching with the detached interest of the dead. No emotion save the horror-struck expressions that fleeting breath left them with. They huddle close, like hungry monsters starved and expecting a meal. Beckoning me to join them. And I tell them, "No."

His sisters cut into me, taste me, bathe in my blood like the vile teeth of Lady Bathory, and I tell them, "No."

He grins, leering bright teeth, his hands harsh, his breath stinking and labored as if this were an arousal and I say to him, "No."

Darkness folds in around my eyes, The Reaper stands ready in the corner with his scythe, the bright light explodes from the center beckoning me to the great beyond, and I tell them both, "No."

I will not die. I can not die. I refuse to die. I will not join these ghosts of frozen torture. I will not let The Sisters drain me dry. I will not give Cutter my soul. I will not let The Reaper have me. I won't succumb to the darkness. I will not walk into the white light.

Keep breathing lungs.

Keep resisting.

Keep pumping heart.

Keep living.

Keep flowing blood.

Keep running away, away, away...away.

Someone help me. Please help me.