Two Sides

Into the Dark

Rey is adrift in a sea of thick, rich darkness. It twines around her exhausted body and bolsters her up. She can't really feel her body very well, just the ebb and flow of the gentle waves as she rises and falls with them, in perfect sync. She's warm, after so long being cold. 

Her mind is muddy and slow, unable to remember any details. Where was she again? She knows her name is Rey, but that's the extent of what she can recall right now. There's no pressing need to be anywhere. At least none that come to mind. 

Something bumps her in the darkness, and she turns her head in a languid motion. A woman floats there, her eyes wide and unblinking. Rey studies her carefully. She reminds her of someone . . . where has she seen those eyes? The woman is dead, she's sure of it. Dead, dead, dead. But she doesn't care. She might be dead. She doesn't care about that, either. 

Then it occurs to her where she's seen those eyes. They are her eyes. Dark brown, almond shaped, wide set. But in the head of an older woman, hair streaked through with gray, crow's feet tugging the skin by her eyes. She blinks, but the woman does not disappear. A creeping feeling of unease moves through her chest, pressing and straining to get free. 

"Mother?" she whispers, and the darkness begins to dissolve like sand through loose fingers, sucking her down, jolting her body back into uncomfortable awareness. She's smothering. 

She's falling, being tugged under with the sand, buried, lost in the drifts. So much sand! When the movement stops, she works to open her eyes. They are gritty and dry, and every blink burns and scrapes. She rolls her eyes around to try to clear them. 

When she can see, she squints into a hazy light. All but her head is buried in the sand, and it presses relentlessly on her body, making it hard to breath. She can't breathe! She struggles to worm her way out of the trap, but her body refuses to free itself. In the sand is darkness, and the darkness is lovely.

The smell. It's dry as dead, brittle bones, and the heat is sweltering. It's familiar though, and she concentrates hard. It smells like her old AT-AT on Jakku - the same heat-scorched air, the same tang of hot metal, decaying in the sun. Above her, in her line of sight, is her wall of marks. Day after disappointing day etched for eternity, each one an indictment on her foolish hope. 

Tears won't come. There are no tears on Jakku. Her body has long since learned not to waste water, even if her spirit needs to spill itself in this tangible way. Her eyes sting, and pucker, and the precious cleansing drops refuse to come. It's been so long since she had water. She's starving, true, and she feels the ache in her belly, a constant gnawing she can't sate. But the thirst is brutal. She'll trade for water. She'll find something valuable and make the exchange. The hunger won't kill her as fast. 

She stands in the bazaar, a precious piece of hardware she found cradled in her arms. At the counter, the nasty man glares down at her. She places the metal in front of him, and he examines it. He always takes longer than needed, to make it seem like he's thinking it through. He's not. He's just a worthless bastard trying to get ahead on the labors of others. 

"I'll give you water," he says, his fetid breath reaching her even from high above where he looms over her. "But it'll cost you more than this worthless piece of junk." 

There's nothing else in her bag. She stares at her find, disappointed, and then moves to put her hand over it. The man's bigger one covers hers, pinning it in place. 

"I've made this offer before, girl," he says, and her skin prickles in disgust. "You don't need to be hungry or thirsty ever again. I have use of a pretty girl like you. It's how your kind do it, how they survive. You're not any better than the rest of them." 

Revulsed, she jerks her hand free and staggers back, leaving her scavenged find on his counter. She turns and flees.

"One day, girlie!" he calls behind her. "You can't hold out forever!" 

She makes it outside of the tent and dry heaves into the sand. There's nothing in her belly, and hasn't been for days, but it hurts like hell all the same. Her throat burns as the bile coats it, slowly eating it away. She closes her eyes and collapses on the ground, emotionally exhausted but enraged all the same. 

She wakes on the open floor of a dark ship, dead enemies clad in bright red strewn all around her. Their blood leaks onto the floor, pooling and congealing on the cold surface. It smells of expelled body fluids. A man stands near her, dressed all in black. He's obviously been fighting, just like she has.

"You're nothing," he says. 

His voice is so gentle. But those words! They enrage her. She's not nothing. She's close, a nobody from nowhere, but she's not nothing. He has such a look of pity she wants to lash out at him. How dare he? 

"I'm sorry," he says. His face shifts from its passive expression into one of panic. "Please, come out. You can't keep all of that inside or it will kill you. Slowly and painfully. Come out." There is pure demand in that voice. She bristles. 

She rubs her face, hard, and presses her palms into her eyes. When she takes them off, she's sitting in the dark. There isn't a shred of light anywhere to be seen. She places her hand against her nose and cannot see her fingers. It's quiet. So very quite, and peaceful. She lays down on the soft floor, closes her eyes, and drifts back into sleep, wondering what she'll relive next.