Never let me go

15: The wooden door

"From childhood's hour I have not been. As others were, I have not seen. As others saw, I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone; and all I loved, I loved alone." – Edgar Allan Poe

Year 850 – The wooden door:

A speck of dust swirled through the air, diving and twisting like a hunting swallow. It glowed like a tiny ember in the light trickling through where the curtains were not completely drawn shut. It fell silently, writhing as if it struggled against its unavoidable fate. As the dust trailed from the path of light and into the shadow lurking in the rest of the room, Iris blinked her dark blue eyes slowly. Her retinas felt dry, and she imagined a dry, papery scraping sound as her lids closed. How long had it been since she had blinked the last time; minutes, or hours? Her mouth felt dry, longing for a taste of water. But there was no water.

Her head ached. The more she thought about things, the more her brain would voice its displeasure by throbbing, sending blinding flashes of searing pain through her skull. If she just lay still, not thinking too much, the pain would fade into a dull murmur. Lying still was easy, because there was simply no reason for her to move. Where would she go? Not thinking was more difficult, sometimes almost impossible. Sleep always came as a blessing, like a friend opening their warm embrace to her. Not even sleep lasted forever though. She would become aware of her aching body again, and just a short moment after that the memories would come flooding back. They had been hazy at first, but after a little while all the missing pieces started to come together.

She wished she had more of that drug, whatever it had been inside the syringe they had plunged into her neck before they pushed her shoulder back into its socket. It had made her feel dull, as if her insides were made of wet cotton. But medicine was valuable, and she was just a girl who still had all her limbs attached to her body. A hair tickled the side of her face, and as she inhaled it tickled her nostril until she felt like she would either have to sneeze, or push it away. But her body felt so heavy, and her muscles felt so weak that none of those actions seemed possible.

She did not know much time had passed since Levi had left her here. Time was difficult to keep track of as well as what had happened and when. The scabs on Levi's face where someone had clawed him had begun to flake before he departed. He'd told her she had done that to him, and he was probably right. Perhaps he would never return. Perhaps that would be for the better.

Her free arm finally dragged itself up towards her face, brushing the hair away just as her body twitched and managed a dry sneeze. The sudden rush of movement after such a long time of complete apathy made her nerve endings whir vaguely. The creeping feeling was uncomfortable, so she dragged herself up to sit. Her brain screamed as if someone had given it a violent shake inside the confines of her skull. Blinking again she turned her eyes down towards her own chest. Her clothes were filthy, and the sheets beneath her were brown with dirt, and straws of dry grass hid in between the crinkles in the fabric. Next to her lay a rumpled pillow that she had been hugging so tightly it seemed to have shrunk into a lumpy, sad little thing. She would lie for hours with her nose pressed into the fabric of it, breathing deeply.

The floor was cold underneath her feet, but the bitter chill felt strangely befitting. She stood slowly, and her dry bones creaked and grumbled. Her heart flickered nervously inside her chest, like a small malnourished bird. She brushed her fingers across her dry, cracked lips, not really knowing why she did it. A couple of unsteady steps brought her out the door and into the hallway outside.

Nothing but the wind howling around the corners and through the vents in the castle walls seemed to disturb the silence. The muffled sounds of her naked feet against the wooden floor produced a lonely echo, bouncing between the walls. Or perhaps the echo was only inside her own head. Her breaths felt heavy, and the air had a damp, moldy taste to it. The floorboards creaked as her feet stopped.

She could not remember intending to walk to this door.

Closed and silent it loomed before her; old dry wood, streaked with age, chipped and dented. Her good hand went out, and she let her fingertips gently brush over its slightly rough surface. It almost felt warm to the touch.

"Hey," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, as dry as her lips were. "I'm sorry, I should have come sooner." She sank to her knees, hearing a low hissing sound as her palm dragged over the door's surface. The shoulder of the arm she still had in a sling throbbed dully. As she let the thoughts come flooding in, her brain screamed in protest. Her head pounded.

"Are you hungry? ... I can't remember the last time I ate," she murmured. "I don't want to bother you if you're busy; I swear I'll go soon. I just wanted to talk, because I'm lonely." She smiled, but then her shoulders sagged as the smile faded from her lips.

"I promise I won't cry again if you let me in... I know I shouldn't be acting like this." She pressed her mouth together for a moment. "You're not here."

She reached up, grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it down. The door swung open.

Dust stirred up at the sudden draft of fresh air. She sat for a moment, looking at a pair of dirty socks that someone had carelessly kicked off and left on the floor. Her eyes wandered from the floor, to the bed, to the chair and finally back to her own hands; one of them poking out of her sling, the other resting in her lap. The room was silent. She struggled back up on one knee, rose but then hesitated at the threshold.

"I'm coming in." She stepped inside. "See, I didn't knock..." her voice trailed off.

No one had made the bed before leaving, and someone had left one of the dresser drawers slightly ajar. She thought that whoever had lived here had expected to come back to put their socks away, and sleep in their bed another night. But that person had not returned; and never would. Her right hand closed, feeling her face twist and contort. She closed her eyes, and her hand opened again. The room smelled of sweat, dirty socks, old stones and loneliness. The memories roused by all these scents caused her head to throb painfully.

Her eyes opened, and with sudden urgency she stepped to the dresser, knelt before it and pried it open using her one good arm. Her hand closed on a piece of fabric, pulling it out. It unfolded itself as she held it in front of her; crinkled and dirty it was, colored a muddy green. She used to think that color was too bland for the owner of this piece of clothing. Now she put the shirt on the floor before using her good arm to wiggle her aching arm out of its sling. She gritted her teeth as she did it, but within a moment the sling fell to the floor. The shirt was much too big for her, and hung loosely on her body. She looked down, seeing only her fingertips poking out from its sleeves, and raised her hands to her face; breathing in deeply. The shirt smelled of sweat as well, but most of all it smelled of home.

"You need to fold your clothing, or everything will be wrinkly," she scolded and smiled, glassy eyed. "You're not a little kid anymore, you know. Adults fold their clothing." She stood up, and the shirt came down over her hips.

As she lay herself down on the bed she could see a puff of dust take flight, swarming in the air like a flock of birds. She carefully wrapped her arms around herself, feeling her lips tremble with the effort of keeping the smile on her face. There she lay, covered in his things, his smells and his memory. She half closed her eyes, and through the haze of her eyelashes she thought she could see him standing there, looking at her. His face was obscured from her view, but she imagined him flashing that wry little grin only he could manage.

"Reiner," she murmured, feeling the last ghost of a smile fall from her face. "Can we stay here together?"

But he was already gone.

She had promised not to cry again, but she did.