MORTAL ⇴ DYSTOPIAN

Ch. 7

[ CHAPTER 7: SISTER ]

"Mortal?"

Venna's voice was delicate.
It ventured out, softly peeking from a space somewhere behind me, somewhere that wasn't the wall I couldn't tear my gaze away from.
It looks could kill, the wall would be burning.
But I couldn't look away. It was a physical impossibility for me; as if, if I looked away, I would have a mental meltdown. Quite frankly, I was convinced of it.

Because all I could see when I closed my eyes was that boy's face.
His features softening as he turned to me, a gentle look of surprise replacing his burning hatred that portrayed itself on his beautiful face only a mere few seconds before. So real, so alive, so fresh and new and innocent.
And then, he was gone. Just like that; in that split second of his awareness, of his sweet bliss.
It only took a single second for it to be gone. For him to be gone, snatched, ripped away from the world without as much as a final breath.

Even whence I would blink, I could see him.
And it hurt.
I did not think that witnessing such a tragedy would have affected me in such a strong way. Hell, I didn't even know the kid, let alone have a personal relationship with him.
But his eyes.
Those ice blue eyes, so full of life, so full of the future and the possibilities to come. So many paths he could have taken; so many things he would have done, could have done.
But he was gone. He was gone forever, and he was never coming back.

And every single time that realization flitted so innocently across my mind, it felt like my chest was being ripped open once more.
Why do I care so much?
It was so fast. It was so fast.
Just like that. A snap of fingers. A blink of an eye, lashes a soft fringe against your cheek. A beat of your heart, one beat more, one beat more into the passing seconds of your life that you had and he didn't.
Because he was gone.
And he could have been me.

I pressed my palms harshly against my face, the skin of my hands pushing against the skin of my eyelids. I could feel my fingernails digging into the delicate material of my face; I wouldn't be surprised if the warm feeling of blood would have beaded on the tips of my fingers.
I opened myself to the physical pain that bloomed from my skin. I welcomed it; anything, anything to make the clawing storm somewhere within me cease it's howling.
Why do I care?

It could have been me. It could have so easily been me standing there, calling out to a crowd in need of a leader. I could have felt my chest swell in pride as their faces turned to me, as I spoke words so in desperate need to be heard. I could have felt like the king of a dynasty, before all I could feel was the silence of nothing.
It could have been me. It could have so easily been me.
I felt the familiar feeling of pained panic bloom somewhere beneath my ribcage, threatening to spread its wild wings and consume me.