Scar in the Sky

Epilogue

Watching the life drip out the corner of her eyes didn't faze me. Just like holding the steel knife that was longer than my forearm, light in weight, and silent with rejection didn't faze me.

Neither did the blood that now trickled, the reverberating pitter patter of it hitting the solid ground, the notes of the deathly melody spreading on the floor.

Not the agape horror that's forever mummified on her wild features, or the way her jaw stretched out as if paused in the middle of an agonizing scream. Not the agony that visibly streamed in her veins, bulging them in places, but slowly deflated as the trickles grew further apart in intervals. Her blood mixed with her snot and tears, a disgusting trail of fluids disgracing the grounds that once welcomed her. Her eyes, what were the most calm and understanding, soothing as a warm wave after being sunk in the bitter cold, were no longer a welcoming brown. I remember how they glistened in the sun, radiant from within, like a precious gift meant to be treasured.

I vaguely recalled being lost in awe, mesmerized by the sheer purity that streamed from within her. The delicate adoration that moved me, that once inspired a subtle hope that could have cured even the most devout pessimist.

It was too easy to pollute her image. Those soft doe eyes, how they went from a brown so gentle and sweet, to the color of dirt.

She was repulsive.

The revulsion swept into my mouth and left a vile taste. I felt it roll around in a sticky pit of my stomach, a rot so intense it made me gag.  The tremors slowly passed through my body, slight and then forceful with no intervals of peace. She attacked my senses, elicited a visceral response that would plague all that had to witness and partake in this sacrilege.

I waited, silently daring the dead girl to do something. But I knew what rejection felt like and couldn't hold on to false hope.

"Someone has to dispose of the body eventually." someone quipped.

Yet, no one inched forward, tempted to even give her a second of their time to dump her in the trash where she rightfully belonged.

The indignant atmosphere cursed all of us. It didn't help that the sight before us was disgraceful and struck us to our very core. Bound by leather, arms and legs tied by four stone columns, she was suspended above our most sacred treasure. The blood of this swine, the volume of her reproach to us dismissed the arduous labor and devotion that went into carving the scriptures that was suppose to lead us to our solace. Her final testament of betrayal was so prevalent, her failed ascension the most spiteful thing to do to us. 

"She was unworthy." another spat.

To that, there was a collective groan of agreement.

I looked at the knife, static and lifeless in my grasp, the only thing neutral to the women in front of us. Not matter how much I willed it to do something, it just sat coolly in my hand. But I knew that wouldn't last.

I felt the soft hum in my finger tips, like gentle static from touching a screen, spread into my hand. Fearlessly, I waited for that familiar tingle to intensify, to vibrate with more ferocity as its rejection screamed. It flared with a heat incomparable to any fire, singed my insides blindingly, and lashed out violently as if someone was whipping my hand repeatedly. I alone had to endure the pinch and sear of the blades vengeance, feel the slow pull of my skin being scorched off, the bones snapping and twisting. It was like a deep rooted invasion, that disregarded the sanctity of individualism. It was like an omnipotent force that berated you, knives of rejection gutting you, and the wrath of embarrassment engraving itself onto your soul.

The blade ripped itself from my grasp and went back to the stone alter.

Soft wisps swirled from my stoic hands, the charred scent so familiar and yet still so repulsive. I knew from experience, even without glancing down, another welt of putrid purple would brand me. The slight twitch of my fingers never truly accustomed to the vibrating pain that would last for days. Even after being physically reprimanded by the Blade, I was still unfazed.

"You really know how to pick em."

I turned, the quiet rage from failure suddenly possessing me.

"And you could do better?" I seethed.

He smirked, his eyes twinkled with pride in the fact that he thinks he could do better than me. Me, the one who suffered silently the wrath of the Other whenever we wronged them with our choices. His arrogance burned me worse than the knife's punishment, knowing fully well his arrogance paved the way for a doubt in my abilities.

He rolled the sleeves of his button up to his elbows and stretched the rubber gloves over his hands. He beckoned a group of people over, dressed in black overalls and similar black gloves. The cleaning crew got right to work, dumping her body unceremoniously on the tarp with a curse and a smack.

"You'll just have to wait and see." Was all he offered as he got down on his knees and began to scrub clean the filth that was stuck in the crevasses of our scripture.  

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So this is a work in progress. I have every intention of illustrating a few scenes that I've had in my head since forever. It's a complicated mix, because its gonna have aspects of romance yet a lot of supernatural twists that come much later. For now, its gonna be super vague because I'm still debating how to proceed with the story. I have like the bare bones of the plot but all the extra meat is still a WIP! But I look forward to seeing where this could go!