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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 — 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝
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The bare branches spiked into the sky—no sign of life to be found anywhere. It was so dark she was barely able to see where she was going. There were only small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the wind. Nathalie knew what laid in the dark forest—all she knew what mattered was that it wasn't going to be a peaceful journey.
The heretic's feet followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. She let her hands touch their skin as she passed, feeling their gentle spirits as they tried to soothe her own. The grin that rested on her features only grew when her ears pricked up a sound and she tuned into it—the sound of thirteen hearts beating steadily.
Nathalie wandered around, her power cascading out of control, luring her further and further from the self she once knew until she was so deep that she no longer recognized the forest around her, paths twisted and turned out of sight, so dense were the trunks, she followed one path wildly after another, making new connections in her new distorted reality, after a while she had trodden the new paths so much that they formed an inescapable maze, a prison without walls. And she closed her eyes.
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She opened her eyes to complete, utter blackness. Standing up, and as the blood that covered a few inches of the pitch-black ground beneath her feet dripped from her clothes and shoes, Nathalie realized she was cold to the bone.
"There you are, again." A familiar voice purred from behind and the heretic turned to be met by the young woman standing a couple of yards away from her—her carbon copy. The Copy studied her manicured nails for any flaws—a bored expression growing on her face. "You're the frontal lobe, babe. Personality, behaviors, and so on."
"Save me the Neurology 101." Nathalie seethed as her subconscious self arched a perfectly shaped brow. "You say this every single time I see your annoying ass."
"But I'm the real fun. And you really need to stop calling me your Copy or all these fancy titles you use. You know my name." The heretic's carbon copy mocked a whine, amusement dancing in her brown eyes. Nathalie knew that on a typical day, the color was rich like chocolate and soft as fur, but when she was crossed it quickly became the rocks that ships shattered against in a storm. And she also knew that the woman before her can as well read her thoughts.
Luckily, the Subconscious Nathalie seemed in a rather good mood as she continued, frowning at whatever flaw she found in her manicure, "I'm everything you don't want to admit to yourself, everything you're afraid to become, all the little bits and pieces of herself you picked up and stored so you can't reach them—"
