Her first person pov:
One hand clutching the smooth white surface of the lip, my other gripped around the fabric of my shirt, I heave the contents of my stomach into the 'Madame's' public toilet at my University.
This is the third time this week, the thirteenth time this month, and I lost track of the year's count somewhere around seventy-six. But I'm used to it, so I never complain, complaining would lead to conversations about my health, conversations about my health would lead to doctors appointments, doctors appointments would lead to questions and tests regarding "what's wrong with me" and a search for solutions, but I know that there isn't a thing in this world they could do to fix me.
Help is beyond me now. Help is simply a word that has no real meaning. Help is irrelevant.
Truth be told, there isn't anything particularly the matter with me: no allergic reaction, food poisoning, virus, or disease. I am simply sick. That's just the way I've always been, or been for so long that I can't remember what I was like before. But regardless of the past, this is where I am now.
Sucking in a quivering breath, I taste the foul bile left in my mouth and fight the urge to hurl again; not that there would be anything left to throw up anyway. Whatever pitiful breakfast I had this morning is now emptied from my stomach, and I almost never eat lunch. I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and blow out, reaching blindly for the button on top to flush the mess away.
I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.
I repeat the words over and over in my head. The two words that have now become instinct for me to reply with not just in conversation, but also to myself in events such as this.
Really, I am.
There is truly nothing wrong with me, other than an unusually weak immune system. This is just a thing that happens to me in my life, a thing I get over, and move on from. No cause for alarm, no need to bring it up, no different than a runny nose in the cold. This is just me.
Reaching behind me to where my bag lays, after being mindlessly dropped onto the floor as usual, I draw out my water bottle from the side pocket, and swish the cool liquid around in my mouth for a minute before spitting it out into the toilet.
Today is just like any other, just a routine that I follow, and that I live with.
Using whatever strength I have to push myself up and get to my feet, I pant and lean heavily against the sidewall. I didn't get good sleep at all last night: too many thoughts, too many nightmares.
-
I'm in the middle of the ocean, stranded at sea, barely keeping my head above water. The waves attack me in monstrous formation, and the salt stings my eyes that threaten to close permanently.
But then, I hear it.
A call: at first like a whisper, or a brush against my cheek, but then stronger and louder. Like the symphony of wind chimes, and the clink of light metal against another, it sounds, clear and beautiful.
I find myself drawn to it, and as it starts to fade away, I turn toward the direction of the blessed music to find a great barricade of piercing back rocks jutting up out of the water like the rise of blades preparing for battle.
The music behind those rocks, still rings out, and I feel the deep call within my soul to swim for the rocks that would claw and slash at my hands should I try to climb them.
Just over the ridge of the fence of black daggers, a storm begins to rise, and the crack of nearing thunder drowns out the sweet sound of the chimes. My heart pounds shakily in fear, and another wave slams down atop of me.
When I resurface, coughing and gasping for air, the rocks are far closer than before, looming around me in a great wall, and I know I'm only seconds away from crashing into them and splintering apart forever. And yet the chimes continue to sing their serene song.
Lightning strikes overhead and I feel the water churning with new pulsing energy.
I can't escape this. I cannot fight the tide. The wall is too strong, and is impenetrable to the frail weak thing that I am.
The inevitable wave comes crashing over me, and I feel myself being thrown at the great cliff of deathly rocks. But the last thought I have is a question as to what is on the other side. And the last thing I hear, that rises above the roar of the waves, the beat of thunder, and the crack of lightning, are the sweet chimes, that wait for me with their soft call.
-
Each dream is different. None return, none stay, and yet I remember each one. The only thing that connects them is the call of chimes, which follow me even as I am awake.
"Mar? Are you in there?" I hear his voice call from outside the bathroom, and my eyes fly open.
"Yeah, I'm coming!" I call out rather weakly, but he doesn't seem to notice and I blow out a silent breath.
I can do this. I can do this.
Slinging my bag over one shoulder, I push off of the wall and run a hand through my dark hair that's slightly damp with sweat, but hopefully no one will notice.
Just as I'm about to unlock the door and step out, I see it.
Twining around my ring finger on my right hand, barbed and sharp, thorny and black, the single delicate rosebud that emits from the strangling vines seeming to cry out, it's delicate petals reaching up for the sun and away from the thorns below.
Piercing, suffocating, caging: my soulmate tattoo.
I shudder against the sudden chill that wracks through me, and neglect the forbidden thoughts that needle my mind. And with a clenched jaw, I slide my silver ring that loops around the top of my finger down where it belongs, shutting out the image of my tattoo.
Blinking rapidly, I unlock the door and step out into the hall where he waits for me. We're probably going to be late to class, but that's the least of my troubles today.
This tattoo on my finger, this strangling hoop. My circle of thorns.
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YOU ARE READING
Symphony Of Lies (Inked Hearts 2)
Fanfiction"I would describe it like a room: a dark room that sits alone and still in the cold. There is no color but a black that consumes all else. The room itself is empty, a shell, waiting for her touch. The only thing that makes the room what it is other...
