DEVILS ? C. G. 〖 #wattys2018 〗

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P A R T   T H R E E :
D E S I C C A T E

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SOTC: start//end — EDEN
• try to forget it but it won't stop killing you •

❧ four weeks later

April swung around and stuck her knife through the forehead of the walker. Skin and flesh split ferociously, then came a burst of hot black blood.

The skull split like a rotten fruit, peeling halves malignant in its disease. She wrenched the blade out, body slumping away, blood still slicked over the surface.

April breathed. The air was cool, was open as the boughs of skeletal trees keening around her.

She remembered why she had come out here. To the nightscape of the forest.

She had needed to move. Her thoughts wouldn't; she would just sit instead, lyrically reciting the same truths over again.

To move was to unclog the cycle, figure-eight this shit and step out.

It was a cold night.

She couldn't stop shivering.

To heal is hard, that much is simple. To drag your head from the river, gather your hair, search for each of your body parts bobbing in the current. Mildew festering in pores. Water swelling in the circular knobs of human knuckles.

Burn victims often get flesh grafted from their thighs to replace that of their wounds. They will be a patchwork, a quilt stitched together by hours in a doctor's office, hours half-conscious in a chair.

This quilt is now their skin; the point of collision has been removed and erased. Skin will soon grow to fill in the spaces. But incisions remain, and thighs and arms and back and legs hurt instead of just the points that were supposed to hurt and the burn victim never grows used to these box-sized scars on the inside of their calves; they cannot complain.

Because they are alive. In pain, hurting, teeth chewing at the dead skin under their fingernails. So much dead skin, and yet this body remains alive. A paradox. A negatory equation that never existed to start with.

The vacancy of the room was deafening. The walls yawned open as long sheets of paper. Much of her furniture from the old room had been brought over: her bed, chest of drawers, coffee machine. An empty mug sat on top of a hardcover Fahrenheit 451. But scarce else had escaped the meticulous security measures.

She stared at the small crack that webbed out from under the ceiling's lip. A fault in plaster and a sloppy paint job. She focuses on the musty odor emanating from the floorboards.

April stared. She couldn't stop staring. Her mind remained in a tidal pool, awaiting the push of ocean waves to bring her to the next location.

She ached to press another trigger. She formed her hand into a pistol, aimed it straight above her head like a cowboy—

The shot never came.

You need to remember your fucking place.

You're not holding it right.
Use the palm of your hand, not your fingers. It allows you more control.

Come with me.
I want you to see what you've done.

Maybe it'll do you good to—

—forget this, get some fresh air.

Get your ass up off the floor.
Get your ass out there.
I want to see you fight.

Your place is here, next to me.
You're my fuckin daughter after all!

You have a reputation to uphold.
You have a title to uphold.
You have a life to uphold.

Prove it to me.
You're not sick. You're not changed. You're still my daughter.

You need to remember your place here—
The people under this roof are your bitches! You control this shit! You keep your ass above theirs like the leader you are.

You're better than this shit.
You're better than this shit.

Prove it to me.

It's all the same shit. All the same as before, the words and motions and eye contact.

The food tasted like half-raw egg whites and metal. She shoved it in her mouth and swallowed. She had needed to get out of her room, but she felt just as congested wherever she went, just as static.

She ran her hand along the cool concrete of the stairwell. It was dim in here, the only colors present being her food and the faded blue florals on her paper plate.

She had begun to wear makeup again—the kind that hooded her eyes with black chimney smoke and heat lightning. She wore the same wine-red lipstick (the stick was worn down to a flat nub). Her acne still found ways to spider past her hairline and between her eyes, and forgot to wear blush more often than not.

She spent so many hours in front of her vanity. It wasn't that she couldn't recognize herself; she could. She hated her appearance like one might hate a celebrity.

Footsteps began to patter up the stairwell like cold, hard rain. A head appeared from the floor below her, shaggy blond hair sticking up at all ends. When he turned, she saw the stretched hemisphere of his face, the way the burnt skin seemed to be alive in its hue and formation.

Dwight turned, caught her eye, then nodded as a form of greeting. There was something in his expression—disgust?—before it flickered back to indifference.

He passed her on the stairwell, then continued upwards. The footsteps ceased with the heavy slamming of a door, then April was left in silence. A deep-skinned freeze beyond reason.

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NEXT CHAPTER:
Friday, October 20, 2017

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Word Count: 1121
Created 10-14-17