Her conscious mind, once brimming with activity, had been absent for weeks upon weeks, now; the few thoughts that managed to linger for a few seconds instead of just slipping through as if intangible were never quite sure of themselves, always somewhere between reality and unreality, similar to the state between sleep and wakefulness.
It was a blessing in disguise, however; if she had been self-aware, if she knew anything of her situation, it was likely she wouldnât be able to cope. The few moments she had spent alive with the weight of her failureâ metaphorically upon her shoulders and literally between her shoulderbladesâ had been enough trauma to last a lifetime. This didnât stop her subconscious from attempting to piece together its broken memories, to bring reality back to Peko, to force her wake, but it was all futile. Sensible conclusions never surfaced and even if they had, she could never become aware. The memories played over and over like a broken record with no end in sight; of course, the most pervasive were the ones Peko would have tried desperately to forget.
Thousands of times now she had felt the numbing, relentless pain of a sword in her back. It was invasive, never failing to send shivers up her spine even if she was, in reality, lying safe in a hospital bed. When those drew away from her attention, others came to light in their wake. Undeniably, the worst, and thus the most frequent one, was that of the proof of Pekoâs mistake. The young master below her, scarlet blood erupting from his right eye; the image was burned onto her eyelids, never ceasing to plunge her deeper into her silent despair. Sheâd die a thousand times for him, but experiencing a death just once after doing such an act was more than she could bear.
But something shifted in that moment. The memories faded to black, real black, not the total absence of color as she had always experienced. The sight in front of her was real, tangible despite the lack of detail, and slowly she realizedâ the hospital sheets stiff and unwrinkled below her handsâ the faint scent of isopropanolâ the feeling of weight, of existing in a body rather than a being made of stardust and memories in a world unknownâ it was real, too real, it wasnât a dream or an illusionâ
As she became aware of her surroundings, the beating of her heart didnât change; she was calm. Simply existing was exhausting in and of itself after so long spent on the sidelines, running on autopilot. But she must moveâ she must get up, she had something to do, something or someone needed her and it was urgent, and she didnât know what it was but she had to stand up, find himâ
It was him. The boy whose face plagued her mind, whose live she had saved in exchange for her own, the one she had been tied to from the beginning. Remembering seemed to lift a barrier in her mind, and she calmed again. To think logically was important now, and would prove invaluable to the task she had assigned herself.
She tried to move a finger tentatively, and found she could, although with startling difficulty considering the simplicity of the task. Completely disregarding any sensible course of action, she drew together all the willpower she had and heaved herself up into a sitting position, though not without a cry of pain from every muscle inside her.
Her fingers rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and every inch was her body was either aching, tingling, or painful; opening them to look around the room did little at first. Her farsightedness, in addition to the inactivity of her eyes for months, prevented her from discerning much around her aside from blurry blobs and shadows. Instead, she scanned the room with her other senses frantically in search of something, anything to explain to her what was going on and where the young master was and if he was safe and how she was aliveâŚ
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