Her feelings towards her mother were so complex, it would take ten more voyages of this length to fully sort out the past twenty-five years of manipulation.
Emory didnāt know when it had finally dawned on her ā maybe she always knew. Maybe it wasnāt until bullets ricocheted around her, tearing through flesh, boneā¦ leaving holes where the sinews of life once was, as she watched in horror the massacre unfold before her. Maybe it was the day she had been introduced to Adam and saw the widest smile on her motherās face as she pranced away, having hand picked her daughterās prince āperfectly.ā Maybe it was the day she came home with a ring and her mother had finally declared her pride in her daughter ā despite spending years seeking the same affirmations by following her motherās every order, that had been the one to win her approval - a fucking boy. Maybe it was every look of disapproval, disappointment, displeasure, dis-a-anything whenever Emory wanted something that didnāt fit neatly into Evangeline Marloweās picture-perfect expectations for her only child.Ā
Yeah, maybe she always knew.
By the fifth week of her voyage, most of her time was spent on the upper deck, enjoying the tribulations of sea. Emory liked the tight red burn that had sprung up along the higher ridges of her face; she liked the rip of chapped lips from salt and water constantly misting around them. She saw the pain as white noise ā merely something in the background, unnoticed in the face of oblivion, the price to pay for solitude. The merchants and sailors didnāt even look twice at her anymore ā Emory was often left wondering if it was a result of the infection, or simply disinterest. Her sickness certainly hadnāt gone away; in fact, it had kept her bed ridden for a whole week after a certain someone began appearing in Emoryās dreams (or were they nightmares?) As soon as she descends to the depths of the hull for food or rest, an uneasy tingling spreads throughout, often causing nausea that sends her right back to the deck. The bite of the night wind kept her at ease, but at the expense of rest she so desperately needed.
The wind also alleviated something else: her anger. It snipped away at the heat threatening to rise and make her lose control ā of what, she didnāt quite know yet. Years wasted, in a momentā¦ a stupid split-second decision because she was unhappy but ignoring it, shoving it deeper and deeper to please the people around her. Emory could feel the rage under her skin, white hot and twisting like a serpent. The apocalypse occurs and she allowed herself to become more stuck than she ever had been before. The world, D-Day, Colony 11, her mother, her father, Adam, the NWRF, the Radicals, even herself ā they had all let her down in the end. Had they not even glanced at the body they were given to bury, to even see if it was really her? Did her death give her the value that her mother never seemed to see?
Itās too dark to see the storm approaching on the horizon, but Emory can feel it and smell it easily enough. The temperature drops even more so as the wind picks up, heavier now as if to push Emory away, back towards the safety of below deck. She sighs and rises to leave - as she stands, the tingling sensation lessens, and Emory can only hope she can make it back to her quarters before the seasickness and migraines set in.
For someone who had spent her entire life trying to make her mother happy, Emory was beginning to realize how little it all mattered now ā too little, too late, it seemed.Ā
Location: Dr. BestyĀ āBeeā Dobsonās Office
Date: August 16th
Time: 2:30 pm
Inspiration: Mr. Brightside by Run River North
Arlo takes a deep breath ā in through the nose, out through the mouth ā and schools his expression into a lazy, relaxed grin. He knocks on the door in front of him before burying his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep them from fidgeting.
Betsy doesnāt keep him waiting for long. The door opens and heās hit with the familiar (if slightly unsettling) smell of chocolate and evergreen ā an odd combination for the middle of August. But, Beeās always been a little odd. A little off center, for a medical professional. Probably why sheās been able to deal with the Foxes (and all their many, many problems) for this long without turning tail and running for the hills.
āArlo!ā She exclaims warmly, gesturing for him to step inside. āCāmon in.ā
Knowing heās alright with physical contact, she gives his shoulder a light pat as he passes by andā¦ Itās nice. The whole thing is nice: as inviting as a shrinkās office can be, and yet.
He still hates coming here.
Every year, itās the same. Every year, he has to psych himself up for this. To sit here, for an hour, carefully maintaining every inch of armor heās crafted, perfected, over the last decade.
Itās so much harder, with her. Sheās not like his teammates. Not like Brayden, or Jazz, or Jen. Not like Wymack or even Abby. Sheās sharper. She knows. Every button to press, every weakness to exploit. Every year, she chips away at him as he sits and sips hot chocolate and talks about the weather. About practice and the constant construction going on on campus. About the rising price of gas and which team heās most excited to play this year.
Itās a game of chicken. Which one of them can outlast the other as the clock on the wall ticks down.
Itās exhausting.
Like playing chess against an opponent who can read his mind. Predict every move he makes before he makes it.
Impossible.
Arlo plops down on the most comfortable, worn-in leather chair in the room, adjacent to Beeās desk. Crossing his legs underneath him, he settles back, accepting the piping hot cup she presses into his palms. Despite knowing the hot chocolate is a gimmick, a way to loosen him up, to make him feel at easeā¦. He still drinks it. If heās gottaā come here, heās at least going to get some sugar out of it.
Bee slides into the chair behind her desk and sets her own cup to the side. Leaning forward, she props her elbows on the table and rests her head in her hands, giving him a fond smile.
āSo. Senior year! Thatās exciting, huh?ā
āYeah, actually.ā Arlo takes a small sip of hot chocolate, fighting the urge to twist the mug around in his hands. To squirm. āI honestly canāt believe itās already August. Time has flown by.ā He smiles softly and shrugs. āI donāt think itās even hit me yet. That Iām a senior. It probably wonāt until the first game. Or at least until classes officially start, you know?ā
Bee nods, her gaze steady and unwavering.
āTime has flown by, lately. I agree. I feel like I havenāt seen you in quite a while.ā
āAw Bee. Did you miss me?ā He throws her a mischievous grin and winks, for good measure.
āYes,ā she replies, and genuinely seems to mean it, āof course I did. Iāll be honest, I wasā¦ surprised that I didnāt see you at all over the summer.ā
The atmosphere in the room changes instantly. Arlo feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach and his chest tightens uncomfortably. He knows what she means. And she knows that he knows.
Coming out of the gate swinging this year, then.
āWell, you know,ā he hedges sheepishly. āI was pretty busy. Someone has to keep Brayden entertained. Otherwise heāll start chain smoking and tearing up the carpet and dragging trash all over the house. Like one of those small, yappy dogs when you leave them alone for too long.ā From anyone else, the joke might sound harsh, or critical. But Arloās tone is fond, and the smile creeping across his face is the most genuine one heās had all day.
At the mention of Brayden, an imperceptible expression flashes across Beeās face and, for a brief moment before her features even out again, Arlo thinks she might say something. But she stays quiet, and the silence stretches out awkwardly between them. Arlo takes another sip of cocoa and swallows hard, chancing a look at the clock.
God, itās only been ten minutes.
āArlo,ā Bee breaks the uneasy quiet thatās descended on the room. āYour father died last semester. You donāt want to talk about that at all?ā
Of course he does. Jesus Christ, itās all he wants to do. Ever since he got that call, since his initial freak out, heās been pushing it away. Shutting it out. All of it. The pain, the grief, the confusion, the isolation. The all-encompassing, ever-present hurt thatās ripped a savage hole right through the middle of him.
All he wants is to just admit it.
To tell someone, anyone, that heās not okay.
To say it out loud:
Iām not fine.
Iām not fine.
Iām not fine.
But that would require admitting it to himself.
That would require ripping open that hole ā that wound ā again, after heās tried all summer to haphazardly tie it down. Sew it up. Cut it out.
Admitting it would require going through it, all over again. Every bit of it.
And heās not strong enough. Never has been. Itās why he hides, constantly. Why he protects himself with goofy grins and casual touches and the perpetual need for attention. For affection. Because heās not strong enough to wear his heart on his sleeve ā to flaunt his problems, his fears, his anxieties, in plain sight.
Heās not strong enough ask for help.
Itās easier to cower.
To run away.
To put on a mask.
He canāt face it. Canāt face himself.
He wonāt.
āBee, Iām fine.ā He laughs, waving his free hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture. āSeriously. Itās all good, okay. Made my peace with it.ā
āIām sorry, but Iām having a hard time believing that, Arlo.ā
āAnd I have a hard time believing that we didnāt fake the Moon Landing.ā Arlo gives her a helpless sort of shrug, and carefully sets his rapidly cooling cocoa on the desk in front of him. āBut, what can ya do?ā
āArlo.ā
āBee.ā
She sighs.
āI know that I canāt make you talk about it. Not if youāre not ready. But, I do hope you know thatā¦ What youāre doing, it will catch up to you. One day, itās going to be too much to carry. Too much weight to hold up on your own, and you will crumble beneath it. But you donāt have to. It doesnāt have to be that way. You have people who care about you. People who want to listen. To help. You need to learn to lean on that: on your support system. Your teammates. Your coach. Your friends.ā
She doesnāt mention herself, and Arlo is almost grateful. That she knows. He could never, ever come clean here. In a setting like this, surrounded by white walls and textbooks and leather sofas that a thousand other people have sat on before, spilling their problems like marbles on a wood floor, watching with satisfaction as they all bounce and roll and slide away for someone else to deal with.
āThanks, Bee.ā And itās the most that he has. The most he can give her. Itās just barely enough. She relents, and the rest of the hour passes almost easily. They trade small talk about his new teammates, about the upcoming season and Abbyās new haircut.
As she walks him to the door, she rests a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, practiced and careful.
āMy doorās always open. You know that.ā
Itās not a question, so he doesnāt respond. Just shakes his head and laughs, throwing up a hand as he strides out of her office and back into the overly air-conditioned main hallway.
He makes it halfway back to the Court before heās choking, scrambling to find a bathroom. Luckily, heās near the Applied Sciences building ā and he already knows the layout. He bursts into the menās restroom on the third floor after a frantic rush up the stairs, and barely gets himself into a stall before heās shaking apart. He doubles over on the ground next to the toilet, face buried in his knees as he takes in great, heaving breaths that do nothing to soothe his panic. His chest, tight before, now feels like itās clamped between an iron vice, slowly squeezing all the air from his lungs. His sides are starting to ache from the strain, and he wraps an arm around his middle, as if he can somehow hold himself together through sheer force of will. His free hand snakes up to tangle itself in his hair and he squeezes his eyes shut, so hard black spots dance behind his eyelids.
He focuses on the whine of the florescent lights overhead.
The sound of the stall door next to his, squeaking back-and-forth on uneven hinges.
He focuses, and he waits.
Eventually, his body begins to unfurl on its own. Breathing gets easier in increments. In fits and starts, like an old farm truck, backfiring until the engine finally rumbles reluctantly to life.
He pushes himself up off the floor. Flushes the toilet, though he didnāt use it, and letās himself out of the stall with slow, clumsy hands.
The mirrors above the sink are harsh. Unyielding. Unwilling to participate in his lie, they highlight the paleness of his skin. His shaking limbs. His dry, red rimmed eyes.
No tears. Heās not sure why.
Maybe he just doesnāt have it in him.
Mechanically, he washes his hands. Scrubs at his skin with a paper towel until heās bright pink and rosy. He practices a smile in front of the mirror, and though itās likely to fool no one, right nowĀ ā
My darling angel,
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā look at the blood staining your hands
One pill. Nothing. Two pills. A little buzzed. Three pills. Smashed.
It had been a long night of drinking and drugs. Since being a vampire, Victoria hadnāt felt herself. She had been practically sober after that first week of being this. She knew the risks of this but she just wanted to feel like herself again. She wanted to be back in touch with her human side. So after taking the pills and downing them with a bottle of champagne after each one, she finally felt more like herself. Fun. High. A goddamn hot mess.
Victoria found herself at a rock club just out of town. The effects were immediate. Everyoneās glow was a clear red. Energetic energy sparking around her. Competitive aura as boys tried to out do each other to get girls. Sexual and passionate electricity buzzed through her veins and otherās bodies. No heart beats. It was the most human Victoria had felt in so long. Dancing around the crowds of people. She laughed. She loved. She lived. Everything was so perfect. But nothing ever stays perfect, does it?
Then the high began to crash. The heartbeats returns. The smell of blood on smashed glass filled her senses. The racing hearts of dancers. Her body jolted to a stop. It was suffocating. The aroma intoxicating but smothering her every second she was stuck in this room but her feet wouldnāt move. Every part of her brain was telling her to get out of there as fast as possible. Donāt succumb to this. Be smart. But nothing happened. She just stayed and let the fumes swallow her whole until the sensation of being human once more was gone. This is what she was. A blood sucking monster. But this was her choice. She couldnāt be down about this. She chose this lifestyle to save her own life.Ā
Without any warning, her fangs began to build under the surface and becoming more prominent by the second. Every inch of her body tensed and the second someone crashed in to her while they were drunkenly dancing. Thatās when everything exploded. Her hands quickly grabbed them and sunk her teeth in to them. Drinking and drinking. The second someone would notice, sheād drop the body and move to them as their next victim. Quickly, the young vampire made her way through the crowd - dropping bodies left, right and center. A massacre. Blood soon covered the dance floor and bodies flew out of the club as quickly as they could. Finally, there were no more heartbeats alive in the building. Just bodies laid on the floor and Victoria lay among them.Ā
Blood soaked her hair, clothes and skin. Sheād done this. Everything had gone red but she knew what she had done. The worst part? She enjoyed it. She enjoyed the taste of fresh blood. She enjoyed the chaos that swirled around her. At no point did she want to enjoy this but she couldnāt help that she did. Hearing sirenās getting closer, she didnāt wait around for this. Instead, she used her speed to get out of their as fast as possible and in to the darkness of the night.
Three weeks of seasickness, survivorās guilt malnutrition, lack of sleep and ignorance towards the soft prickling under her skin sent Emory into a true ailing state ā once just pale and delicate looking to the naked eye, Emory had begun to look sunken and diseased instead. Her brain felt stuffed with cotton balls, her entire face clogged, and her muscles aching as strength was constantly sapped away from her. It was a stark contrast to the Emory she knew a year ago ā a blossoming flower turned corpse. Her obvious suffering had earned her the polite compassion of a few passengers aboard the ship, even some the merchants, but every offer to help was shoved away with a slight shake of her head, and a quick departure from the conversation. She didnāt need peopleās help ā the last thing these good people needed was to get sucked into her void. Her darkness would merely poison them just like it was poisoning her. It took all of Emoryās waning efforts to drag herself towards her cot midday, unable to carry out the rest of her daily routine. She couldnāt even look in the mirror as she passed it, knowing all too well that the girl looking back at her looked more like the ghost in her dreams than it ever had before. Crawling under coarse sheets, exhaustion overcame her in seconds, but that didnāt stop her from dreaming.
Emoryā¦.
She knew that voice.
Emoryā¦.
It sent a shiver down her spine.
Emmmmoryyyyyā¦ā¦
Somehow worse than a ghost, worse than a nightmare, the blackness faded and in her line of vision was the most ethereal woman she had ever seen. In life, she had been pasty and soft, quiet to a fault. But here, in Emoryās dreams, she was positively glowing, rose blonde curls cascading down her shoulders in a way they never had in real life.
It was Lilith. And she was beautiful.
Emoryā¦..
She wasnāt moving her lips ā just smiling, the same tenderness that had always surrounding her absolutely exuding from every molecule of her being, and Emory wondered if the universe was kind enough to allow her to be an angel. It was like having sunlight poured over her head, or being wrapped in the most royal of silks.
No, Emoryā¦ Iām here for you.
It felt like a bucket of ice water was poured over her head, and Emory was suddenly wracked with the sudden need to cry, to sob, to scream at the top of her lungs like she had the first night on board the ship, the first time she had been able to collapse in on herself.
No, no, that wonāt doā¦ Iām here for you.
What did that mean?! Was it time ā was Emoryās body going to crumple and decay, and allow for her to finally find peace? Demons were just fallen angels, and this was her demon, telling her it was time to go to where she belonged.
Emoryā¦. Iām here for you.
Emory found herself shouting, screaming at Lilith, but no words came out of her mouth. A warm prickling began underneath her skin, heating her to her core, and she felt a blush begin to rise from her toes to her cheeks, alighting a fire beneath her skin she hadnāt felt in too long.
Emory began shrieking in her head, the only place Lilith could apparently hear her, the only place it was safe to be as evil and wretched as Emory was, as not to taint the palatable divinity surrounding them. Why did I do this?! Who did I think I was? How could I be so careless, so stupid? How could you just die? You were so close! I watched you almost escape and insteadā¦ you did this to me! You gave me this out and I took it! You were the smartest person I knew, and you were supposed to keep us all safe, and you didnāt! You were our leader! I trusted you! I cared about you! You mattered!
Lilith only smiled again, smaller this time, her eyes wincing in response, but there was no response, no soft cooing of Emoryās name like a babyās lullaby. That only angered Emory more. I could have been something! I had potential, I had promise, I had you! You were my mentor, you were supposed to teach me everything you knew! You were the only thing that was worth it outside it all ā Adam, and my parents, and the Colony, it all didnāt matter ā I had you, and your brain, and your guidance, and now?! Look what Iāve done! Look what Iāve done! L-look! Look at whatā¦ what Iāve doneā¦
She didnāt remember being able to cry in dreams before, but here she was, wracked with sobs as the screams in her head quieted. The tingling beneath her skin spread deeper, like a hug, and a sniffling Emory looked at Lilith with a sadness that ached all the way from her chest. She didnāt deserve to be her. It sullied everything Lilith was, everything she strived to be, every value she held high and every standard she had kept Emory to. She was a liar ā worse, she thought she could get away with it, without any baggage. I wanted this, butā¦ not like this. I didnāt want to be this.
Emory, Iām here for you.
ĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀĀAn unearthly roar snapped Emory awake, and she was covered in a cold sweat, her sheets clinging to her torso in a vice grip so unlike the silky smoothness she had dreamt. Gasping for air, she stripped the fabric and rushed to the sink, splashing water on her face to try and wash away the remnants of the latest dream to shake her to her core. Gripping the edges of the metal tub, her gasping turned into tight, broken sobs, and for the first time in a long time, Emory allowed herself to grieve for who was truly lost that day at the lab ā Lilith. She wrapped her arms around herself and sunk to the ground, burying her face in the crook of her elbow to muffle the noise of her cries. She had never felt so empty.
& if you and I can keep our love alive ā weāll fight.
As the days bleed into the second week, reality began to turn in on itself as Emory hid from wandering eyes, including her own. She had watched herself become sickly in appearance, whiter than ever before and tired eyes framed by deep purple-blue bruises as sleep continued to evade her most nights. When the nightmares surmounted to be too much, she would find solace on the deck of the ship ā although discouraged among the others, Emory herself found that the lateness of her habit meant that there werenāt many people around to catch her. Even so, the few times she had slipped up and been exposed in the moonlight, she seemed to be unnoticeable to the crew members, with no more than a glance her way before Emory slinked back into the shadows.
The sound of rolling waves hitting the hull was the closest thing to white noise Emory was able to find on the ship, and for a few moments, she was able to close her eyes and rest her weary mind as the sea cradled her sadness and despair and pushed it under its depths for a few moments. It was here, on the edge of reality, that Emory was able to feel something again, something other than constant anxiety, as the ocean cleansed her of her secret darkness while simultaneously giving her a home inside of it. It was here that she could take out her only talesman of home, her engagement ring, and think of Adam in peace.
She didnāt even get to say goodbye.
I know itās warmer where you are & itās safer by your side, but right now I can't be what you want - just give it time.
Running away was a mistake. Every day that leeched into night, Emory became surer of it. All the problems of her old life, all the things she had stayed up all night aching about as Adam slept beside her ā the infection, the NWRF, her job, her impending marriage, her parents ā they paled in comparison to this pain. This pain that seemed to engulf her from the inside out, the raw ache of a wound festering beneath her skin. When she had initially devised this plan, placating herself in the hour it took for her to be on the run, it was under the pretense she could come back and make everything better again, apologize for her short sightedness, and be welcomed back into her family with open arms and a scolding from the Colony officials. But here, in the middle of an oceanic desert, the truth was blindingly clear ā there was no going back. There was no Emory Marlowe anymore ā not temporarily, not for a year or two, but forever. Emory Marlowe was dead on that laboratory floor, surrounded by her colleagues and every dream she ever had for herself. She was buried, she was mourned, and she was dead.
It should be easy, right? Lilith was so many things Emory wanted to be ā so why couldnāt she just phase into her place? Why did it feel like the corpse of Lilith was clinging to Emoryās ankles, so that Emory was stuck dragging around a dead girlās woes?
The engagement ring was warm in her hand.
Adam was kind, and smart, and tender in a way that Emory longed for as she laid awake in her cot at night. They werenāt anything special ā their love couldnāt topple mountains, or part the sea, but it was beautiful in its simplicity in a world riddled with so much confusion and fear. Her father had loved him, her mother had tolerated him, and Emoryās life was quaint in a way that most people her age couldnāt identify with. Emory Marlowe was raised to have fire, to seek adventure and weather storms and be the ray of sunshine her mother always pushed her to be ā to live to the fullest because this life wouldnāt be a pleasant one. Adam didnāt have that fire, but he let Emory have it, and he kindled it with benevolent understanding of her need to be greater. He had undergone terrible things ā losing his own mother to a Radical attack, losing his father to the drink ā and yet he never had become a terrible person, never let him stop moving forward. Emory had admired his strength of heart, ability to be compassionate in the face of adversityā¦ she loved him because he was so many things that she wasnāt, or didnāt want to be, but he was showing her how to be more tolerant and patient with the world around her and the prejudices she held against it.
She didnāt like to think about what losing her mustāve done to him.
Well itās cold when weāre apart ā and I hate to feel this die but you canāt give me what I want. Just give it time.
Emory liked to daydream that she could go back, and everything would be the same, but that was a daydream and the truth of the matter was that Adam probably kept on trudging, went through the motions, and in a year or two would move on with another fiery blonde girl, one he would see parts of Emory in the shadows of her movements or the twinkle in her eye. She could live with that. She wanted him to be happy again, to love again, to move onā¦ He deserved that, after what she did to him.
Who does something like this to the people they love?
A small leather cord holding a tiny metal circle that represented all the things Emory had run from ā that was all she had left of who she was. The more she looked at it, the more she ached inside, but having it under her clothes and touching her skin was a cold reminder of the things she sacrificed to be here. The deaths of her friends, of her world, the freedom from Colony 11, the new adventure she had unanimously decided to pursue, while leaving behind those who were still breathing and still cared. It would always be there, to remind her to be better than who she was, who she chose to be, and rise above the despair she had created for herself.
But for now we stay so far ātil our lonely limbs connect; I canāt keep you in these arms, so Iāll keep you in my mind.
The sky began to lighten with morning ā not yet there as the sun dredged itself up from the deep of the horizon, and the stars began to filter out, one by one. Now, it was time for sleep. Here, Lilith couldnāt haunt her, and Emoryās mind was tired enough to shut down for three, four hours. With numb, shaky limbs, she pushed herself to her feet, and began the slow trudge back to her cot. Tonight, she had escaped the nightmare, and tomorrow (today?) was a new day. Emory just had toā¦ give it time.
