Page 158 of Devil's Doom

I grew used to it. It was there for long weeks, and even though it felt alien at first, I accepted it with time as an integral part of me. It just was. A bit heavy. A bit uncomfortable from time to time. But mine.

Except, it’s not.

And so, I begin the torturous process of undoing what I did then, in a rush of panic, terrified he would take it away.

At first, my bones won’t move. It takes a few awakenings to get the hang of speaking to them in a way they understand. My bones are not mine anymore, just like my body isn’t. Without a heart and breath to keep me whole, I am but a collection of parts, and those parts refuse my authority.

So I coax. I beg. Until finally, upon one awakening, the collarbones move to the sides. Just a little. The pain makes me black out, and when I wake up next, it’s to agony worse than ever before.

Time passes. It could be minutes or days, I don’t know, but finally, I manage to slide the collarbones far apart. Then the sternum. The bones dealt with, I rest, the pain grounding me now. I have a purpose. There is a thing I must do, and even though I forgot why, or what the thing means, I hang on to what I know.

Whatever it is, there, by my heart, must come out.

I hit a hurdle then. The thing must come out, and the bones have slid away, but how do I push it through the flesh? It’s not my flesh anymore, not mine to command. It’s merely connected to me, feeding me pain.

So I don’t know. I speak to my skin, urging it to split, but it talks back.

We already have so many wounds, it says. Flowers and insects took root in the bloody gashes in our back. Worms live there, feeding on our flesh, and plants bury their roots deep, and we cannot, should not, open any further.

Even though our ears are already homes to entire colonies of springtails. We are one with nature.

So I coax. I beg. I promise impossible things.

We’ll be rescued if we do it, I promise. We’ll be saved. We’ll be healed. We will be whole again.

But who will rescue us?

Who?

I don’t know.

Then why suffer more? Isn’t this enough? Let us sleep.

And for a while, that’s that.

Until I wake with a horrible, tearing pain that’s not in my body. It’s in my soul, a longing so deep, I cannot quash it. It pours out like magic, and I fancy I see a glow through my closed, bound eyelids. A red glow. I yearn, I crave, and there’s a name just out of reach, a name I would call if I had any air.

The body wakes with twinges of protest. The heart gives a thud, awakening my pain, and I cry for the first time, real tears squeezing out to wet the roots wrapped tightly around the face.

None of it is mine anymore, yet I feel the pain all the same.

The longer I cry, the clearer I get. Until finally I remember the thing I miss, the thing I want the most, that I’ll never get to see again.

Woland.

Please, I beg the heaving body. Please. Just do this one thing for me. Just let it come out.

The skin of the chest splits open with mercy, or maybe pity. Inside the body, things come into motion after a long period of being immobile. Muscles contract. Blood flows, thick and painful with no air. The bones grind and heave, and finally, it is out. Finally, it goes.

And something presses into the fresh wound, a predatory plant feeding on blood. It sinks its roots into the flesh, and they are like hooks. The skin tries to close. It cannot. The heart stutters, terrified.

Because that plant will wrap around it and squash it like a ripe strawberry, and there is nothing we can do. I feel for the heart. It deserves better.

Can I make it better?

I reach deep inside me, deeper than I dared before. There is no magic there. The plants suck it out, greedy little beasts. But that’s fine. Since I cannot die, I can take risks. I can go deeper.

With the last of my will, I tether my awareness to my very soul, a faint, wretched thing that’s still here, even though it should soar with the swallows.

---