Page 38 of Ethereally Tainted

At her words, I let the tears fall freely when my heart thumps loudly inside my ribcage, the blood rushing in my ears until all I can hear is thatthump, thump, thumping.I cross the words with my thumb, letting them sink in before pulling the piece of paper against my heartbeat. I wasn’t sure my heart was capable of feeling anything until this moment when I’m overwhelmed with thankfulness.

Fuck how I miss her.

I don’t know how long I sit there, hugging that tiny piece of paper with her beautiful handwriting as a reminder that someone cared about me and that I haven’t always been alone in a world full of monsters and evil creatures.

The only marker of time that has passed since I have been sitting here is the changing of the sky from a bright hue to one that is gradually enveloped in darkness. As the sun dips below the horizon, the air fills with crickets singing, and a soft, orange light blankets the sky. The sky is alive with the rumbling sound of thunder as streaks of orange lightning light up the charcoal clouds surrounding it.

Almost like ants marching across my skin, the tingling sensation moves up my legs and numbs me. I quickly take out my backpack and tuck the piece of paper and dress inside.

Another day. I will look at this backpack again another day.

Tears run down my face, staining my shirt darker with each drop, and my eyes sting, yet I am filled with contentment that washes over me. A sense of gentle calm that I never knew I needed has graced me with its presence.

As I listlessly emerge from my room, my mind and body overwhelmed with an intense feeling of ennui, I spot Ray, the guard, at a distance in the hallway. His muscled upper body is swathed in a black polo shirt, the fabric pulled taut over his body, and a silver badge with ‘security’ inscribed on it hangs from his chest. I can’t help but feel scared by his presence; his vibe clarifies that he’s not someone you’d want to cross, and the handcuffs dangling from his holster add to that feeling.

Moving slowly and deliberately, I make my way over to him. His demeanor is much more laid-back and relaxed than the other guards, but I still have apprehensions when it comes to him.

“Is it okay if I walk around a bit? Need to clear my mind.”

He seems to think about it, taking in my appearance to ensure I’m fine before giving me permission with a nod and a smile. I respond with a faint yet sincere smile of gratitude before wandering down the hallway, uncertain where my feet will take me. This institute has a clinical vibe, with plain white walls and a strong odor of hand sanitizer, not to mention the lack of any paintings or decorations to make it more inviting.

As I walk through the building, I notice several rooms with numbers on top of them, and then I arrive at a corridor that has a sign with “Wing 1” on it hanging from the ceiling. Nestled at the end of wing one is a more secluded corner that’s shielded by a wall. Soft to the touch and tucked away in the farthest corner, the black fabric L-shaped sofa creates a warm and inviting atmosphere. It’s probably the most expensive furniture I’ve seen at Dankworth Institute so far.

A girl sits on the sofa, a slight breeze ruffling her hair from the ceiling fan, her gaze distant and unfocused, as if her body is here, but her mind is elsewhere. I recall her as the girl I saw screaming in the cafeteria that first day I arrived here–her hazel-colored eyes wild with panic as she was forced to the floor by one of the guards. She doesn’t acknowledge me when I make myself known by sitting down at the other end of the couch. All she does is stare straight ahead. The wall enclosing the sofa gives us a sense of privacy, allowing us to enjoy peace and quiet without disturbance. Just as it was that day, her hair is uncombed and disheveled, her hoodie draped loosely over her tiny frame, and she looks like her clothes are swallowing her up. We sit there, the air still and heavy, not a word spoken between us. She hasn’t blinked once, her eyes vacant.

“Hi,” I say softly, trying to gain her attention.

At first, I doubt I will succeed, but then she turns and looks at me. Her eyes are brighter now, and a glimmer of life reflects off them, masking the darkness of the deep, dark circles underneath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from not speaking for a while.

A smile spreads across my face, and my tension dissipates when her lips curl into a matching grin. The moment I saw her sitting there, I felt as though I saw myself reflected in her, and I felt the need to reach out and talk to her, even though I know I shouldn’t make any friends. Something about her presence reminds me of my younger self, those times I used to sit by the window in my old room and stare out at the landscape, wondering why no one believed my story. Why would they believe a seven-year-old girl over a thirty-year-old mother? Of course, they trusted the adult more, and now I realize how fucked up that was.

“I’m Naya.”

Her head tilts as if she listens closely to what I’m saying before replying. “I’m Rebecca.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

She smiles shyly before her eyes drift away again. We sit together in silence, and the calmness is unspokenly comforting despite our brief acquaintance. Silence is like a warm hug, free of expectations or demands.

“Are you crying?” she asks, observing me with eyes that blink too often.

At that point, I suddenly realize I am crying and hastily brushing away the tears, not wanting her to see my vulnerability. I’m in a tumult of feelings that I’m struggling to make sense of, even more after opening the backpack and transferring back to a time before Dankworth.

“Don’t hide your tears. Mom always told me that hiding your tears is bad because it’s good to show your emotions.”

Her voice has a soothing, seemingly naïve quality, as if she has preserved the spirit of youth within her mature body. “It’s okay to cry. Are you okay?”

I nod as I fight the tears that threaten to fall again, but for once, I want to let it all go and not lie. “I’m not okay.”

She bites her lip while studying me. “It’s okay not to be okay.”

The memories of my childhood are so overwhelming that I can’t help but shed tears, and the way she speaks is so innocent and pure that it breaks my heart. It’s as if the evil around her hasn’t touched her, and she still has some innocence left. Before I know it, I feel her skin against mine as she grabs my hand, squeezing it gently.

“My mom died, and that’s why I ended up here. Because I tried to end my life.”

Her confession hit me like a ton of bricks, and my throat tightens as I try to think of the right words of comfort and support for her. There is something about her that makes me want to try, that makes my blackened soul soften in her presence.

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