Page 88 of In Death's Hands
I move around, the feeling incredibly strange as I will my body to walk and sense myself move as I want to but cannot feel my legs nor hear my steps. I peek closer at one messy-looking swirl of colours and black.They’re threads.
The light pulses once more. In the distance, I feel something akin to shock, but it goes numb too quickly for me to truly read the emotion.
I turn around on myself, exploring themanyentangled threads.
What are you?I ask.
Better question. We are all and nothing. We are you and them and us. We simply are.
The Order, I think.
That’s what some call us.
And others?
We have many names, some closer to the truth than others. But does a name define something, or is the name defined by what it is?
How do we know what it is without a name?
Ah, but how do you know what the name means in the first place?
I pause. This is too much. And yet I have never felt this much at home. Like I belong.
Yes. Ask your next question.
Can I get my threads back?
Why would you want threads?
Because…My thoughts die, and they stay just that, thoughts.
You can only speak truth here, the voice reminds me.
I was about to say I want threads to belong, but I already belong, don’t I? I belong here. And as stupid as that is, I feel like I belong with Nathan and Turan and Atys. Their friendship these past weeks has meant the world to me. And although I do not forget my previous life, although I mourn its loss a little bit, I do not want things to go back to the way they were. So whatdoI want?
I want to find the Fates. I want to find out why I’ve had so many near-death experiences. I want to help my friends get their memories back.
That’s a lot of wants. Anything else?
No, I think, but the word stays silent. Wait.Isthere anything else I want? With Nathan’s presence at my side feeling a world away, I have nothing but time to look inward. Why is it so hard a question to answer? What I want is the same as always. I want to not have to fight for my life every single day. I want a family; I want to belong somewhere. To someone. I want to be able to claim people as my own too. I look back at the time I almost had a family to call mine. How I ruined it before it could ever feel real. How I wished for so long that Death hadn’t saved me. Despite the wall between my body and my mind, I feel my heart thunder. I guess I’m getting close. Is this something to do with Death?
I think back on the hooded figure I once met. At first glance, he was terrifying. Long dark cloak with a hood hiding his features so well it looked like the universe itself was peering through. The scythe massive and deadly. But he was moving across the field, going from soul to soul, never once using the weapon. All I saw was his heavy steps, his slanted shoulders and downcast hood. When he finally reached me, I wasn’t scared anymore. He looked how I felt, alone and scared.
The rest happened so fast my younger self hadn’t been able to understand. He looked sad, so I hugged him. That’s what I had always wanted from a family, so I gave it to him. I remember how I couldn’t even wrap my arms fully around him, how he started to shake. And then hevowedI’d be okay. When all I was trying to do was make him feel better. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital, a nurse telling me that I was lucky when all I felt was guilt and a sadness so deep I thought it would swallow me whole. This grief never truly left me. I can still feel it in my heart, rubbing against whatever I’m feeling at any given time. It’s that guilt that kept me isolated from other kids, I know. But how could it not eat at me when I’m the reason all those people died? If I hadn’t been talking so much, hadn’t wanted so much attention from the first people who had chosen me, wantedme, they wouldn’t have collided with an oncoming car and started a deadly chain of events. I wouldn’t have been left all alone again.
The light around me pulses, and decades’ worth of pain erupts from my throat. This sound goes past my lips. As if the truth of it is too strong to be contained by my thoughts and the scream is all there is to voice it.
The light pulses stronger and stronger, as if encouraging me. I stumble to my knees, still not feeling them, and sob. I can barely breathe around the pain exploding from my heart.
What is it you want, dear one?
“I don’t know,” I try to scream, but I don’t make a sound. I keep sobbing, the pain pouring out of my heart. All those people, dead, all because of me. And Death savedme. How could he?
Why?
Why what?
Why did he save me? Why am I alive?
