We All End Up Here

Sol knew Maia’s hands were cold before even touching them. It was the way she was lying there, no trace of dreams behind the soft purple of her eyelids. Raindrops dripped onto her pallid skin like tears across a cheek. Slow and deliberate, unable to be silenced. Her green veins were not subtle; they were stark, protruding and beating like a drum in the dead of night. Her hands were across her chest, clasped as if in prayer, begging whatever deities lay in the dark to bury her deep in the blackened earth; where all that was left was dirt, blood and bone. But perhaps the most obvious signs were the deep bruises on her neck and throat. They bloomed indigo and violet with flecks of green peppering the edges. Moonlight caught the nape of her neck, as if to highlight the sharpest, darkest marks. It was eggplant in colour and shape, fading into a phlegmy green. It snaked its way up to her throat, leading to her mouth, which hung open, as if to catch her mid-scream. Her jaw was completely unhinged, falling slightly to the right; it must have broken, or perhaps her cries were so hard the grief tore it apart. And yet, Sol touched her hands anyway, even if she knew. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t. There would be a small voice whispering in the pinks of her brain that she would be warm and waiting. Slowly bleeding into the wet ground until the rain itself was red. Her skeletal fingers would twitch, her palms sweat, and Sol would feel a grip so tight she would never let go. They would choke back tears, and they would joke about needing a shot of guaro to bring some life into her veins. She would lock her jaw in place and wipe away the bruises and cuts. The blood in her mouth would fade into a vibrant red, staining her lips. She would get up from the sloshy earth and look to the moon, no doubt commenting on how full and bright she was tonight. Unblinking and resolute, the moon would stare back and smile, guiding them both to a home they lost long ago. But even though Sol knew the touch would be as cold as ice, the shock felt colder, a plunge into glacial waters so cold it burned her hands. Her fingertips felt numb with the freezing heat, as if her own palms were plunged into the rings of Hell and plucked at its molten core. Abruptly, she jolted back and let go, watching Maia’s hand fall to the ground with a limp thud. Her own hands buzzed with a strange sting. The sound of the fall against the earth echoed in her ears; she imagined how hard she must have fallen and what struck the earth first. Shivering, she pushed down the morbid thoughts; perhaps they were the only things stopping her from collapsing to the earth in soul-shattering cries; she knew if she started, she could not stop. How did she miss the signs? Should she have come sooner? They were fresh; they had to have been. Sol knew what a fresh beating looked like; she knew what it felt like. The aching, lingering hurt of bone on bone; fist against cheek. It was only when an orange blur jumped up from the overgrown bushes, rife with wildflowers and white baneberries, doll’s eyes, as Maia had referred to them, that stopped her thoughts, which in itself was strange, as they tended to be a berry of summer, but Sol abandoned the thought and instead opted to scream. The flash of orange turned out to be a limping fox, dripping blood in its wake, running across the wet grounds with a hectic splash. Then it hit her; the dull ache in her chest made its way to her throat, and her screams became cries of agony, ripping at her vocal cords. She gripped her stomach, as if to stop the grief from spilling out, lying beside Maia and rocking continuously as she did after one of her night terrors. Exactly, this must be another episode, Sol reasoned, feeling the beginnings of denial kiss her lips. Lying on the moist, cold earth, she looked up to the balcony; the banister was broken, and the window smashed. The balcony was just above the garden, and the garden looked abandoned. The shrubbery savagely reaching for the skies, begging for the rain to fall harder than ever, the sky seemed to listen. The raindrops plummeted around them; Sol shivered and ached in the wet cold. Maia’s green thumb was unrelenting, so the overgrown wildflowers, weeds and strange berries surprised Sol. It should have been the first signs of danger. When she heard Maia had come back to Luzmala, Sol was equally confused. They had fallen out of contact, a petty disagreement that worsened with silence, and when she heard from her, it was perfect timing. The balance of her own life had toppled into oblivion. Her engagement was a failure, her art career a joke. Sol was so desperate for an escape, returning didn’t sound so bad. But they should have never come back. Maia should have never been alone in these darkened hallways and rotted wood. The house remained fixed in place, despite being a shell of dust and mortar, atop the marshy hills of Luzmala, towering above the smaller house made of stone. Their years here felt like scars long faded but ever present and ugly. Rough to the touch and ready to bleed with a single pick. Last night, Sol had found her letter, dated a week ago, neglected under a pile of overdue bills and rejection letters. She recognised the handwriting immediately and left as soon as she could. Yet she was too late. That evening, before her journey into the feared Known, she had a night terror that left her throat scratchy and the pins and needles fresh in her fingertips. The woman was clad in white, her eyes gone; they had been gouged out, leaving only fleshy sockets, a dark crimson abyss. The woman had started to scream, a scream so loud it unhinged her jaw and fell deep into the ground, pulling up the earth. The dark crimson blood turned black and mixed with the roots, coiling itself like a snake around Sol’s wrists and ankles, dragging her back home. Now here, her home had a broken neck and bruises across her body. Her home lay dead in the earth with nothing but soil and weeds and doll’s eyes for company. Until, suddenly, her home sat up. The muck and vegetation still stuck on her arms as she tried to shake it off,  her jaw rattling with her, seemingly annoyed; she stopped, leaving it cling to her. Soon she clicked her jaw in place and snapped her neck straight, the bones locked like a loaded gun. Sol shuffled backwards, eyes glued to the grotesque movie that played before her, with no ability to pause but to sit, watch and consume. Her hands slipped and slid on the drenched ground as she tried to pull away. Before she could get up, the hands, cold and skeletal, clasped around her ankle. The face that looked so much like Maia yet not at all laughed. It was warm and abrupt, the sort you do after not having laughed in a long while. She looked up, and her eyes were the same. Familiar. The smile never wavered, nor did the grip of her hands,

“Sol, you’re just in time,” she laughed once more, and it felt like a hymn. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Her words poured out, but there was a melancholic note on the last part that rubbed Sol the wrong way. She wanted to reply, but the words caught in her throat. I would never leave you. She felt her body fight its instinct to lean forward and hold Maia tight, cry and beg for forgiveness. It was on the tip of her tongue, but how could she say any of this when it would be a lie? She did leave. She left and never looked back. Instead, perhaps she would realise that this is just another night terror. She would wake any minute now, and the hard rain falling on her face would be a leak in her roof or the rain from an open window.

“It’s going to be okay,” Maia’s eyes softened, making the bruises glow, “you’re going to help me.”

Her grip tightened on Sol’s leg, dragging her closer and closer to the soaked dirt. The bruises bloomed a deep orchid on her ankle. Sol’s veins bulged like vines crawling up her leg and to her throat as her heart beat loudly in her chest.

“Sol, you’re just in time.”

The words reverberated and echoed up into the pouring clouds as her nails dug deep into Sol’s leg, ripping flesh and dragging her deep down into the dirt.