heart. Like the red glitter I had left in Carol’s hair, the tiny shards of what is left of my heart are now cutting me even deeper with my shame.
I never wanted any of it. I never wanted to have to save them and if I could do it all over again, I would never return to that house to find them. I would have never started this journey, this trial by death and fire.
I fall to the ground and the greens darken around me. The blades of grass become like razors as I fall, slicing my legs and feet. The ground is so covered in blood that the red from it splashes onto my hands and arms. It sprinkles onto my face, burning me with molten warmth when I fall. I lift my hands to stare at them. I watch the blood climb, covering me in it like a living thing. The blood climbs up my body inch by inch coating me in red death.
“You’re wrong, Helena. It is your fault and their blood will forever be on your hands.” Marxx stands over me with the same look of disgust, but now it is mixed with a hatred that burns hotter than the blood on my body.
I hold my hands up to him, pleading for his forgiveness with shoulder-shaking sobs. The blood drips from my arms, keeping vigil for each life I have taken. The children now stand around me. Their white clothing is dotted with the blood they have splashed through to find me. They are not the monsters that I killed. They never were. They were just children. They were never really dead and now they stand around me with judgment on their faces. As I watch, wounds form on them that bleed like scarlet letters of my shame. I watch each stab I have placed on them form, adding more blood to the ground at their feet as it runs down their perfect legs and arms. It destroys the innocence of their glowing white clothes just as I destroyed the innocence of their glowing youths.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper it, too weak with shame and sorrow to add any volume to my voice.
“Where is my mommy?” One asks me.
“I want my daddy!” One little girl cries out.
“When can we go home?” A little boy asks.
They fill the air with their innocent questions as each begins to cry and plead for help. Marxx turns to leave me, giving me his back to face my sins alone.
“Marxx!” I scream, begging for him to stay with me. Begging him to, but I know he won’t. “Marxx…” I fill my lungs with his name over and over, but he never turns around. He never looks back at me as the children bleed around me with their white clothes becoming as ruined as I made them months ago.
“Marxx!” I scream again and my eyes are blinded by a bright overhead light. I blink against the glare, pulling the room into focus through the tears that give it haze.
“What?” His gruff voice comes from beside me and I am almost too afraid to turn my head. He is sitting on the examining table looking at me with confusion and amusement. His arm is suspended in a sling and butterfly bandages cover a raw, red line on his forehead. I sit up, looking at my hands as if they are not my own. I flip them from palm-to-top several times as my brain catches up to what has happened. My winter coat has been removed along with the vest I have claimed as my own. The shirt I wore over my tank top is missing. With just the tank top and jeans, and my now trademark scuffed boots, the room is chilling.
My shoulder is an uneven ring of shading from the bruising that has started. My arm bears testimony to Chapel’s earlier suggestion for stitches. My stomach stings and lifting the tank top I see the crisscrossing of lines that look like fine paper cuts, but I am alive. I am alive and not on a grassy field with children bleeding from their death; deaths that I caused.
“It was just a dream. You were there and - ” I close my mouth against the nightmare, letting the sleeping demons lie.
“Yeah, he was there, I was there and a lion was there. Time to wake up, Dorothy. You’re back in South Carolina.” Rhett’s voice cuts through my confusion with a
I never wanted any of it. I never wanted to have to save them and if I could do it all over again, I would never return to that house to find them. I would have never started this journey, this trial by death and fire.
I fall to the ground and the greens darken around me. The blades of grass become like razors as I fall, slicing my legs and feet. The ground is so covered in blood that the red from it splashes onto my hands and arms. It sprinkles onto my face, burning me with molten warmth when I fall. I lift my hands to stare at them. I watch the blood climb, covering me in it like a living thing. The blood climbs up my body inch by inch coating me in red death.
“You’re wrong, Helena. It is your fault and their blood will forever be on your hands.” Marxx stands over me with the same look of disgust, but now it is mixed with a hatred that burns hotter than the blood on my body.
I hold my hands up to him, pleading for his forgiveness with shoulder-shaking sobs. The blood drips from my arms, keeping vigil for each life I have taken. The children now stand around me. Their white clothing is dotted with the blood they have splashed through to find me. They are not the monsters that I killed. They never were. They were just children. They were never really dead and now they stand around me with judgment on their faces. As I watch, wounds form on them that bleed like scarlet letters of my shame. I watch each stab I have placed on them form, adding more blood to the ground at their feet as it runs down their perfect legs and arms. It destroys the innocence of their glowing white clothes just as I destroyed the innocence of their glowing youths.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper it, too weak with shame and sorrow to add any volume to my voice.
“Where is my mommy?” One asks me.
“I want my daddy!” One little girl cries out.
“When can we go home?” A little boy asks.
They fill the air with their innocent questions as each begins to cry and plead for help. Marxx turns to leave me, giving me his back to face my sins alone.
“Marxx!” I scream, begging for him to stay with me. Begging him to, but I know he won’t. “Marxx…” I fill my lungs with his name over and over, but he never turns around. He never looks back at me as the children bleed around me with their white clothes becoming as ruined as I made them months ago.
“Marxx!” I scream again and my eyes are blinded by a bright overhead light. I blink against the glare, pulling the room into focus through the tears that give it haze.
“What?” His gruff voice comes from beside me and I am almost too afraid to turn my head. He is sitting on the examining table looking at me with confusion and amusement. His arm is suspended in a sling and butterfly bandages cover a raw, red line on his forehead. I sit up, looking at my hands as if they are not my own. I flip them from palm-to-top several times as my brain catches up to what has happened. My winter coat has been removed along with the vest I have claimed as my own. The shirt I wore over my tank top is missing. With just the tank top and jeans, and my now trademark scuffed boots, the room is chilling.
My shoulder is an uneven ring of shading from the bruising that has started. My arm bears testimony to Chapel’s earlier suggestion for stitches. My stomach stings and lifting the tank top I see the crisscrossing of lines that look like fine paper cuts, but I am alive. I am alive and not on a grassy field with children bleeding from their death; deaths that I caused.
“It was just a dream. You were there and - ” I close my mouth against the nightmare, letting the sleeping demons lie.
“Yeah, he was there, I was there and a lion was there. Time to wake up, Dorothy. You’re back in South Carolina.” Rhett’s voice cuts through my confusion with a
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