Trey
Sweat shimmers on your dark, brown skin and makes your clothes stick to your body in uncomfortable places and with agitating frequency. Despite the heavy snowfall and frigid surroundings, you are burning up from the inside, out. You lazily drape your thick, heavy forearms around your exposed knees as you tilt your head back and look up at the cloudy white and grey sky. Mounds of cold, moist precipitation have built up around the frames of Casey and yourself; that's how long you've been sitting here, waiting.
"You about ready for the change, Hot Shot?" Casey coos from just a foot in front of you, teasing. She's sprawled out on the floor of the moldy treehouse, leaning her upper back against the wall with her legs crossed out in front of her and her arms folded casually behind her head. Her appearance demands every fiber of your attention and you aren't reluctant to distract yourself from the hearth in your chest.
"How long does this usually take?" You gasp, ignoring her question. You feel like the fire inside your chest is suffocating you, licking the inside of your chest with its scorchingly painful flames. Perspiration drips from your shiny forehead.
"Oh, I don't know.." She drawls, leaning forward, towards you. "Another hour or two?" She sneers playfully at you. It's impossible to tell whether or not she's being serious.
"How would you not remember? This is going to be branded into my memory for the rest of my life!" You grab a handful of snow and shove it under your arms and rub it on your bare chest, trying to soothe your boiling skin. Steam rises from where the snow makes contact with your aching body. You sigh, desperate for the heat to go away; to stop consuming you.
"Oh, it's not so bad, Hot Shot." Casey leans back against the wall and tilts her head up at the sky to watch the snow coming down in sheets around the two of you, causing the surrounding forest to resolve into silence. Her cropped, red hair (which unfortunately reminds you of the fire raging inside of you) stands out beautifully against the bland backdrop. Her gorgeous mane gracefully twists and twirls in the slight breeze, readjusting locks and curls. Her pale, white skin highlights her electric blue eyes. "Trust me, It'll be worth it."
"Alright."
There's a peaceful silence as the two of you simply watch the snow.
"In a minute, You'll start loosing the feeling in your feet, then your legs, torso, and arms will go with it. That'll only last about five minutes or so. You'll live."
You try to swallow the lump in your throat. You already feel the numbness manifesting in your toes and spreading ominously up your legs, dulling the sting of your internal fire. You close your eyes.
Casey reaches out and grabs your hand. "Holy shit, Hot Shot, you're burning up! I think you're having a worse reaction to the syrum than Rosaline did!"
"Fantastic." You groan and give Casey's hand a squeeze, your eyes still shut, tight. She squeezes back. When you open your eyes to look at her, she's giving you an encouraging smile. You can't help but smile back at her. God, you're so extremely grateful for her. She's been there for you for as long as you can remember.
"Casey, I can't move my legs." You whine, a hint of panic making its way into your tone. This makes her laugh, releasing her grip on your hand and falling back into the snow. You cross your arms and roll your eyes, impatiently.
"Oh, I'm so happy you're amused."
"It's-" She's trying to pull herself together. "It's just the way you said it. I swear, Hot Shot, you're going to be a comedian some day. People around these parts could use some comedic relief. Too many sullen faces." She crawls over to your side and assists in rubbing you down with snow. Seeing as though you cannot move your arms any longer, you appreciate it greatly.
"You're right, Case." You close your eyes again and try to concentrate on the cold, wet mush chasing away the flames that painfully dance across your skin.
"You would make a lot of people happy, Hot Shot." She lays back against the wall, her right side leaning against your numb left.
"Yeah."
The two of you sit like that for a while, slumped up against the ravaged wall of the long abandoned treehouse balcony. You only speak when feeling returns to your entire body and heat no longer pulses through you like venom. You're shivering; unexpectedly going from one extreme to the next. The only thing you're wearing is a pair of cargo shorts.
"Hey, Case? You wouldn't let me wear one of your jackets, would you?"
She chuckles and shrugs off her top layer: a thick, black leather jacket with more spikes and zippers on it than you have time to count. She hands it to you with thin, dark eyebrows raised and you hurriedly wrestle on the coat with immeasurable gratitude. It barely keeps your teeth from chattering, but it takes the edge off of the sharp, winter air.
"So how does it feel to be invincible, Hot Shot?" She breathes out the words as if they were a whisper, lolling her head against the wall to look you in the eyes. You're mesmerized by her.
"It feels cold." You say.
She laughs.
You and Casey trudge hand in hand to the metal slate a few yards away. Casey mercifully lifts it for you and allows you to enter first; she can probably sense how sore and exhausted you are from this whole endeavor. You smile weakly and nod your head towards her as you pass, noisily clomping down the cement stairs. She heaves a sigh through her nose and skillfully sets the slate back into place as she quietly follows after you down the tunnel.
After a few seconds, you hear the familiar sounds of your people: arguing, grunts, shattering glass, and giggles. The usual smell also reaches your senses, but they don't smell like the same mixture of rose petals and blood that they always have. Instead, it hits your nostrils like festering wounds and dirt. You wrinkle your nose in distaste. Quite surprisingly, Casey opens her mouth and her eyes flutter shut, inhaling the almost nauseating sent as if it were the same as when you left that morning.
Shimmering light glints on your dark skin through the grates that keep the immortui from overtaking your little city. You and Casey squeeze your way through the rusty square openings and become one with the chaos you've fallen in love with.
This is repetendam.
This is home.
You hop up the cracked daises with Casey on your side. You smile at her, feeling at peace, and she returns the gesture, flecks of gold showing through the electric cerulean in her eyes. Her thick, blonde eyelashes fan out under her dark eyebrows, her eyes wide with excitement. This is what you grown to call the "Repetendam Look". A look that perfectly combines the expressions of excitement, nostalgia, fear, and anticipation. You proudly wear the same features.
You walk through the dim, musty space, bumping into rushed persons of varying ages and skin tones. Just as you start to feel at peace, a not-so-subtle ringing sounds in your ears. The sound escalates to the point where the only thing that fills your mind is the allegorization of radio static. You stop in your tracks, wincing and clutching your head. You squeeze your eyes shut.
Through the cacophony, a melody emerges; strangely familiar, yet haunting. A shrill voice makes itself heard in painful clarity, but somehow the sound of it is beautiful and comforting. These are the words it sings into your very soul:
"Welcome to your new hell
You must ask and we must tell
You can scream and you can yell
But if you do, this won't end well."
The singing stops, the ringing vanishing with it, leaving you with a throbbing headache. You open your eyes to see Casey an Mordecai staring at you with pitiful expressions. Mordecai shakes his head slowly.
"So you got stuck with them too, huh?" He says, letting out a low whistle. You swallow and nod your head uncertainly.
"Here's a tip: don't try to talk to it. It only makes the sirena mad. Trust me, you don't want that."
Mordecai stands about a foot taller than you, with lanky limbs and a slender torso. On some people, this build makes them look weak or scrawny, but on Mordecai, it makes him look powerful and agile, especially with his muscles packed tight under his skin. He bites down on the cigarette in his mouth and grey ash sprinkles on his unbelievably dark skin. His long hair dances around his shoulders in complicated knots and braids, decorated with string, beads, and charms of every color. He's wearing dusty brown sandals, tan, baggy cargo pants, and a loose fitting tank top; his usual attire.
You've only talked to him a few times before, but you know enough about him. He's the village's cloth weaver; he knows everything about everybody.
"What are sirena?" You ask in a small voice, shy but trying to disguise it.
"The voices in your head, man! You think it doesn't have a name?" He shakes his head and inhales the smoke escaping his nostrils.
"Right." You say, composing yourself.
"I'll be seeing you, man." He says, nodding in your direction and walking away.
Casey rushes to your side, bursting with questions. "What's he talking about, Trey? You're hearing voices now? You had better not be going crazy on me, Hot Shot."
"I'm not, I'm not. I don't know exactly what's going on. Mordecai didn't really tell me very much about it."
Casey rolls her eyes. "I know! I hate how he does that. He acts like he's some kind of swami, being all mysterious. If you ask me, he just needs to get to the point."
Of coarse, you didn't ask her, but you bite your tongue. Casey is the most blunt person you know, so it's not too difficult to see why she would get irritated by his tendency to be vague. Your unsuccessfully suppress a smile.
"Right." You say. You start walking to the flats, absolutely exhausted. Casey trots next to you, keeping up the conversation you so long to drop.
You know it's not yet been twelve hours since the sirena announced their presence, but you're already questioning the number of songs you'll be able to endure without completely losing the small amount of sanity that you have left.
The voice that has been delivering the songs causes tremors to trickle down your spine, never mind the effect the lyrics have on you. The songs seem to be focused on your weaknesses and feed off of your fear. They vacuum all traces of hope and happiness directly out of your soul.
So this is where you find yourself: laying on your damp back with your clammy hands folded on your chest as you stare, unblinkingly, at the moldy ceiling above you. Your surroundings are dark, and as far as you know your neighbors are all asleep. You roll onto your side and look over at your clock. It reads: two thirty eight in the morning. You let out an exasperated sigh and turn back over so that your stomach faces the ceiling once more.
A dulled ringing sounds in your mind and you pull at the sides of your pants, preparing yourself for the sirena:
"Could you possibly be
Strong enough to withstand
The punishment you will meet
Forced by your own hand?
I feel you already weakened
By these early rhymes
But your future will bleaken
Trust me, it just takes time
You don't get the option
To make me go away
I'm your permanent adoption
Until your final day"
The buzzing dies away and you release a shaky breath that you didn't know you were holding in. You allow your eyes to close in a vain attempt at falling asleep, although you know it's useless.
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