Over and Over Again

The stammer of footsteps along woods. A whiff of howling fire. The menacing yells of the townspeople filling the nooks, crevices, crannies. Anita hid in one of the trunks. They got Mille. They got Mille. The scent of ash and smoke; the taste of sweat and grime; the horrible whimper of weeds and vines as boots ripped them apart. The memories came to her like a deluge. You two will always find each other. But, always, you will be destined to tear each other apart, to strangle one another, because of the storm that rages within both your hearts. You will never be content with one another—that is simply your fate. Unless... She had forgotten the words that followed. And she never had a chance to remember it anyway. The yowl of hunting-dogs rippled through the air. "Found her!" "There! In the trunk! The witch! The witch! The witch!" "Burn her! In the manner of her husband!" She wanted to correct them. Mille wasn't her husband. She, not his wife. At this point in time, however, she didn't know what they were. She never protested against her fate, never complained of the fact that she was being chased. In fact, she was quite accepting of it. As the fire gnarled the tree into a blackened effigy dedicated to nothing, remembered by nothing, loved by nothing—as the fire, created by the communal burning of Anita within the tree by those old wives, rustic farmers, and unwitting children—as the fire surrounded her and melted her like candlewax—accepting as she was, she thought of escape, of running, of sprinting, of weaving through the trunks and trying, trying, trying— To what? Break free, Anita. Break free from this hold. That's what we've always been trying to do. *** Ebony hair. Ocean eyes enough to drown you once you stare too long at them. A mole on the chin. She touched them, as though they were not her own. And perhaps they never were, despite living sixteen years with them—in them? Do wandering spirits, omnipresent in the stream of time, transported from this century to that in differing bodies, possess the corporeal entities they inhabit, or are they naught but colonial forces that ripple quietly now and then, now and then, destroying the flow of time with their very existence? She didn't know. Her name was Emilia now. A quiet name. Eh. Me. Lia. Like a lyre picked softly, the syllables traveled through palate, throat, tongue and teeth, chattering, shivering, pensively moaning. Quiet forming all around her. Broken easily. The cymbal-like crash of car horns, the familiar wash of gray duffs that flooded the sky, the impenetrable sight of red light against red light against red. Cursing. Feet-clattering. The roaring of an idiotic driver careening through traffic. How long would the nightmare last? She didn't know. You never knew. It just came. And love takes hold of you like that. With a grip strong as vise, the passion so arduous. And unmeasurable. You had as much control over your passions as you had the length of the day. But did she really love Mille? Wasn't it just...some other thing than love? I mean, we haven't seen each other in years now. And I want it to stay that way. I hope it stays that way. I'm tired. I'm tired of that restlessness which arises whenever he's around, as if I don't own my heart. I'm tired of feeling like I don't own myself. Sixteen years, and centuries after that, and I haven't forgotten how much sway he holds over me. And I'll never forget. But if she felt it, doesn't that mean that Mille did, too? For her? She shook the thought off. It'd be a waste to mull about these things. She had more important things to do. In this life. In this life. *** "Emilia Parker," the councilor said, reading her application form. Her skin was a leather brown—of the bad kind, the one that's been too long inside a closet or a storeroom. Eyes, drooping, vacillated from the clenched papers to the sitting Emilia. "For a scholarship." She nodded, the tufts of her hair falling just above the brow, fringed, cut, severed. "Hmmm." The councilor continued to flip through the papers. The name plate read: Manevra Sue. "Very impressive, what you've managed to accomplish in your years. At sixteen...well, at sixteen you're already applying for college. And here in M— University as well. With top marks, too. That's no easy feat." Again, like a not-so-well-oiled engine, the councilor drawl-hummed. "I can't say much about what the result will be since I only do surface, cursory glances. But, safe to say, your application will be considered"—the woman searched for the words—"thoroughly. You're an overachiever, Miss Parker. And I hope that doesn't get in the way of your social life. Too many people bring someone down because of resentment." Emilia smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. I'll keep it in mind." The councilor nodded. "If that's all, then you can go now." Emilia got up to leave when she felt the sudden drop of her stomach. She paled, immensely. Staggered. So much so that the councilor took notice and tried to assist her. Emilia waved off the help. "No—I'm sorry. I can do it. I can walk. I'm fine. I'm fine, Miss Sue." She shrugged the approaching hand with her handbag. "Please. Thank you for trying to help. But I'm fine. Really." The councilor tilted her head. "Are you sure, Miss—?" "I'm sure," Emilia cut her off. Without warning, she left the room. Manevra Sue watched the paleness turn to a flush of red fury.