Over and Over Again

2

She wasn't mistaken. She hadn't seen him, but she knew it was him. Whoever he was now, within the confines of the mazelike hallways, all boring plaster and wood and glass—somewhere, he was there.

And she hated it.

How dare he. She quick-turned right, praying that she'd miss him. How dare he enter my goddamned life! Sixteen years I've been living peacefully. Sixteen years I've been nothing but happy. Sixteen years. Down in the gutter. She picked up her pace. He'd have felt it, too. There was no question about it. But I won't let it happen. I'm not gonna let this ruin my life. Not again. Not again. I won't bear it happening.

***

She didn't meet him. That was a relief.

Of course, having hidden from him in a storeroom, dank, smelling of locked-away corpse and ammonia, pinched with a nasty wave of sweat, she'd have killed somebody if she still met him. She might even have killed...well, she couldn't.

She remembered the promise.

And it was clearer now, than all the days she had remembered them. The promise with the old god.

Her name then was Ul Mago, a peasant that lived edge of the Null Forest. Nature still ruled, during those times, and its reach was expanded by strides that rampaged over the world, overtaking large swathes of land and field and covering them with moss, any hint of human civilization and inhabitation lost immediately, if need be, buried in that ravenous mouth.

Within, then, where the boughs gnarled, where the stridulent cries of chaffinches echoed, reflected here and there like light on a glossy surface. There, at the center of the ivy-thickets and rosebushes, the ivy gnawing at the broken stones, stood the Great Tree, something that emerged straight from the depths of the land itself, stretching, stretching, stretching...

It connected heaven and earth, did the Great Tree.

And it was also a throne. Throne to Malor, the old god. He it was that sat upon the crooked, twining branches sculpted into a seat. He it was that governed with his eyes of reddened shade; with his torso of bulging, leatherlike flesh, carved of obsidian darkness; with his horse-head that drooled, licked, guffawed.

He spoke.

Emilia shuddered.

She didn't want to remember. How long was it ago, when she wasn't able to sleep because of the cascade of images, where she saw Malor's face, writhing, mouthing the same words again and again and again.

"You two will always find each other," he said. His voice was gravel crushing against each other. Beside her, beside her first self was he: his name then was Aren Duva. The words next the first, Emilia forgot. But now. "Because a storm rages within both your hearts. Thus do I bid: that you will never be content with one another, even though you are bound to meet each other again and again. Simply, that is your fate. A tragic one, to be sure, but do not fret, for I shall supply you with Means. Yes, Means. So long as you accept the inevitable nature of your fate." A pause; the worldspace in between them shifting as the god paused, his thoughts wandering. "Unless..."

***

A cessation of all that flowed, like a faucet shut. And quickly, too.

She ran to the bathroom. A stall was occupied—she knew because of a sudden cry.

Emilia ran towards the furthest one. Knees quivering, fell. Puked into the toilet. "Jesus," she moaned. "Jesus."

While she removed the rest of her stomach's contents, probably brought about by the hideous memories, the bathroom-door opened. A guy was laughing. No, two.

"Weeeeellllll," the first one said, voice stretched taut and high. "Where are you, you b***h? Throwing boiling water at my face, and running? Did you really think—?"

"Hey, Marcuse," the second one interrupted. "We shouldn't be here. I don't...I don't feel good about this. And you started it first, you know. She rejected you and you couldn't."

"It's the girls' bathroom, i***t," the one named Marcuse replied. "We'll be fine. Stop crying. Stop platitudinizing too. We'll just smack that rat a bit, rough her up." He snarled. "Maybe even get a taste of her."

The clatter of a boot. "Marcuse!"

"Fine, fine. Why don't we go through the stalls, eh?"

Emilia didn't even think twice. She faked a cough, to draw attention away from the girl.

A sudden quiet, artificial. Brought only by the absence of Emilia flushing the putrid stench beside her and the perverts outside thinking they could fool anybody after they had shouted only moments ago.

Her hands fidgeted. Her head drummed. She cringed in pain.

The stall-door opened.

A short, rather stub-nosed guy frowned. A large blister on his cheek flared. "What the—"

They were flying into the air, the both of them. Before they knew it. Before anybody knew it. They landed on the ground with a thud.

Emilia had protected their head and nape, to prevent any injury. And she touched their chests to see if there were any fractures. Nothing too serious.

She smiled. She could now retch in peace.

The moment she was freed from the overwhelming nausea, she stood at the doorway.

Her legs were wobbly, patches of her dress were either wet or smelled of stomach-shake. Worse, that some of the latter had taken on a shade of green-brown. It looked like verdigris. But then again, it also looked like turd.

"You can run now," she said. "They won't be waking up any time soon, the two of them."

No reply.

"I know you're in there," Emilia croaked. She coughed. "I know you're scared and all. But nobody's going to do anything for you. Nobody's going to save you."

"You did, though," replied the girl from the stall. Her voice was soft as the downs of a pillow. It made noises that seemed to caress the tongue.

"Pure luck." Emilia gazed at the two boys, wearing nothing but white undies in their sleep. "Have they been bothering you long?'

"No. Just today. Because..."

"Because you rejected the short one," Emilia asked.

"Yeah," the girl trailed off.

Seeing that she couldn't get anything more out the girl, Emilia was about to leave.

The door swung open.

"Wait!" the girl cried. "Don't leave yet. Please."

She turned around. "Having somebody to talk to would be nice," she said, snarky. "From my view, I don't know if you're a broken ceiling or a porcelain tile."

A short, forced laugh. A few more moments of awkward silence. "How did you do it? How did you beat them?"

Emilia thought. Hard and long. "Pure luck. Smell you later, kid. Next time you're being chased by a bunch of dudes, and someone comes to save you, for the love of God, don't stay in that place. Run. Run. Call the police or somebody to help the guy. But run."

***

Stampeding footsteps.

Run. Run, she told herself. She was Anita again. Run. I'll die if I don't, perish like Mille. But isn't this my fate, to die in the exact same way that he dies? And isn't that his fate, as well, to die the same death as I? She gasped for air. Beside her, a lonesome cabin in the woods, broken, smashed to pieces. One of her friends used to live there. Killed as well. Because of her; because of them. Because of Malor. I can't. No matter how much I try, I just can't let go of my will-to-live. Even though I have nothing to live for, I just want to live. To live. Breathe. Taste the fresh air.

There, in the middle of the night, she lay, sweating. Panting. With nobody beside her to touch save the folds of her blanket spread about. The bedsheet, on this spot and here, stained with sweat, traces of her voyage to memories unforgotten. Not by Emilia's mind, but by she.

She. What was her name? Emilia? Anita? Ul Mago? By what moniker could she call herself and be content with it? Did her soul traverse through worlds, never to be named? Or was a soul just that unnamable?

"Who...Who am I?"