My Eyes Deceive Me

Every Time I Wake

I stare at my incomplete image in the broken window. Months ago something shattered it. The pieces on the floor, I swept away, but I didn’t bother to remove the frame - it isn't as if I have any actual mirrors to gazed into. I reach out for a shard of glass, plucking it out of the wooden base with ease. Its cool touch is soothing on my blistered palms. I twist the glass in my hands, and it flexes and bends to the force of my fingers - as it always does - it bends but refuses to splinter, the veins of broken glass stay a simple figment of my imagination.

I unfold and refold the sharp object, pricking my fingers as I do so. Frowning at the lack of red, I begin to slice into my arm; the absence of pain is a comfort at this point, and yet I still recoil at my actions, even though I do this every time. The sight of the rushing blood reminds me of the waterfall I found some years before, as if crimson water flows out of me now. But this water is sweet and thick like honey. When I would frequent the river edge, being at such a daring height, I found myself sprinting past the jagged cliff and diving into the plunging stream, falling for eternity. I see myself descending from the fissure I've made of my wrist. Plummeting into the warm pool of blood that has dripped onto the floor. Crashing beneath the surface, disappearing into the murky depths.

Perhaps I could live here, thrive even, alone and hidden from the world. I would be endlessly drowning in my own secluded kingdom. All sounds, faded out of my consciousness - all thought, all feeling. Bliss and freedom alone would be retained, secluded to the moments before my last breath escaped. If I could stay there, floating in the liquid, feeling each muscle shift, body and mind merging into one entity, then I would be at peace for the first time in my life. I am in that pool now, this lake of blood. Above me the surface lies, I'm sure, but I can't see past this scarlet, like a veil wound around my face, blinding me. This would be terrifying, if I wasn't so satiated. Feeling comfort as my body suffers. I feel like a toy, trapped in limbo, smiling in my lameness. My body shudders at this newfound relief, an unfamiliar experience.

Serenity turns to a giddy pleasure and a giggle rises into my throat. I hold it there, not wanting to risk drowning, and it fans throughout my body instead, infecting my limbs with weightlessness. I begin to move, wiggling my toes, my lips twitching. Swimming now, and floating, and twisting, I embrace this new environment without care. I breathe in, feel buoyant and jovial. I taste the liquid in my mouth and smell it in my nose. A metallic sweetness, thick like blood.

Wait. This is blood.

My blood. Bathing in blood. I'm bathing in blood.

No, I can’t be here. My throat constricts, and I choke on my blood. I scream, but my breath escapes without a sound. My last breath. My lungs start to ache, and I begin my ascent, to be yanked back down by my foot. Again, I try to rise, and again I am pulled deeper. I jerk my head downward to face whatever is keeping me under, but what I witness frightens me more than any creature I could imagine. Nothing is there. I see nothing attached to my ankle. No face, or hand, or talons or claws: I see red. I'm still being forced to sink, even though I ceased my escape. I feel nothing but a cold touch and a harsh tug against my leg. Desperately, I try once more, but to no avail. The depth increases around me, and I feel panic. I writhe, contorting and wriggling and flailing in the liquid. But nothing I do loosens the grip at my ankle. Nothing I do brings me closer to the surface for air. Instead, every movement is a setback. With each pull of my body I am dragged further below. Tears form in my eyes, my chest collapsing.

Let go of me. Please. I can't breathe.

I grasp my burning throat. It won’t unhand me. My grunts are replaced by sobs. The grip around my leg does not falter, even though I am begging to be released. Bit by bit, my resolve diminishes as my body weakens. My efforts prove useless, but I can't convince myself to stop pushing. I claw at the surface. Aching with exhaustion, I stretch my spine as far as I can, but it fails. Everything fails.

Why do you want to leave me?

A strange voice whimpers this into my ear. Distinctly male and young, strong but sad. And even though it feels familiar, I know no male my age, so I can't recognize the sound. But I plead for help anyway.

Please, I'm dying. I need help. Make it stop.

I need you to stay. You can't leave me. You can't rise.

I can't breathe here.

Stay.

The final word is strained and cracked, like he is choking as well. Anger fills my oxygen-starved head. Why won't this person help me? I don't want to die like this. I twirl my body around looking for the source of this voice, and my fragile leg twists and snaps against the unyielding hold. Pain. Wailing into clenched teeth, all I know now is pain. Something must have broken. Glancing down, I see a colossal bulge poking out of my skin, which has now turned deathly white compared to the rest of my dark, leathery leg. I can't take this. I can't fight anymore. My eyes flutter. A hand finds its way around my back, grasping my torso. A pair of lips meet mine, and oxygen is exhaled into my lungs. Chewed nails graze against my cheekbone. I expect my body to tense at the physical contact, but I find myself relaxing into the hold. I reach for the hand against my face and squeeze slightly, reassuring whoever the owner of this foreign body that they are welcome.

Why am I doing this? I've no clue of this person's identity. But they have saved my life. I suppose I am grateful. I feel this body press itself against mine, his warm breath brushes against my neck, his arms envelop me and I open my eyes to bear witness to my savior. A man, now pressing his lips lightly to my forehead after his fingers have smoothed my floating hair down. I can not believe I am letting a stranger touch me this way, hold me this way. I turn my face, so my temple is against his lips instead, and gaze into the red fluid surrounding us as a way to stifle my embarrassment.

You know who I am. You think you don’t, but you do.

His palms glide down the sides of my body, over my hips, my thighs. Shifting his position, his hands and eyes pause at my shins now, one hand lingering above my now throbbing, shattered ankle. I realize the grip on my foot has disappeared when he lifts it toward him. I glance down and view the top of his head - his almond-tinted hair rising in the liquid and swaying with a sudden current.

Don’t be afraid.

Uttering this without even glancing at me, without warning me, his voice bold and sure and emboldening me with trust, he seizes my injury. He jerks my foot back into place in one sharp motion, and I screech at him, before I realize that it doesn’t hurt. Not even a little, as if it had never even been damaged. In fact, my whole leg feels infinitely better, and so does the rest of me. He fixed me; by a slight touch I feel whole. How?

How did you do that?

He doesn’t answer. I ask him again, but he ignores the question and floats back up, his face blocking my view of the crimson sea once more.

His lips pressed together, he grins ever so slightly when our eyes meet. And I'm shocked. His eyes, one bearing a million tints of brown, and the other an emerald met with dazzling light.

Who are you? Tell me.

Making no sound, he refuses, smiling sweetly. His head is tilting to the side and his expression seems frozen. It's like he is in a daze looking at me. I demand again.

Tell me.

Still, silence, as if the man’s ears aren’t working. My cheeks get hot, and I glare at him, wishing he would stop his incessant staring. Wishing he’d wipe that ridiculous look off his face and wishing he’d answer my damn question. His hand reaches out toward me and floats for a second, as if he expects me to do something. I stare at it, not knowing his indications. A puzzled look on my face, I return my gaze to him. His shoulders bounce up and down as his eyes transform into even more brilliant shades. I think he's laughing.

It’s a hand. Not a knife. Take it.

He chuckles.

Here.

The hand inches closer and intertwines its fingers through my own.

All you had to do was take it. Come on, let's go.

He begins to swim up, pulling me with him towards the top of this blood ocean that I created. After a second, I flick my feet so my body can trail after him. I feel nothing pull on my leg this time, and I am relieved. The boy pauses before surfacing, and I mirror his actions. Our hands clasped, he stares at me- his look so intense it feels as though his different-colored eyes have burrowed into my soul. A frown appears on his face, and i somehow know it's one of mourning at the thought of me surfacing without him.

Are you sure about this?

This confuses me. He brought me to the surface himself, and yet he questions my resolve? Why wouldn’t I be sure? I need to breathe, to live. I know I thought about it before, but I can't die here.

Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry.

I assure him, but his grimace fails to falter. Releasing his hand, I rub his arm gingerly, trying to comfort him.

I’ll be fine.

Okay.

He still seems uncertain. I can tell in his response he doesn’t want me to leave. But, newly determined, I lean my head back and face the surface. I start swimming.

I bolt awake, gasping for air like always. Wheezing, I press a hand against the icy concrete, and bring the other to my mouth, shielding my fit of coughs. It feels as if someone came in and scrubbed my mouth down with sandpaper overnight. I wipe the dried saliva off my cheek and the crusted tears away from my eyes. As I lift my arms up to stretch, a cramping sensation spreads throughout my beaten body. It's intense today. Hunch-backed and groaning, I hesitantly stand, hoping not to agitate my fatigued muscles even more. Routinely but with caution, I pop a joint, and then another: from my neck, to my knuckles, to my toes. I twist my torso from left to right, hearing and feeling my spine creak with every little turn. Absentmindedly yawning, I try to recall the feeding schedule for today. Today is Wednesday, I hope, unless I lost track. It's rather easy to do, considering every day is the same as every other: work and work and more work and a break for sleep, and we are forced to wake up and head back into work. Except on every third day, when the Masters reward us with some kind of meat and grain, vegetables if there's been a surplus, from the Provisions Region of our state. After all our shifts have been completed for the day, and our Masters and their families have been cared for, when we have returned to our living area there may be a sack of raw food waiting for us at our doorsteps. If we behaved during the days prior, I mean. My gut surges and I hear a sick howl as it gnaws on itself, demanding to be filled. It bangs against my intestines, abdomen jerking as I grasp my sides, flinging my arms around myself and doubling over. My balance is disrupted from the motion, and I stumble sideways until I crash into the floor. I wince at my shoulder slamming against the stone, a groan escaping my throat. Oh, please let it be Wednesday.

The work bell sounds, its deafening pitch familiar and dreadful. I have heard it my entire life and do not even notice the ringing in my ears. It has been a part of my morning routine ever since I could walk and hold items simultaneously. Our Masters make the caretakers beat the art of serving into us slaves at a raw, young age, so the lone reason I bolt out of the front door right now, while my whole body throbs and my limbs feel constructed of lead, is because I have been trained all my miserable existence to do so.