To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

My knees are bunched against my chest while I cradle my corrupted head ...

He locked me in his room.

I could look through all his stuff, discern my own thoughts on him from his personal space, but I won’t.

I’ve lost the will to care.

Now that he’s gone, all I can see is Mishka’s flat, unseeing stare. All I can hear is that gasp of surprise as Rhordyn put a blade through her heart.

The Vruk may have gotten to her first, but he took her final breath, as if he wanted to bear the brunt of her death.

I wonder how much blood has wet his conscience over the years? I’ll probably never know because he gives me nothing but empty riddles.

I refuse to live in a world where you don’t exist ...

The skin on my neck blazes; a fiery stamp left from his firm grip that seemed to threaten me.

In that moment, my life was in his hand—one capable of crushing me with a single squeeze. It both thrilled and shocked me, because part of me wanted him to grip a little tighter and shackle me with the emotions he hides so well.

I wanted him to snap so I could prove just how resilient I really am. So I could prove that although I’ve hidden in his shadow all these years, I’m not some fragile flower who folds into herself after receiving a few bruised petals.

Perhaps that’s what he was waiting for when he pulled that sword from Mishka’s heart. For the pain to make me wither. But death plants a seed in you, and my insides are already littered with shoots I can’t seem to hide from.

I lift my head, fingers sliding through my hair and gripping hard, staring at the opposite wall blank of anything other than a few tall windows reaching for the high roof and looking out across Vateshram Forest.

There’s nothing decorating Rhordyn’s room; the only softness being his lush four-poster bed and a black comforter that now reeks of the cloying scent of my arousal.

My gaze lands on the easel, on the delicate sketch no more finished than it was when I was here last.

I sigh, tipping my head against the door ... studying.

Wondering where he learned to draw like that, trying to picture him doing it. Jealous of that stretched piece of cloth for the careful attention it’s received ... for the way he’s left his mark upon its surface.

If he were drawing me, I would imagine him digging the coal into canvas—gouging through it in places—ripping cloth from the wooden frame, screwing the picture up, flattening it out again, forcing it to yield to his will.

It’s tempting to stalk over there and destroy the art out of spite. But then I realize that it, too, is locked in this room. Stashed away like some cloistered treasure.

I look to the door that leads to his personal bathing chamber, and my heart skips a beat, eyes widening ...

Breath catching.

A soft laugh bubbles in the back of my throat, growing into something manic and twisted. The seed of realization blooms into a surging wave that promises to blow apart Rhordyn’s firm-handed control.

Leaping up, I jog to the door, but seize the doorframe as I pass, slamming to a halt ...

I groan and jerk back into the room, dashing to the small table parked beside the easel. A bowl is tipped, the bits of coal scattered, and I use the hem of Rhordyn’s shirt to wipe the inside clean.

My gaze flicks to my wrist—to the blue lines webbed beneath the delicate, translucent skin.

I take a moment to consider the possibility that I’ve gone terribly mad before I snarl, picturing my arm as his own damn neck and sinking my teeth in.

Deep.

The agony is instant, but I just dig further, imagining him trying to shake out of my hold. Or perhaps yielding to me for a change.

Warm liquid swells against my lips, and I release my wrist with a gasp, suspending it above the bowl and watching blood fill it in dribbling increments.

Hating it. Loving it just as much.

This sadistic parting gift is as much for me as it is for him.

After a while, the flow of blood slows, but there’s enough collected for him to do whatever the hell he does with it. Hopefully he knows how to ration himself to make this last for the rest of his life, because this toxic thing between us is over.

If he wants more, he’ll have to bleed it from my slit throat.

I bind the wound with a strip of blue material, tightening the knot with my teeth.

Leaving the bowl on Rhordyn’s bed where he won’t miss the damn thing, I turn my attention to his dresser ...

If I can find his caspun stash, my life over the next month will be significantly less complicated.

I yank the drawers out and scatter their contents, rifling through his clothes.

“Come on ...”

I’m starting on his bedside table, tossing his personal items in the same disrespectful manner as he tossed mine, when a thought has me flattening to the ground, searching for a loose stone beneath his bed.

It doesn’t take me long to find. It’s in the exact same place as the one in my tower; five stones back from the wall.

“How original of you,” I mutter, lifting it to reveal a cavity beneath the floor. Reaching in, I pull out a fist-sized package wrapped in calico and secured with a long piece of string. One sniff tells me I’ve found what I need, and I don’t bother moving the stone back into place or cleaning up my mess before starting down the stairs, heading to Rhordyn’s personal thermal spring.

He left my room in shambles, it’s only fair I repay the favor.

The air becomes thick and warm as the tunnel opens into a domed cavern, stairs descending beneath the surface of water that’s reminiscent of swirling, liquid gold in this low light.

The stalactites clinging to the roof look like the fangs of a hungry beast ready to chomp down, and the stark silence reminds me just how secluded this place is. I try not to let that thought sink too deep as I consider what it is I’m about to do.

I stop on the threshold and secure the bundle of caspun around my ankle, then step down into the spring.

Unlike my pool, this one allows me to keep my feet on the ground for longer. Water laps at my breasts while I walk toward the wall that separates this place from Puddles, Rhordyn’s shirt swaying around me with the stirring water.

Once I’m near, my gaze plunges into the deep where that hole is punched through the rock, allowing water to flow back and forth between this thermal spring and my own.

I’m not sure I’ll fit through, but it’s my only option. If I wait for Rhordyn to return from his hunt, I have no doubt that boat will be forced to leave for the South without me.

Cainon would be well within his rights to assume I’ve been held against my will.

War would spark. A war that’s better spent on the real enemy—not some possessive bickering between two neighboring High Masters who seem determined to engage in a pissing contest.

I draw a few big breaths, filling my lungs, fueling my blood and brain and austere resolve.

One final, shuddering breath and I dive below the surface, propelling myself into the deep where it’s warm and dense, the light filtered and dim. My vision is hazy, and I feel around until I find the breach in the wall.

Puddles is right there, on the other side.

Weaving a hand through to test the size—the irregular shape—I realize how tight it’s going to be ...

The thought is dismissed in the very next second.

There’s no room for uncertainty.

I thread one arm through at a time and flatten my hands against the wall. Bulbs of anticipation burst in my belly as I shove—only to ricochet backward from the snag of my hips.

They’re too wide.

The haunting knowledge lands a blow to my chest, knocking a bout of air from my lungs. Mind scrambling, white-hot panic boils my blood, and my movements become frantic.

I push, and push, and push, shoving hard, legs churning, finally letting out a squeal that’s distorted by water that feels too thick.

Too hot.

My limbs grow numb and heavy, and my chest starts to jerk, running out of breath.

I need to get out.

I bend at the hips, using my knees to propel myself in the direction I came in ... but my shoulders snag, the momentum slamming the back of my head against stone, pushing another burst of bubbles up my throat.

Emptying me.

Mind spinning, I lose track of which way is up.

Which way is down.

I lose control of my limbs and lungs, trapped on the threshold between two very different forms of captivity.

The realization comes, sudden and violent, that I’m going to die. That my lungs won’t pull another breath, and I’ll be found here, wedged in a hole because I fought to escape a man who’s put a roof over my head since I was too small and young to fend for myself.

A man who saved me from the grisly wrath of three Vruks that should have torn me to shreds.

My subconscious roars to life in those final, frantic moments when my heart slows and my body begins to spasm. In its wakefulness, it tosses little slices of memory at me in a random, disjointed manner.

There’s grass beneath my feet, sun on my face, a house in the distance blowing smoke from its chimney.

I like that house. I like the vines stuck to its walls and the way the sun touches it.

Home.

I see that little boy again, except he’s not so little compared to me. He’s sitting on the lawn amongst a patch of pretty flowers—legs crossed, hands stretched in my direction.

Reaching.

“You can do it! Just push your arms out like you’re flying and slide your foot forward ...”

I peep down at my feet, up again.

He nods. “You’ve got this, little one.”

He’s smiling at me, and I want to go to him.

I shuffle, lift a foot, step over a yellow flower ... look up again.

That smile is so much bigger now. “You’re doing it, Ser! Momma’s gonna be so proud of you!”

My knees wobble, and I fall, but he catches me—always catches me.

His laughter spills over my face as I’m tickled into a ball, and I feel true happiness burst inside my belly.

Why did I bury this memory so deep? I want to live in it forever ...

Our laughter echoes until it sputters out, and I’m no longer in the field with cheeks sore from giggling. I’m in a cozy room I recognize. One that smells like yummy things and makes me feel safe, but it looks strange from down here, where I’m huddled in the corner under the eating table.

I make a sound, feel something wet slide down my cheek, but the little boy puts his hand over my mouth and holds me tighter.

“Shh. It’s okay,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll look after you. Always.”

But I don’t think it’s okay.

There are lots of strange people in the room. I can see their dirty boots from under the tablecloth—can hear their mean voices.

They’re making my heart scared.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please, get out of my home and leave me to finish my meal in peace!”

Mommy.

Why is her voice mad?

“There are three meals on the dining table ... Search the room!”

Feet move, heavy things go sliding across the floor, bits of paper land everywhere, and someone steps on the picture I was painting for the boy holding me tight.

A hand drops down and picks it up.

Paper rips, and I feel the sound somewhere in my chest.

The boy slides me against the wall, then puts a finger to his lips for me to be quiet. He’s holding something sharp, and I think he might be scared like me because his hand is shaking.

I reach for him.

He turns away at the same time the table flips, making me cry out.

There are people everywhere, but the ones I know are in the corner crying.

I’ve only ever seen them happy.

Other people are dressed in gray, and they have strange marks on their foreheads. They’re looking at me with angry eyes that make me want to hide again, but there’s nowhere else to go.

No.

No more.

I’ve seen these people on my wall ... In pieces in my nightmares. I know what’s coming, and I don’t want to watch them get feasted on.

But my subconscious is strong, and I’m weak ... dying.

It holds my eyes open and forces me to look.

The scary, angry people step closer, yelling things I don’t understand, pointing fingers.

One of them has my mommy. Sparkly tears are dripping down her cheeks. Maybe she needs a cuddle?

“Mommy ...”

Her face crumbles.

A big man walks toward me and the boy. His head is shiny, and there’s one of those wood-cutting things hanging from his hand. I think it’s called an axe.

Why is there red stuff dripping from it?

“No! Please! I beg you, they’re only kids!”

I don’t like the way Mommy’s voice sounds. It makes my eyes sting.

The man looks at the boy. “Get out of the way, kid. Mercy is not preserved for those who stand against the stones.”

The boy runs forward with the sharp thing held above his head. His scream stands out the most ... until Mommy makes a louder sound at the same time the axe is swung.

He stops.

I push to my feet, try to follow ...

Watch him fall.

Watch the light leave his eyes.

I take one, two, three whole steps, then slip on the sparkly stuff spilling from the hurt in his chest. But he doesn’t catch me. The tickles never come.

Mommy keeps screaming, louder and louder.

I crawl through the wet, curl up beside him, and wait for him to blink ...

Smile ...

Laugh ...

For him to stop looking at the wall and tell me everything’s going to be okay.

Big, strange hands pull me away from his warmth, and my nightgown is ripped, the top of my arm poked over and over.

I kick, wriggle, scream—louder than Mommy and the squealing sounds in my ears.

Put me down ...

Put me down!

But the words don’t sound the same as they do in my head because I never needed to speak. He did it for me; somehow knew what I wanted to say.

And now he’s broken on the floor in a puddle of wet.

I feel something inside me growing from the place where my heart is, and it hurts ...

It hurts so much I think I’m going to crack open and everyone will see my insides.

I think I’m broken, too.

The memory shifts—an ocean pulling back into itself before another wave strikes.

The roof caves, someone screams, and all I can smell is pain; burnt pain that makes me want to spew.

I’m watching from the outside, no longer in my child-body.

Nothing is.

It’s all escaping through the splits in my skin and my eyes and my ears and my wide-open mouth—an oily blackness spilling out in vicious, torrential spears.

Burning.

Silencing.

Seeping through the ground and melding with the dirt.

The floor is gone, so are the walls. The roof is in smoldering piles, making the night glow red.

I’m in the center of it all, as if the world is rushing away from my body contorted in the dirt.

My clothes are burnt.

I can’t see my mommy anymore.

All I can see are bits of bodies everywhere, big and small, scattered all over the ground as if they were flung like rag dolls that fell apart mid-flight. Some have upside down v’s carved into their foreheads, others are the people who changed my bed sheets and cooked me yummy food.

The power did not pick and choose. It just ... did.

It killed.

The thought jerks me into consciousness.

I kick forward, my body now at a slight angle that allows me to slide further through the hole. A jagged piece of rock drags a line of fire from my hip to my knee as I wiggle out, freeing myself from the chewing jaws of stone.

Bubbles pour from my mouth, racing me to freedom.

I explode through the surface—choking, spluttering, heaving breath into my starved lungs. Breath that tries, and fails to temper the storm lashing my conscience.

Wading to the edge, I crawl out on hands and knees, drawing life into myself while grating layers of skin from my shins.

I barely feel the sting.

Barely notice the squealing bathers dashing from the pools, snatching their clothes, and running up the stairs as if they see the truth in my eyes.

See me for what I really am.

I make it almost to the wall before I vomit, the spill of water and bile having nothing to do with my almost drowning and everything to do with my sudden wave of vertigo from the fall.

Because I’m no longer standing on the edge of that chasm deep in the folds of my subconscious. I’m down in the guts of it, trying to claw my way out with desperate, bloody fingers.

Trying to escape the slew of ebony roots coiled in a sizzling slumber—the pile larger than life itself.

An oily blackness spilling out in vicious, torrential spears.

Burning.

Silencing.

I vomit again, my body repelling the septic revelation it’s being forced to swallow ...

It was me.