The Price of Connection

Prologue

Blinding headlights; screeching tires—

People say that you reminisce in your final moments of life. Well, maybe they had the luxury of time to do so. I didn't—not that I minded. I'd always wanted a swift death. Was it morbid? To think of how I'd like to die?

It was a whimsical thought, floating in and out whenever life got a bit dull; like clockwork, life was a relentless repetition where everybody, generations upon generations, seemed programmed to do the same sort of thing: do well in school, get a job, earn money, settle down and start a family. But to make matters worse, life was a terribly twisted game. Hard work could mean nothing in the face of true genius. But even being a genius did not guarantee success because there was this thing called luck where for the same efforts, some were rewarded while others were ignored.

Life is not fair.

Relatively speaking, I was fortunate. Going through the motions of life worked for me; I didn't have a cause to want for anything. But I did—

Sympathy connected people. Twisting pain, a sharp squeeze in the chest at another's sorrow; a brilliant rush of warmth, pounding heartbeat, trembling in shared excitement.

I never felt that. That connection.

Life was isolation surrounded by many.

Eventually, days turned to years, blurring together like a fog. Each day I'd go through the empty gestures, the platitudes, and pretend to be normal.

So, when darkness settled in, the clockwork shattered at last, I welcomed it with open arms.

Death never came.

.......

Many villagers had always claimed that there was something magical about the forest. Unnatural in its tranquility, and mysterious in the way it twisted the travelers' path. One could head straight north into the forest then exit south of where they had started. Oh but none of the villagers would ever say it was cursed; the forest had never brought them harm. The villagers had long made peace with it, enjoying the peaceful gurgle of the trickling stream and the melodic trills of the many birds habituated within the forest.

It was a normal morning like all others—early rays created dapples of light on the ground, and a thin fog gave an ephemeral air to the forest. It was a normal morning, until a body, small and mottled with bruises, suddenly arched up, disturbing the dirt and leaves that had settled onto it. The child's chest lifted, contracted, and a rasping gasp echoed through the forest.

The birds fled.

....

Growing up, Cyrna Raine had always known that there was something… off about herself. She hadn't been able to put her finger on it until her aunt had died. They had been close—she, her aunt, and her cousin. Cyrna had naturally attended the funeral, and the dryness of her face contrasted sharply with the red puffy eyes of her cousin. It wasn't like Cyrna wasn't sad. But if she were to describe her emotions on a usual day, it would be a flatline with a few teensy tiny waves; barely a blip. The death of her relative had caused—she'd like to think—a slightly bigger wave. When she had heard the news, her emotions had dipped briefly before restoring itself to the norm, and after a few hours, there was barely an echo of the sorrow left.

It was akin to losing a pet fish. Slightly worse because one could communicate and the other couldn't, but ultimately, they were both there one day and gone the next. It disturbed her routine for a few days, but that was it.

So when her cousin had seen her dried-eye at the funeral, probably looking a bit bored, she had shrieked that word at her; then had called her callous.

Cyrna had defended herself—no one wanted to be called callous. But when it had taken her months to notice the disappearance of her cousin from her life, she mused that perhaps the word hadn't been so farfetched.

Her fingers twitched, dirt caking beneath her nails as she tried to move. Her body ached, burning feverishly hot and cold, and she moaned when she tried to open her eyes. She felt worse than that one time she had gotten absolutely hammered out of curiousity. She squeezed her eyes, and let out another long groan as pain washed over her. It was like someone had smacked her with a sledgehammer then ran her over with a car—

A chill tingled down her spine.

The last thing she remembered was walking out of the library of her medical school. And then...

Her eyes shot opened and she winced at the sudden light.

Why wasn't she dead?

Suddenly, a tiny thing with large floppy ears peered down at her. The rabbit snuffled, and something thin and wiry tickled her as it nudged her cheeks. Whiskers. Its wet nose brushed against her skin, and it gave another snuffle before it skittered away.

The wet lingered, the breeze chilling the spot. She wasn't prone to swearing, but what the fuck?

She remembered it—her death; her relief.

It was impossible to still be alive, and even if she had been saved, she should be on a bed. In the hospital. Attached to a number of tubes. Why was there dirt beneath her hands? Why was there wind? And why the hell had she woken with a rabbit on her face?!

Where was she?

"Laufeia…"

A sudden voice pierced through the buzz of her thoughts. It was quiet first, but then it repeated, louder and louder and louder till 'Laufeia' was all she could hear. Then images, as transient as cigarette smoke, were shoved into her mind: a circle of elders, faces severe as they stared down at her. A dim-lit room. Walls that trapped her in solitude. She saw one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen—if not for the absolute look of disgust on her face. Mother? a quiet voice—not hers—had cried out. Then the woman was replaced by a sneering raven-haired man. Father?

Things she had never seen, never said, never felt, flooded her mind. The joy, the curiosity, the fear, the desolation. The emotions were coloured with an intensity she was wholly unfamiliar with, yet she could feel them all as if they were her own.

Hers.

Then her head pounded. Like her skull had been cracked open by a metal bat. She didn't notice the tears that streamed down her face as she bit her lips to silence herself as pain, indescribable to any other, built in her chest.

It bubbled; then burst.

She screamed; a loud guttural cry ripping from her mouth.

In the creeping darkness of her vision, she could hear a faint "pop"—a pop that was awfully reminiscent of the times she played with bubbles as a child. Perhaps she was dead, and this was all just one mad dream . But dead people don't dream, do they?