Me

She didn't even attempt to sleep that night. That red-shaded voice murmured at the back of her mind; the neglected day-be-gone flickers of wordless recollections of childhood, of music and silence. It tore her to admit that before everything- at the forgotten beginning, in those distant moments- there were times that she used to relish in what she was- of what she was capable.

The pale light of the moon was strong enough the cast a dull reflection of herself against the window, her eyes tracing over what was supposed to be her face- what was her face. She pushed her forehead against the cold glass, her eyes gazing deeply into their reflection like somehow she would understand herself if she had an outside perspective. The sky began to slowly lighten, the horizon bleeding gold that seemed to push away the heavy ink night.

For a moment, a flash of a lost memory swam across her inward eye- of laughing and feeling the warm sun on her back, of a time when there was no war within herself between her mind and blood. Everything is better suited to children, even the things that shouldn't, she reminded herself.

Listening to that frog-throat voice meant ripping away the whips of her creators and returning the stings to their backs. Claiming that part of her was like directing the fires of hell, she decided. And if she knew anything, she was more than capable of doing that. The snake-lisped voice seemed to take on the words of her own, her heart beating more fervently and quakingly than it had in months, or in truth, years. She looked back into the mirror of her eyes, her will solidifying as she braced her hands against the windowsill, the distant smoldering heat in the dark crevices of her body marching steadily forward as summoned. The familiar stir in her stomach began to wake up from its deep sleep; scattered wails murmuring over one another- the tremor of their calls resounding in each muscle, each sinew, each marrow as they resounded as one voice, red and white and grey.

She bit back her agonized groans, the first crack seeming to echoing in the room before the others quickly followed, like water breaking free from a dam. A torn sob messily slopped through her throat as her skin audibly tore, her left hand attempting to smother her whimpers as she felt the the first bones shift and swell before muscle followed shortly after- her back feeling as though it had been tarred and lit on fire, the flames burning every cell and beyond. Her palm was wet with spit when she moved it to cradle her shoulder, pretending it would lessen the intensity of it. Thin stinging emerged from beneath her skin, pulsing across her body in needle-tipped spasms. The creak of her bones seemed to protest dully until the last joint finally snapped into place, her rapid labored breathing the only sound left in the room.

Her legs caved beneath her as she slumped to the floor, a heavy tussling following and loud bang sounding as she knocked over the chair in the corner of the room. She craned her neck to view the finished product of her suffering- to the broad, velvety bat-like wings extending from beneath her shoulder blades, her still-hot blood soaking her back. A deep hum swept from her throat, like a low musical hymn that poured into the walls of the house.

God, how powerful she felt, how sweetly the tastes of death and murder swam through her mouth. She couldn't wait to turn that craving on them, all of them, one by one.

With the task done, her body felt devoid of all the voices and conflict it once harbored, that space replaced only by her thin breaths. Twisting her shuttering body around, the joints of her wings reflexively pushed against the floor keeping her balanced, the stretched skin brushing against her feet. She bent forward and wrapped herself in the dark curtain of the appendages, like it would shield her from the outside world. The deadly thirst in her mouth waned slowly as she tiredly closed her eyes, cold and worn. The limbs felt like having another set of arms, and they were twice as heavy. Despite that though, they were better for wrapping herself in them and supporting her weight. The simple act of movement was draining, her muscles distant to the puppetry of wings. Her shoulders twitched as she instinctively buried herself further like the smooth skin was a gateway to a simpler world.

A soft sound melted from her lips as her ears fuzzed over with comforting warmth. Light tears dripped down her face, and though she could have fooled herself into being confused, she smiled weakly. This- this long lost feeling. This peaceful, free feeling. To go back felt more like a betrayal than anything, she realized. Being anything but this was a betrayal, being this meant being real, while being human meant being a ghost. She wiped her eyes and stiffly forced herself to sit up. She couldn't let herself stay like this- not with Nimbe and Hans and Sir.

Sir; he was considerate of her feelings, he never spoke down on her or dictated her as some fowl, mindless thing. Despite that, she was half tempted to stay like this, she wouldn't have to choose what he thought of her; but against that, she blinked as her eyes unfocused.

With less thought centered around the actions as before, the wings instinctively folded before the breaking began again- the bones melding together, skin and muscle clashing. The skin on her back tore more as the bones and sinews bent back and dispersed into only what could be described as her normal structure, the shredding of the veins and muscles feeling as though they were dousing the once unbearable fire that ravaged her back.

With each movement, she felt for the first time like she was the one in control of all the strings, and not the other way around.

Down the hall slow footsteps approached the door, a low knock sounding. She hadn't even realized that she had passed out on the floor.

"Morning," Sir hummed, "Nimbe sent me to tell you that breakfast will be ready soon."

"Wait," She slurred. "I need your help." A quiet hiss broke through her lips as she stood up, the dull ache of her back and dark scarlet dripping arms telling her she hadn't yet healed.

"Are you sure-"

"Please," she croaked. "There's blood."

"Blood? I should grab Nimbe-"

"No, please." It was a raw beg, her voice shaking slightly. Fear shivered down her spine- why hadn't she healed yet?

He remained silent on the other side of the door for a moment.

"As you wish. I'll be back in a moment with a basin and rag."

She nodded, though he wouldn't have been able to see it. She pulled a white sheet off her bed and loosely covered herself in it, leaving her back exposed. Too drained to stand on her own, she pressed her shoulder into the window frame, barely cognizant of him opening the door and pausing slightly.

He shut the door behind him and picked up the knocked over chair and had her sit in it sideways, her exhausted form slumping against the wood. Lowering the sheet slightly, he wet the rag and wordlessly began to dab at the gaping gashes that stretched down from her shoulders. The skin was bruised and pale, with ashen-ed, yellow fat and milky cataract pockets of clear liquid shivering with each inhale. Thin pinked veins formed slack webs that melted into pulped muscle and bone. If he was of a different constitution, he might have gagged at the suffocating iron smell of blood, but instead questions began to stir to life at the back of his skull. Despite the obvious grave state of her wounds, he was surprised she was still, if only barely, awake. Even more so was he surprised that, based on the blood on the floor and still oozing from her back, she was even alive.

Working silently, he stopped dabbing at the spilling fountain of blood when thin, white peach-fuzz seemed to grow from each exposed vein and tear, the fountain lessening as the small hairs reached out to one another and tightly coiled, gracefully knitting and pulling the gashes closed like laces to a corset. He wiped the rag once-over after the process slowed to a halt, the bleeding done and the once sickly skin now honey toned and healthy.

His hand carefully traced the scars, amazed. The previous design he had seen on the ship paled to what he saw now; raised skin swirling in geometric designs where complete ruin once stood supreme. For a moment he was too stunned to notice that the branding mark was also gone, and seeing that it had vanished, he suddenly felt that maybe whatever happened was her choice.

"Hey," He softly spoke, "Let me get Nimbe to get you cleaned up- Hans can clean the room."

Her ribs shuddered as a slow, quiet yawn brushed past her lips. Her trembling hand reached for the window frame as she picked herself up, the discs in her spine loudly popping like they were falling back into place.

"I don't want Nimbe to see me like this-" Her hollow voice echoed. "She'll worry too much."

He let out a fast breath, scoffing, though he knew it wasn't Nimbe's heart she was really worried for.

"Then we'll sneak down and I'll prepare a sponge bath, and leave you to get ready. Hans will clean the room, and I'll send Nimbe to make tea to keep her busy." She smiled and nodded, her eyes too tired to open.

After she was bathed and dressed in less abrasive clothing, Nimbe laid her down on the couch of the study as Hans cleaned her room, the floor seeming to be almost wholly covered in blood. Sir watched him silently, realizing that maybe there was some ounce of truth to what the advertisement had said months ago-perhaps not the same words, but the same genre: something not akin to natural world. He returned to the study and watched her sleep for a moment, realizing that the sounds he had faintly heard last night may have accounted to whatever happened to her. His mind couldn't wrap around the event; could she entirely control whatever happened? Or was it something more feral that she had the burden of harboring? The friction-less flow of her breathing and peaceful face did nothing to answer his burning questions, his head shaking as he left the room.

Leaving her in the study, he slowly paced in the empty ballroom, each moment circling round his thoughts with no end. The silence of the room only seemed to heighten the loud, inelegant fumbling of his mind, the dusty bronze flower-like horn of the gramophone seeming like a much needed escape. With a quick crank and drop of the needle, a paced waltz pooled into the room.

The hurried measures of violin resounded off the walls with a sense of direction, aspiring to a firm destination instead of whimsically moving to dove-eyed unending settings. Music box like notes and flute blended together and softened the almost worrying march of the strings, the unknown suddenly feeling less threatening.

The unknown is familiarity in disguise- a simple saying. He sat down beside the gramophone and let out a long held breath.

Most of the day had passed before she finally stirred, at first frantic and confused until her eyes met the familiar red walls and solemn portrait. She sat up and mindlessly ran her fingers through her hair, the once drowning sea of thoughts she had grown accustomed to now completely and vastly still. The constriction had long vanished in her chest as if it had never existed, and the gaping empty feeling left in its wake had an almost filling taste.

Rising from the couch, she cautiously walked through the too silent house. The dinning room was empty, and Nimbe was nowhere to be found, not that she put much effort into looking for her. Nimbe always had a way of finding her, but it never catered well going the other direction. With a gentle sigh she walked into the ballroom, strangely feeling more awake and real than she had in months. Each aspect of the past month felt like it was cast in a hazy film, and now she could see clearly and exist without hindrance. Though she felt hesitant to accept it, she felt a warmth had stirred to life under her ribs- her body itching and craving to do it again as much as every aching part of her body attempted to remind her not to. For the first time in a long while, she tasted the addictive liquor of power, and a vow settled in her jaw to never let anyone take it away.

She turned and went to walk back out the ballroom when she caught sight of Sir sitting on the couch, his head tilted at an angle that told her he was sleeping. Beside him was the gramophone, the needle pressing into the record untethered, a faint scratch murmuring as the arm swayed. She walked forward and placed the needle back in place so it wouldn't mark the record, a small inhale sounding to her right.

"You're awake." He hummed. "How are you feeling?"

She looked into the painting behind the gramophone; into a moonlit beach where rocky islands violently rose from the dead clutches of the sea.

"Better than I've felt in ages."