Chapter 45: The Day I Died
That day, the sun was dimmer than usual.
The earth beneath my feet: colder.
The air pouring into my lungs: bitter.
The gusts cutting between buildings: frigid.
It was an ordinary day with ever-so-subtle shifts in the fabric of reality.
I awoke, as usual, and enjoyed my morning routine: a shower, moisturiser, and a neat, dark-blue suit to complement my simple, clean haircut. Cooking up an omelette, I plastered it between two slices of brown bread and downed a cup of sparkling, flavoured water.
A normal morning.
A normal day.
And a normal routine.
Standing before a mirror, I appreciated the improvements in my physique after a few months of exercise.
Then, I exited the one-bedroom studio apartment.
The hustle and bustle of modern society rushed into my senses, almost overwhelming me in the flurry of noises. Lifting my head, I covered my forehead and vaguely glared through squinted eyes at the dimmed sun.
...I remember that moment well, I had been thinking:
[That's odd.]
But didn't think much of it.
Making my way out of the apartment block, I breathed in the vague hissing of the white haze-
I breathed in the white mist oozing from the newly dimmed sun-
I breathed in the white-
I-
I breathed in the fresh, smoggy air of car fumes and the stench of the nearby fish market.
The usual.
...This usual day was to be my last.
I remember well.
Walking to the bus stop.
Greeting the daycare children screaming at me from across the fence.
Picking up an orange for the beneficial nutrients.
...Normal.
So, very, normal.
I eventually arrived at the bus stop.
I stood beneath the canopy.
I waited.
And then-
What happened next was-
...
Right.
I died.
...
Right.
It was a robbery.
...
My memory is running hazy.
I turned to look to the left.
To look at the me within the stream behind the fragmented veil of memories, floating peacefully;
She stared back at me with pity.
With guilt.
A pretty face, sparkling golden hair and pristine white eyes; a beauty in the making yet still petite.
Me.
She's watching me.
She's also scribbling something.
Placating something?
What is she doing?
...I can't tell.
.....
...
It's time I leave.
---
Scratch.
Holding a mango, she delicately peeled it with her small fingers. She kept a firm hold, making certain to keep as much of the fruit flesh intact as possible. Then, once peeled, she promptly diced it into eight sections while tossing the massive pit aside.
Tucking the loose strands of ruby-red hair back, Hilda gently placed the plate of fruit at Alora's clean bedside table. She didn't have to worry about cleaning anything up in this place, this was the infirmary after all, not Alora's broken room.
Leaning back, Hilda turned her eyes downwards at the sleeping beauty.
'Blood.'
She distinctly remembered the stench of blood from that day on the walls, the same day Alora first met Yulei.
Staring at the little girl, flashes of dark-red matter splattering across the gazebo's tiling slipped through her vision, rattling her drowsy brain.
'The cracks.'
Their first meeting consisted of the sound of cracks.
'They came from her body.'
Lifting her hand towards the ceiling, Hilda bit her lips. She stared at that palm, at that hand that had balled itself into a fist and smacked Alora.
'She was sick.'
Lowering her arm, she planted both hands on her knees.
Shaking, 'I hurt a sick girl.'
"...Mommy, Papa, I'm sorry."
'Hilda was a bad girl.'
Hyperactive, aggressive, determined with her actions and a slight adventurous spirit; these words could perfectly describe Hilda.
She wasn't a complicated girl.
If she saw someone hurting, she'd worry.
If she saw someone wanting to hide something, she wouldn't pry.
If a friend wanted her help, she'd help.
A simple girl, that is Hilda; a girl raised by righteous parents, that is Hilda.
So, when she realised that her new friend had been sick all along; tired all along; possibly in pain all along-
And that she had also hurt her-
Sniffle.
Hastily wiping her eyes with her sleeves, she sniffled and held back the surging emotions. Hilda puffed her rosy, blushed cheeks and continuously cleaned her eyes of the pouring liquid.
Sniffle.
"I, I'm sorry, little dummy." Pulling the apology out from the depths of her chest, she planted her left hand on Alora's resting palm and continued wiping her eyes with the other.
"I won't hur, hurt you again- Sniffle- little dummy."
Flinch.
"...Huh?" Hilda's ears perked up, her sniffling came to an abrupt stop.
Whisper.
Unintelligible noises whipped in through the open window along with the wind, tickling her ears with manic voices.
"W, what?"
Tensing up, Hilda stumbled off the chair and stood up. Her head swivelled around, fear clenched her small heart as she courageously:
"W, who are you! Why are you here again?!"
It was that weird 'something' all over again, except, this time, this time-!
'It's not from the little dummy!'
This 'something' of manic voices and noise was drifting into her ears from the distant winds, swaying along with the breeze and exiting once more out the windows.
It grew louder when the wind smashed into her body and quieter when exiting back out the window!
"What are you?!"
Shwing-
Unsheathing her sword, she assumed the odd footwork and positioned herself carefully beside the defenceless Alora.
She already hurt her, so she wasn't about to let her be hurt again!
Peeling her eyes open, Hilda observed the entirety of the room; she kept close watch of all angles.
The voices; the horror; the mania;
Thewhitehazedriftingthroughtheopenwindow-
The haze-
Open window-
It's coming in-
Hilda could hear-
She could see-
She-
[It is too early.]
A clear voice tickled her eardrums, she heard that voice; she understood that voice-
She also saw the white haze-
She saw-
Crack.
Her cranium quaked with immense pressure, cracks sprawled across her scalp-
'Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?'
[Reverse.]
The swaying curtains.
The gusts.
The cracks in her scalp.
The sword in her hand.
The fallen chair.
The standing Hilda.
One by one-
Yet simultaneously-
Everything-
"L, little dummy- I, I am sorry..."
Urging her cracked voice outwards, she sobbed and kept the grip on Alora's sleeping hand gentle. Warm winds blew in from the pleasant world outside of the infirmary, and the curtains flapped and crackled with soothing noises.
Hilda pleaded for forgiveness with her head down.
"Sorry for what?"
"Eh?"
Jumping up in shock, Hilda tilted her head and glanced at the new visitor.
"P, Papa?!"
"Yeah, yeah, it's your dad. What's up? What are you sorry for?" Sweeping his messy red hair aside, he walked up to Hilda and ruffled her hair.
"T, that-"
"Never mind, I already know."
"Eek-!"
She tried jumping, but his grip was too strong to escape; he kept her stuck in the chair.
"You better apologise, your mother also has some words for you. Get ready for that."
Downcast, "Okay..." She couldn't decline this treatment or throw a tantrum; she had to admit that she was in the wrong this time around.
"Let her rest, she has another visitor this time around. Let's go home." Holding his hand out for Hilda, she grabbed it and stood up.
As they left, she stopped for a moment, looked back, "Sorry." And whispered another tiny apology.
...The room was soon left in grim silence.
Other than the ever-present scent of medicine, the lone sleeping girl oozed her own empty scent; the scent of nothingness yet something all at once.
A unique scent.
"...The perfect, unique smell for my perfect, sweet Alora." Plucking off Alora's mask, the Mistress ran her slender fingers across Alora's cheek, caressing it with her cool touch.
"Say, my sweet Alora..."
Whispering her words with a saccharine smile, the Mistress placed her lips close to Alora's ear.
"...Don't you think it is about time the sleeping beauty awoke? That's enough dreaming~"
Her words stung frigidly.
Yet.
Almost unsurprisingly.
Flicker.
Alora's eyelashes quivered, her routine breathing faltered, and her body flinched.
Flicker.
Then.
Flicker.
Infected, Curse-ridden, murky white eyes split open.
"Good afternoon, sweet Alora." Smiling with her oceanic-blue eyes, the Mistress brushed Alora's hair back and over her ear, "Have you had sweet dreams?"
Dazed, Alora mechanically opened her mouth:
"Yes, mother." She fell back to the easiest state: shut up and follow orders.
Not to mention, 'So peaceful...'
The peace of her mother's touch overcame all else.
"Your pretty eyes, sweet Alora, seem as though they have many questions. But it looks like you have one specific one you'd like the answer to, go on, ask."
"Yes, mother."
Appreciating her mother's peace, Alora put together her first sentence in a long while;
"How long have I slept for?"
"Two weeks."
"...Thank you, mother."
'It's too late.'
Alora's thought process was simple; had she slept for a short time, she'd have had the opportunity to clear up Esme's worry, but now?
'It's far too late.'
"You seem quite worried, my sweet daughter." Squishing Alora's cold face, "I have not tattled to Esme, she is yet to know anything. That grand opportunity, dear Alora, shall fall onto your shoulders."
The Mistress seemed quite proud; she even habitually tapped her chin with a sublime smile. Were she not the Mistress, Alora would have imagined a scene of flowers and beaches from the Mistress' picturesque beauty, instead-
"Yes, mother."
-she held her head down and accepted each word.
"-And! Speak of the devil, sweet Alora..."
Delivering an unpleasant smile, "...You have a regular visitor. I shall take my leave."
Fwoosh!
Dissipating into thin air, the room returned to cold silence.
Alora plucked her mask back from the bedside table, secured it on her face, and prepared her heart for the upcoming conversation.
Truthfully speaking, she was exhausted.
Her brain was tired, and her mind was still dizzy from the recent awakening after two weeks of slumber.
...Could she explain herself without revealing the truth?
'Yes.'
"I can."
Alora turned her head to the empty space on her right, "I have to, don't I?"