Clocks.
Those clocks. The ones that move in the direction they're pointed. Yes, they tick or hum. Or just annoy someone trying not to hear. I don't know, I only know it's damp here, empty. And, damn it, lonely.
I don't want to be lonely.
Cold, it's everywhere. In the walls, in the air, in the breath. I never thought about it before, why? Probably because there was no time. Though, wait... does it even need time?
The body doesn't need time to realize it's freezing. Or does it?
Strange question.
Stranger still the answer.
It hurts.
Not from the cold. Though... maybe from that too. I only know the pain is burning, hellish, twisting everything inside out. Cold shouldn't be hot. So it's not that.
Yes. It's them, the blades hanging behind her back, like a flock of predatory birds ready to launch from a branch. Eh, if only they'd miss. Aim at me, but hit her pride. That damn icy, impenetrable pride.
But no. Thoughts don't come true, and desires even less. Mine seem defective.
One of the blades twitched, as if held by an invisible hand, and now the fingers finally unclenched.
But before it falls, her lips, yes, those lips that love pronouncing others' sentences, decided to play with me a bit more.
"I heard your story more than well. Even too well. And even the parts that had nothing to do with my question. So," she smiled as if you could drown in that smile. "I want to hear your verdict."
Verdict?
What is she even talking about?
Is it allowed in this circus for performers to speak, not the audience? Or does she just want to cut me, not physically, no, but morally. For her collection.
"Don't be silly. I'm not going to do anything like that," she said, theatrically waving her hand. "Though, let's be honest, it would be fun to watch you writhe from mental pain one more time!"
"I don't recall the defendant having the right to sit on the jury," I forced out, body in pain, but sarcasm on my face.
"Not at all," she narrowed her eyes. "And I won't lie, you're right. But you know, you're forgetting yourself, my dear storyteller."
She tilted her head, like an actress waiting for applause.
"Look around. And tell me, where do you think we are? In your damn story!"
Her voice — poison spreading through the veins.
Overwhelming.
Corrosive.
A memory is part of you, part of your world. A world where you're the storyteller, where you lead the reader by the hand, showing where to look. But if the key to your own door is taken away, are you still the storyteller? Or just a lost ghost between the pages?
Back then, I was still alive. Back then, I had a "yesterday." And now there's only "now," and this "now" is a trial.
Yes, my trial.
"So," Mariana's voice sliced through space like a scalpel. "What's your verdict? Who was the cause of the misfortune?"
The cause... The cause of the pain, the misunderstanding, all this decay. The cause because of which everything collapsed.
"Avaley Le Fay."
And again.
"Avaley Le Fay."
And again.
"Avaley Le Fay!"
A name become a sentence. A name that, repeating, I seemed to pull out the last remnants of air, of will, of meaning.
"Ee-hee-hee... Agh-ha-gha-ha-ha-gh-kha-hah..."
Laughter.
That laughter again. It sounds regardless of meaning, regardless of whether you were right or wrong. It sounds because it can.
"Even after death, you keep carrying this pathetic nonsense," Mariana hissed, not hiding her pleasure.
And... one of the blades, tired of waiting, broke free.
With unimaginable speed, it plunged into my right leg.
"AAaAA! AaaAaAA! DAaAmN!
I-I-ItDoOOooesn't!! HuUurT! PAaaAINNNn!!!AAAaa!!aAAAaA AAA!AAAA!!AAAAA!! AaaAa aAAaa AAaaAAaAAaAaaaAAaaaAAAaAAA!!!
MooOM! Moo m! MOooM OooMooom!"
"Khh... what a pathetic sight."
The witch said mentally. Or maybe it just seemed that way.
What did I do wrong? Where did I mess up? Someone... tell me. What should I have done for everything to be different?
I don't know. I know nothing. And probably never will again.
Enough.
Please.
It hurts.
I can't anymore.
Quiet, uncontrollable crying. As if trying to drown myself out.
Please...
No more...
I can't take it...