Fallen

The water was cool on my skin. Bubbles fell around me as I dipped back into the pond. I closed my eyes as I felt the surface come up to my face. I could feel my hair tickling the back of my neck and arms as it floated around me. I drew my mind blank, and waited — as it was rehearsed to do.

I heard the priest clear his throat. It was time to begin. “Gwyneth Rose Northcross,” his voice boomed. The audience became silent. All I could hear was his and my breathing; and perhaps, the rushing of water in my ears. “You’ve come today to be recognized fully as a soul of the Fallen, at the age of 16.” He paused, and I heard shuffling of his cloak. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know what he was doing. He was bending over, reaching for the dead bird.

That was one of the few things that wasn’t rehearsed — what bird we would receive. Each soul is given their own and I was unsure of what mine would be. Probably something sucky.

His voice answered for me, “A crow,” he introduced to the audience. Yup. “Dark, sleek feathers; the darkest of any birds’ — perfect for this fallen soul.”

I wanted to cringe. Of course. A crow. I should’ve known. Crows were given to those who have done only the worst of crimes. Only the darkest of the dark birds, for the darkest, crime-ridden souls. Makes complete sense, right?

Wrong.

Maybe — maybe, just maybe, if it was me who had done the actual crime, there would be no questioning to it. But I didn’t. My previous soul had, and the Big Guy upstairs makes sure everyone knows that. So much that, I’m constantly being reminded of it.

“Gwyneth,” he continued. I quickly recovered before anyone noticed the frown pulling at my face. “The feathers and carcass of your chosen bird will now be emerged in the water among you.” I heard the kerplunk! of the crow’s carcass being tossed into the water, and then it’s feather accompanying it. Gross.

“You will now lay in the holy water for a few moments,” he informed me. “During this time, some souls have witnessed hallucinations and visions. Don’t be afraid of either. Embrace them, for those who receive them, may be on the path to forgiveness.” I nearly laughed. ‘Forgiveness’? I thought, yeah, right! ‘Forgiveness’ my ass. We all know the Big Guy doesn’t forgive. Once you’re out, you’re own.

I mean, look at Satan.

He was never forgiven, was he? Nope. He was left to dwell in that heated place under us. Which, I don’t mind at all — actually, I prefer it more than anything. Nothing good can come out of him being above ground.

“Your moment has left us. Gwyneth, you may now come out of the holy water.” I opened my eyes, and pulled myself up. The priest brought over a white robe, in which I quickly wrapped around myself — being naked and exposed. I made sure to avoid the dead crow as I got out of the pond of water, “You are now one step closer to Forgiveness, Gwyneth Rose Northcross. Congratulations,” he told me with a smile as I left the stage. I forced my lips to smile quickly as the next person came to the stage — a blonde girl the same age as me.

“We may begin when you’re ready,” I heard the priest tell her as she removed her clothing. I then left the church before I could hear any more of it.

It was suffocating.

Broken

I don’t know why people trust me.

Everything I touch only falls to pieces. I break everything that comes into my possession. I break everything that ever mattered to me. It all shattered in front of my own eyes. The only thing I could ever do was break down and cry as they happen.

It was my fault. Every single one of them.

The kitchen plates that was shattered across the floor? That was me. The scratches that went down the side of the brand new car? That was also me. The broken screen of the laptop you had bought me for Christmas? Yeah, I did that too.

I don’t know how they happen. One second they’re fine, and then the next I’ve broken it. It’s like I’m a walking tornado. I destroy everything that comes in my way.

Yet, they all still continue to let me go on my way. Say, “it’s fine, it’s fine”, telling me it will all be okay.

No.

No, it won’t be okay. I broke something, something precious to me. I broke my baby. Now it will never be the same again. Now it wouldn’t be perfect anymore.

Perfection. It never lasts. Not with me, at least.

A nice solid, smooth surface will become jagged within a few weeks. A glass screen will break in the time of a month. Within a year, everything on it will become faded.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

I feel like I’m drowning and will never be able to come back up. The first time was hard, the second time was harder. Beyond that, it gets even worse. It becomes harder to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made. It’s hard to tell myself “it’s okay”, because it’s not.

I know I did something wrong. I know I did. But I don’t know why, or how it happened. It just did.

My eyes are becoming sorer by the day — from crying. Them being red and puffy is now nothing new. No one bats an eye when they see me sob anymore. I seem to do it a lot nowadays, don’t I?

I’m an adult now. I should be able to take care of myself; and I try to. But that’s where I fail — I’m not ready yet. I can’t go on my own yet. I can barely stand myself for the things I’ve done. I can barely look and the mirror and see the person I want to be.

Because I’m not.

I’m a sad person who can’t do anything right. I never learn, though God knows I try to. I say I’m determined, I say I’m responsible — but am I? Is it responsible to break things? Is it called determination to break down when you know you’ve done something wrong?

I don’t know, I don’t know…

The only thing I do know is how to break.

Alarm

I thought the alarm was a joke.

The annoying blaring sound that was going off, the flashing red lights, the guards yelling at each other — yeah, all of that. I thought it was a joke. I didn’t believe it.

The alarms go off all the time; it wasn’t anything new. It’s happened while I was eating, it’s happened while I was sleeping. Hell, it’s even happened while I was talking a shower. I had to evacuate, yes — naked. They wouldn’t even let me grab a towel, which resulted in one of the male guards getting a punch to the face and a black eye. Fun times.

So, when a guard — not the one I gave a black eye (I think he moved compounds after that “incident”) — came rushing to my room, telling me to get up. I told him: “go to Hell”. I was in the middle of writing haikus — which I’m pretty sure I suck at — but still write them anyways. I had been working on this one particularly all day, and I was kinda proud of it. Proud of how lame it was, that is.

I recited it to the guard:

“The walls are plain white,

there are no windows to see,

I want to punch someone.”

I paused, clearing my throat. “What do you think?” I asked him. “I think I need to replace ‘punch’ with something more profound.” I looked up to the ceiling and pushed a finger to my chin, pretending to think.

I heard the guard sigh. He was a newly hired guard, I think his name was Mark. “For God’s sake, Grate, get the fuck out of this room,” he commanded me. “Did you not hear me ask you the first time?”

“Hey, no need to get mad. I’m coming, I’m coming,” I slammed my notebook shut. I slid off my bed and lazily walked over to him. “It’s all a false alarm, anyways.” I held my arms out, for him to handcuff them.

“You think?” He replied, locking the cuffs together. “This won’t be the first time you’re wrong. I’ve heard a lot of stories about you, Grate. A lot of stories.”

“Oh,” I said smiling. “Like what?”

He ignored my question and nudged his chin towards the hall. “Let’s go. And don’t you even think of trying to escape.”

“Ah, you heard that story,” I retorted, remembering the time I had knocked out a guard with my handcuffs and ran.

I followed him closely behind as we headed down the hall. The alarm made my ears feel like they were about to bleed. I saw other prisoners, like me, being led out by other guards. But unlike me, none of them were smiling. “Everyone’s so down around here,” I remarked. “You would think, that they would be happier with all the time out of our cells, due to the constant false alarms.”

“Quiet, Grate,” Mark told me in a low voice.

I snorted. “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” he looked back to glare at me. I returned it with a wink. “Can you at least tell me how my haiku was? They say constructive criticism is the best route to improvement.”

“It sucked,” he stated. “‘I want to punch someone’, is six syllables, not five, goddamnit!” He was so amazingly frustrated by my small error, that I could think of only one reason why:

Mark was a haiku enthusiast.

The House

The house looked as if no one had ever left it.

It was too bad the decaying bodies and oh-so-familiar reeking scent of them ruined it, because — without them — it would be like walking into the past.

All the furniture was still in place; decorations were stilled placed on the walls, untouched. The bookshelves were stacked with novels. And though, they were dusty as hell. They were still there, weren’t they? I checked the cupboards for food, and sure enough, they were fully-loaded. I think my mouth even started to water a bit. I couldn’t even recall the last time I had enough food to eat.

It was a miracle this house hadn’t of been raided months ago. I had hit the jackpot.

Funny, that I didn’t feel that happy about it.

I really needed to stop living in the past. I see places like this, and my hopes come rising back up. The problem is, though, we all know that it will never happen — the going back to how it was in the past. There’s little hope for that. Actually, there’s no hope for it. It’ll never happen, if you ask me.

I took everything I could. The canned foods, the boxed cereals, the junk food; basically everything that was crap for your body. It was the only food that survives long, after all. For, I didn’t want to try touching the fruit that was, now — unappetizing mounds of mold.

I could almost kill for something simple like an apple. An apple a day, keeps the doctor away, my mind sang.

I could.

I snatched a few books, too, while I was at it. I was never a big reader, but there was times — back in the day — where I could read a good novel, or two. I needed something to kill time; the time when it was unsafe to be roaming around.

I went upstairs, after that, to see if there was anything else to grab. All I found, sadly, was what looked like a baby’s room, a bathroom, and a spare bedroom. Though, I did take a few of the feminine necessities from the bathroom, needless to say. They weren’t easy to find around here, okay?

The baby’s room was painted blue with clouds. There was an assortment of every kid’s toy nameable. Drawers with baby clothing, a changing table; typical room for a baby. There was even a cradle, which I almost wished I hadn’t of looked it. My hand shot to cover my mouth so I couldn’t scream.

I wanted to puke.

There was a dead baby still in it; eyes closed, still sucking on its tiny thumb. It was clothed in flower-printed pajamas. It looked to be only a few months old. My eyes trailed up to its head, where the gunshot was place. It was a clean shot, I can give the shooter that — barely any blood. But to be able to shoot a small infant like that? Unforgivable.

I left both the room and house, feeling only worse than before. It made me want to put back everything I had stolen — for that poor, poor family that had suffered.

I didn’t, though.

Without that supplies, I would probably die. I know. I’m a selfish person. But they’re dead, and I’m alive. That’s how the world works now. Sorry.

Sight

I first saw him in the snow.

My mother had allowed me to go outside while she cooked dinner. I was exhilarated, at just the thought of it, before even leaving the house. It was the first time she had ever allowed me to do such a thing alone. The closest I’ve ever been to the snow — before that — was only through a window. I would have to press my face to the cold glass, to see the snowflakes drop from the sky to the ground. It amazed me, to put it simply.

So, being able to go out into the snow, was an honor to me.

I took slow steps at first, marveling at the footprints I made in the soft snow. I would walk over and over, over the footprints I had already created. Eventually, I made my way to making my own snow angel and snowman.

After a while, I began to explore the surroundings a bit more. My mother had gone out with me multiple times, but she never allowed me to go too far from the house. I started to go farther, and farther, until I was at that point where she would have stopped me. I glanced back at the house — to see if she was watching me. Her back had been turned towards me, she seemed to be reaching for a pan in the cupboard. Something clicked in my head at that very moment. I did something I was never supposed to do.

I ran.

I ran so fast, hoping she would not see me. I ran until I could not breathe anymore. That was when I tripped and the rest of the air inside, was knocked out of me. I was able to pull myself up, groaning, within a few minutes. But it hurt — my lungs did. It was the first time I had ever felt such a pain. It was almost…nice, in an odd way.

He was there, too.

I did not notice him until I sat up, rubbing at my stomach. I had tripped over a stray branch, and fell straight onto it — its smaller branched stabbing me in the gut. He had been standing there, with those wide blue-eyes of his. I almost screamed; I wanted to. But I knew if I did that, Mother would know what I did, and I would be punished. Instead, I stared back at him with fear filling my eyes.

His hair looked just as pale as the snow, and his eyes were light blue. He was taller than me, more muscular, too, of course. He wore a thick jacket that covered his body up to his chin. I had never seen a boy before. More or less, even a child around the same age as me. I did not know what to do. I was almost certain he did not, either. For, he was just as stunned as I did.

“H-hello…” I started to say. He sprinted the moment I closed my mouth. I took a few steps forward, ready to follow him. But then, he did the exact same thing as I had only had done a few minutes ago.

He tripped.

Though, unlike me, when he got up, there was blood dripping from his forehead. He had hit a rock that was hidden under the snow. “Ow,” I heard him groan quietly. He put a hand to his head, bringing it back down to see the blood sticking to his skin. His eyes grew big.

At the same time, I was trying to tell myself to stay still. I needed to run. I wanted to go near him; I wanted to be closer. Closer…

The blood flowing from his cut was more than enough to trigger my hunger. The most delicious scent hung around it — calling to me. I started to lick my lips. I could feel my stomach starting to groan. I told myself to take a few steps back. Then another few.

I could not allow myself to do such a thing.

He looked back at me, one eye closed and frowning. “You’re not going to get help?” He asked. I bit the inside of my cheek. I had no energy to talk — only to keep myself from lunging at that boy and drinking all that tempting blood of his. Tears stung at my eyes. I could feel my finger nails digging into my skin’s flesh.

“Fine, then,” he started to get up. “I’ll go get help myself.” He walked the opposite way, and I let him. I only stood there, watching him, as his figure grew smaller and smaller. In my head, I was telling him to go. To move faster. Good, I had thought, hurry and leave me. That is for the best of both of us…I can’t hurt you that way.

I arrived home soon after.

When my mother had asked what I did, I told her I made footprints and a snowman in the snow. She had smiled and told me to show them to her later. I agreed, smiling back. But there was something about her smile that told me she knew everything about what I did in the snow.

Everything.

Talent

When I was young, I used to think everyone had my “talent”. I thought that it was something that we all had, and that’s why it wasn’t spoken about — you know, like blowing bubbles or something. Everyone can blow bubbles. You just stick that cheap plastic spoon into the soap mixture, blow — and then poof! — bubbles. Not that unusual, right?

So, because of that, I didn’t think much of my own “talent”, at first.

You see, I can view a person’s aura. And no, it’s not that stereotypical: “oh he’s a cool blue, oh her’s is a sunshine yellow”. It’s much more complicated than that. It’s more of…I can see glimpses of a person’s memory to see what made them to be who they currently are. This is flashed before me in a amount of seconds, often jumbled, and very confusing. I have no control over it, either. So, setting my eyes on a person for too long, equals invading someone’s personal memories and a major headache for me.

Which, brings me back to proving my point: there are absolutely no colors.

I kept this “talent” to myself for many years, until I was around ten. After that, I started to tell my parents about it. In the beginning, I think they thought I was joking around, as any child my age would. I was a bit of a lonely kid, being home-schooled, and all. So, making up stories of seeing people’s auras for attention, perhaps? — it made sense.

Once I turned thirteen, they started to realized I wasn’t joking. They started to ask me more specific details about the auras I could see. They even asked me about their own auras, which I of course, answered spot on. I didn’t want to see them, though — not my mom being hit by her father as a kid, or my dad doing drugs with his buddies in college. I didn’t want to see any of that. But my “talent”, it didn’t care about any of that. It just allowed all those memories to flow through me, whether I liked it or not.

I think “it” scared my parents. Or, maybe, I scared them. I will probably never know. By the time of my fourteenth birthday, they had already sent me away. Apparently, the government had a rising interest in me. Enough, that they offered to pay my parents if they gave me to them.

They did.

I haven’t seen them since, to say the least. I’m not really sure I would want to. I mean, who would sell their own child?

The Test

The Test is simple. When you become an adult, at the age of 18, it’s mandatory to take it. No one knows what you’re actually being tested on the Test, or what it asks from you to do — but people talk, and I’ve heard a thing or two about it.

Just enough…to know that you don’t want to fuck it up.

Most people pass the Test — though, some don’t. Those who pass, go back into their lives as if nothing had happened. That’s all it was for them; a test. It isn’t anywhere near as nice for those who failed it.

Those who fail, disappear just only after taking the Test. You see, instead of waiting for a few hours, or days — like in school — to see your results, they give them to you right then and there. They say it’s to minimize people’s stress. Personally, I think that’s a bunch of bullshit. No one gives a rat’s ass about a person’s stress levels. They just want it to be quick; easy.

My theory is: they want to sort out specific people from our population. For what reason? That’s beyond me. All I know, is you better pray to God, maybe even Satan, that you’re not one of those people. ‘Cause those people are in some deep shit, if you ask me.

And I’m saying this as before and after I took the test — when I failed.