Page 17 of Moist!
chapter six
For the second time today, I'm pretty sure I'm dead. It's the only explanation for what I'm witnessing. Water should be rushing down my throat and filling my lungs. I should be choking and panicking. Darkness should be smothering me like a warm blanket on a hot summer day.
I should accept my fate.
Except I have no idea what's happening. I'm not wet or dying.
It's bright and gleaming with a glittering quality to the scene in front of me.
Maybe I truly am in the space between alive and dead.
I'm blinking, but can't feel my face—floating, but I can't feel my body.
Like a dream in the early morning when I know I'm asleep, yet can't pull myself into reality.
A soft tone echoes off the corners of my mind, and I ease into its comfort. Slowly, the feeling comes back into my body, albeit with a disconnect. Nothing makes sense and it sets me on edge.
An image blinks into view, too quickly to catch.
Another one follows, lingering just a bit longer.
Like a slide show, the pictures slip into view, blurry and indistinct.
A kaleidoscope of colors swirls together, then coalesces into a sharp image of a woman dressed in resplendent clothes.
Skirts layered upon more skirts hang off her slight frame.
One wrong move and her neck will probably snap from the weight of her dark curly hair piled on top of her head.
As the stain bleeds toward the edges, three familiar gargoyles forms take shape.
Atlas's hand reaches out for the woman while she smiles at Saxon.
Ronan lingers in the background, his head bowed.
Fire erupts from the center, eating away at the image.
A soft breeze sends the ashes floating through the air, revealing another picture underneath.
A new woman fills the scene as she kneels by a small pool, straight blonde hair spilling around her shoulders.
Her skirts are once again ornate and voluminous as they spread around her.
Her hand dangles in the water, sending ripples across the surface.
On her wrist is a dark tattoo made up of swirls forming a picture I can't quite make out.
Once again, Atlas, Ronan, and Saxon are scattered around her.
I swallow hard at the clear adoration stamped on their faces as they gaze at the mystery woman. The whole thing could be a painting.
The image drains of color and a new one forms. Another woman.
Another scene. Gone are the multitude of skirts, replaced with a flowing dress covered by a long cloak.
The woman's light red hair spills over her shoulders, slightly frizzy with half of it tied back with a dark cord.
Freckles cover her arms, face, and chest. While she couldn't be more different from the last one, she has the same mark on her wrist, though it's clearer this time.
With her hands in the air, it's easy to make it out.
Dark green trees sprout up around her, and I struggle to focus on the tattoo instead of searching for the gargoyles I'm sure will appear next.
A lotus blossom. A soft voice echoes in my mind, repeating the revelation over and over. Something tells me its meaning is important, but I can't remember why. Since I'm probably actively dying, it doesn't matter. A sweet floral scent buries itself in my pores, threatening to suffocate me.
The gargoyles come into view, perched in the trees and half-hidden behind leaves.
They blend into the shadows, though I spot their matching mischievous grins.
It's almost as if she's performing some type of ritual and they're egging her on.
Like a famous painting hanging in a museum, their devotion to her shines through the shadows.
A twinge of jealousy curls in my gut and I wince.
Of course they've found others in the decades they've been on earth.
Saxon said they'd been around a long time, so it's not out of the realm of possibility they've fallen in love again and again.
Plus, there's no reason for me to envy the women in these snapshots. Ronan, Atlas, and Saxon aren't mine.
The slide show starts up once more, flipping through more photos than I can count.
All I catch are glimpses of more displays throughout history with a different woman in each one.
I search for the lotus flower on their wrists.
It’s always there. And every time the gargoyles are scattered around her.
Everything goes dark, a blackness deeper than the night. My body seizes and I brace myself for pain. Nothing comes and I wonder if this is the end.
A small flame from a candle sputters to life and along with it, a new slide show.
The soft light flutters under the black-and-white picture, illuminating it enough to make out a woman, her wrist stamped with a lotus blossom and a sword sticking out of her chest. Atlas hovers by her head, his own bowed.
Another photo takes its place, revealing a lady in a long, flowing nightgown. At first I suspect she's sleeping until I see Ronan with tears frozen on his cheeks. Saxon grips her hand tightly, his pleading gaze fixed on her face as if by sheer will he can revive her.
The scene vanishes in a puff of smoke, then reveals more photos.
Death takes center stage in them all. A woman bleeding out.
Another with her neck at an odd angle next to a horse.
They all have two things in common—a lotus blossom and gargoyles.
Through each of them they stand guard over her body, grief and despair tingeing the colors.
The next isn't clear what happened, but it's obvious she's dead. And completely alone. No one appears to witness her journey to the other side. What a lonely way to go. Familiarity embraces me and I finally feel wetness on my cheeks.
A string threads its way through my heart, tying us together in some inexplicable way. I desperately attempt to unknot it. I don't want to be linked to what looks like a long line of dead women who made the mistake of falling in love with gargoyles.
Nothing good will come from such fantasies.