even if I wanted to, swinging the sword into my wing over and over again like the pendulum of a clock. When almost nothing remains, I switch to the other side, repeating the debauched, ludicrous act all over again.
By the time I finish with myself, I’m sitting in a crimson pool laced with my tears. My throat aches from screeching, my mind spinning, too bleary to truly make sense of anything.
Finish it.
That voice again. Though warbled and distant, I hear it perfectly. Adhere to it without second-thought. In my lightheaded, disoriented state, I somehow find the strength to make it onto my feet and stumble down the steps of the dais with the sword still in my grasp. I don’t stop there, though—no. I keep on out of the Atrium and trail through the now darkened woods, pulling the rope free from my mouth.
Cool air drifts from every direction, wrapping itself around me, skating through the gashes of my maimed wings. It burns hotter than a wild blaze, so much that I can hear myself crying out, but the crickets and owls supersede me, condemning every one of my steps with their nightly calls.
Fool.
Coward.
Blithering idiot.
Still, I keep moving. I don’t know how, I can barely see where I’m going, but my body seems to navigate itself. Even as I trip and wobble about, I find myself getting back up, wandering further into the Woodlands. Another step, and another after that. My head spins, thoughts jumbled in a tizzy.
Peter, my precious Peter. And my parents, the girls, too. Hook. My wings. My God, what the hell have I done to my wings?
The trail of blood behind me knows.
It knows it all, from what I did, to what I’m about to do.
In a mere blink, the Woodlands open up, giving me my one and only look at my last destination—the cliff’s edge.
Where it all ends.
Where I find peace.
With the waves mercilessly crashing into the rocky shore below, I bring myself right to the ledge and allow myself to look downward. It’s a long, long way down, I know it without a doubt, but I’m not afraid.
Unlike the waves, death will be merciful, greeting me the moment I hit.
Jump.
Again, that voice.
And again, I abide to its demand.
A few steps back and I throw myself into the air. My wings try to move in their rightful, instinctual state, but each flutter elicits a pain so sharp and so deep within me, I grow more crippled by the second.
Crying out.
Free-falling.
The asperous ground now closer than the cliff’s ledge.
It’s then I realize there’s no going back, there’s no saving me, that I’m going to die—a horrified scream breaking free from my—
♫ O Magnum Mysterium -
Nordic Chamber Choir ♫
“No,” I grate, holding her limp, bloodied frame in my arms. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening!”
Finding her like this was...
I don’t even have words for it. Don’t think there is an adequate word for it. Probably couldn’t think of one in my semi-inebriated state even if I tried. All I know is, I fell to my knees in an instant and scooped her up, heart thrashing in my chest, stomach roiling with the need to wretch as I checked for signs of life.
I couldn’t believe it was her.
That I’d heard her fall as I staggered along the beach, heard every single crack imaginable when her body hit the unforgiving rocks. It’s a sound I’ll never be able to forget.
Shuddering as it ripples through me again, I steal another glance at the broken woman in my hold. At the blood spattered on her fair skin and the deep imprints of the rope running horizontally across her face. How that very rope hangs loosely around her neck, outlines of her crimson-stained fingers drenched in the fibers.
“Why, Tinksley?” I ask her softly, running my thumb along the apple of her cheek.
I know she can’t hear me. Perhaps somewhere deep in her subconscious she might, because she’s alive.
But just barely.
Her breaths skip every few beats, she’s wheezing unnaturally too, likely a result of demolished ribs or jagged pieces of her spine rupturing her lungs.
Yes, she won’t be alive for long. I don’t need a doctor to confirm that. It physically cripples me to say that, to even entertain it, but it’s the truth. Her suicide attempt won’t be just an attempt. It’ll be a hellish reality I then have to deliver to her parents. How does one even go about that?
Knock on their doors with her dead