Chapter Text
The smell of the rain, for all the simple delight of petrichor, did little to distract from the metallic miasma that saturated the earth it fell upon. It had been reduced to nothing more than window-dressing, but she appreciated nonetheless how it tried to return some blithe to the woodland that had become her perdition.
Spittle and carmine was scattered across the sodden ground she laid upon, her heaving body feeling as though it would soon join her viscera in becoming food for the land; the House itself had chewed her apart and its front yard would break down what was left, as little as that may be. Even the flesh she wore was an extension of the House's maw, a snare built from centuries of persecution and bygone loves. It had not been traded with the intention of her making it her own, to occupy and care for as its previous owner had -- it was discarded, intentional destruction rendering it scrap, and the memories she inherited made her realize that the House was patient. It would wait, standing there just as it had for all these years, until it consumed the rest of her.
It hated her, but it meant for her to stay.
This House – it’d been a dream in the beginning, wonderful and grand – but that novelty had died, rendered to nothing but her sepulchre, though she was grateful for the blessed numbness that had taken over in spite of the grey matter clinging to her already filthy hair and clothes.
These aren’t mine.
It was a fruitless amendment.
The taste of iron followed an airy wheeze, and she was unsure as to if it was from the marred state of her throat or something deeper.
She tried raising an arm that wasn’t hers, pushing through the motion even as it shook and pulled. Being on her side like this, bleeding and shaking, it reminded her of the deer her father would bring home before he had built a separate shed for field dressing. She had wondered, once, with how often her father carried firearms for hunting, if she’d ever see the barrel end that he otherwise kept far away from her. The crater that had replaced the left side of her head succeeded in bringing an end to her curiosity on the subject.
She missed him regardless.
Now, instead, she wondered if atleast her mother would be waiting for her on the other side – if the place her father said good people passed on to would accept her with open arms.
She had been led to believe that the flesh was irrelevant, that judgment would befall her only as Viola, but her breath hitched amid the pattering of the rain as grim-reality filled her hemorrhaging mind – No greater being would be coming for her.
Though she had been among the choir and ate that which they claimed to be of His flesh and blood, she had a feeling He would know this devotion to Him now was only in the pursuit of saving her own; if there was one way in which the teachings had succeeded in instilling awe within her, it was in making it clear that only true believers would receive invitation to His city of silver.
She hoped, then, that there was something else out there that would take her instead.
Having emerged from the treeline, a pale cat padded its way over to Viola. Though the rain had not ceased, its fur was not wet, and mud did not find its way between the cracks of its paws or the thin layers of its pelt. It sat, towering only slightly above her, close enough to feel her ragged and crackling breathing. When it spoke, it was neither kind nor harsh.
“You’re still alive?” A startled garble replied. It lowered its head down to peer at hers, white eclipsing shades of red. Empty sockets stared back, and their holder tried to edge closer to the sound of its voice; the only thing that moved was a clump of hair, lilac strands falling over her face from the slight shifting. “Aren’t you ready to let go?”
“Wh… a… ou?” Both were surprised to find that she had words left to spare.
“Who am I?” It looked up, and drops did not fall into its eyes, for the drops stopped at the edges of the halation that surrounded it. “You won’t remember.” There was a low keen, and when it looked back down, Viola’s chest was hardly rising anymore. Her hand had moved though, fingers resting just before the base of it’s paws, as if to try and touch it.
Viola let out a final rattle, and the cat, who’s body now seemed more feather than fur, brought them someplace new.
When Viola came to, she felt different. Nothing ached, and the fabric against her skin was familiar. Her hair, too, was smooth and not tangled; it parted at her nape, and the weight of twin braids fell across her shoulders. As more sensations returned to her, she could also feel the gentle pull of fingers raking through the strands. She was afraid that trying to open her eyes would break the illusion, that this return to her own skin and bone was a lie – but a desperation unlike any other begged her to.
So she did.
And when they opened, tall, beautiful trees framed the sky above her. Craning her head further back, she understood.
Hazel eyes met hers, and ash blonde hair nested on rounded shoulders. The face that had long since disappeared from her memory smiled down at her, and all Viola could do was stare back. She blinked, and tears stuck to her lashes.
Her throat was tight, but it wasn’t from a fallacious nostrum this time. It was tight because she now knew for certain that she was truly dead; they both lay under the trees, but her mother was meant to be tucked away neatly beneath them, a slab of stone and the unchanging words that adorned it the only descriptors she’d ever known her by. Viola reached her arm up, and waiting hands met her own.
“Mom?” The word cracked at the end. Her mother’s sun-spotted face twitched, then it beamed and chuckled, and the heartache choking Viola lessened as the sound coaxed her own body to twitch with wet laughter.
The sky between the leaves was white.
“There’s my Viola.” Her voice was vibrant, but not overly so. It reminded her of how her father’s sounded when the two of them went on walks, when she’d trail behind to stare at the scenery – he would always find a log to sit on while she lingered there. It was the voice of someone willing to wait hours to complete tasks others would breeze through, just to see the person they were with smile, regardless of how drained the added hours left them. Enervated, but never exasperated. Her mother tilted her head down. “How long has it been?”
Viola sniffled, and tried to smile around her still watery words. “I’m not sure, Mom.” Mom. The word was awkward on her tongue, but the love behind it spilled out all the same. “But – but the plants Dad said you put in before you left have sprung up real high over the past few years.” She sucks in a breath, and shudders when she releases it. “I did my best to take care of them.”
“I know you did.” Viola is pulled up into her lap, head against her shoulder and legs pressed against her side. “I know you tried so hard to do your best.” The grass swayed in rhythm with their gentle rocking. “And I’m so, so proud of the girl you’ve grown up to be.”
The leaves above were starting to blur.
“Even though I messed up?” She had thought before that thirteen was a lofty, commendable age – but her mother, preserved just as she was as when she died, had none of the emerging wrinkles of her father; what had once been a sign of wilting as the days went by was now a laurel of a life long lived and a body that had stayed until the very end.
It was a keepsake of living that neither of them would grow to receive.
Her mother looks at her as though she’s the whole world and smothers her crown with a kiss.
“You did what you believed was right. Though my life wasn’t much longer than yours, there were things I did that I regret. And you know what?”
She presses her forehead against Viola’s, looking fixedly into her eyes. “That regret hasn’t left me, not in all the years I’ve waited here. I don’t think it’ll ever leave, not fully. But it made me realize that part of being human is that we’re always making choices.“ She takes a steadying breath. “And not all of them are going to be the right ones, and we usually don’t know that until after we make them. But when your father joins us here once he’s done discovering the rest of the road he’s forged through his, we’ll start over again, and we’ll try to seize the happiness that we didn't have in this life.”
Beads of salty, warm tears fell to her mother’s blouse. “Can we…?”
Calloused hands wipe the corners of her eyes. “We’ll wait for her, too.”
Viola closes her eyes. When they open again, everything except her mom is unfocused, regardless of how many times she rubs her eyes or squints at the treeline. “Mom?”
“Yes, love?”
“What now?”
Viola’s back receives a soft pat. “Now it ends. Let’s go find a place for when they join us.”
Her mother shifts to stand up, Viola takes her hand, and then they’re gone.