|Author:||klundtacular (Authenticated as klundtacular)|
|Date:||September 2, 2012 at 2:58:38 AM|
|Reply to:||Build-a-Story: Round Five! by Viola Eponine|
This male’s momentum carries me forward across a labyrinth of buildings and alleys. They all flash across my covered-filled eyes in grays and beiges with splashes of dark stains both red and blue. Vecher and Plakkan have died in this neighborhood even though it’s the inner city of Vecher. Being pulled I only remember the half face of my sentinel instead of thinking of a war that still rages on in my planet. The male says only a handful of words to me consisting of: run, tighter (I was loosening my grip), and stop soon. I can take no more; my lungs scream. I rip my hand from this man of action and putrid genital-centric nicknames so I can heave up any contents in my stomach. My eyes tear up but nothing but translucent liquid comes out. I rest my smooth forehead against a building to breathe. I want to pass out.
“Do you have water in your bag?” I torque my left hand right and then left in that natural way Houssam taught me. My bag leaves my shoulders and soon my bottle nears my perspiring face. I accept it, still too stunned to offer politeness Houssam would expect of me. I sup from it carefully because my throat is raw.
“If you wanted me to not know what you are, you shouldn’t have let me see your fingers.” I set my webbing-less fingers on the brick and stare at them. I have no marks from the violence I’ve perpetrated on them so far today—even the purple smears are gone. “What’s a Plakkan doing in the Bad Lands? What’s a Plakkan doing looking for Candrotha?” The male pauses here; his mind continues to work where as mine tries not to remember the dead guide—a son to someone. I lost my creators many cycles ago. I wonder if I die will Foosahn miss me. “What’s my buddy doing with a Plakkan,” I look over my shoulder with mouth agape, knowing he’s labeled me an anathema and it makes me sad because I had nothing to do with my guide’s death. “Taking you to Candro…” He does not finish his question.
I know in my mirrored semi-spheres his emotions are reflected—anger, hatred, fear, confusion. He sees himself, wanting answers. The orange glow intensifies. I don’t know anything that can help him; the violence started here long before today.
“Those aren’t real,” the inflection doesn’t go up and he squints. How could the reflection not work? People are supposed to see in me what they are reflecting. I am naked and exposed behind my covers.
“How?” I draw out my single word. The male’s ears pitch up in a tiny movement. He hears it in my word like a shot of electricity. He knows I have orange eyes. Can I escape from him? Could I throw a bottle to distract him before taking off? I know nothing of the streets and buildings, especially since he has taken me further into a war zone I don’t understand.
“I’m Seatash.” If he expects me to offer my name, I don’t. His hand reaches out to my orbital bones in wonder because he wants—no needs—to see my real eyes. It strikes me how creepy webbed fingers are. How do Vecher hold hands? Then I’m horrified I’m so shallow after someone’s murder. “Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how many you could kill?”
I shake my face out of his hands with, “All I want is to meet with Candrotha.” He is so single-minded. I do not comprehend his world having lived in the antithesis for so long.
“But you can hide in plain sight,” he tries to reason with me.
“Do you not understand? I can’t win—ever.” My voice breaks against my raw throat.
“Why would someone splice some DNA together from two incompatible species? What was your point? There must be something more than mere ignominy, right?” His language disturbs me. I lean into him to tell him the idea that came to me several cycles ago. I haven’t even shared it with Houssam.
“I was created to figure out how Plakkan and Vecher can live together.” Seatash knocks his head back and laughs. The only thing that could embarrass me more would be to cry.
“You’re such a child,” he sneers like I haven’t hidden myself for as many cycles as I have. He starts walking away.
“You have ugly hands,” I respond. I can’t help it because of his insults and that I find them unattractive.
“At least I don’t wear covers.” I follow him in silence for several blocks thinking about the male with the disintegrated, mutilated forehead. Seatash has no scars. And he despises me because I’m not Vecher enough. This is the first time someone has ever treated me like that. I still don’t want hideous fingers.
As I follow him I realize he’s still sweating like I never made us stop. His blue shirt is soaked and his coughing has increased in frequency. His gait is inconsistent. My webbing-less hand reach out to his back. I’m struck by three things. First, his body stiffened from my touch like I have power over him. Second, he feels strong from youth and muscle. Third, my hand has blue on it. The former two do not matter but the latter does. I bow my head in shame, though he cannot see me.
“You’re bleeding.” He mimics my Plakkan hand move like I’m stupid. I would offer to help but I don’t think he’d let me. It’s dark now.
“We’re here.” Seatash stops on the side of a building and points across the street. “This is the easiest way in.” His implication is that he can’t go into the building.
“Can you get treatment anywhere near here?” He laughs at me again. I now know what it means that he helped me.
“We’re not in Vecher territory anymore.” I walk across the street, still covered in brain matter but too dumb to remember. I ring the bell not wanting to get involved with turf wars or hate more than I’ve had to. I want to disappear with travel documents and never surface again.
The covers man comes to the door, recognizing his own work. I hold up my blue hand and hate myself at the same time. This could hamper my exit to freedom and peace. A myriad of emotion travels through his face. I walk the man over to Seatash who has fallen down next to a puddle reflecting our three moons. It’s a beautiful image if a young male weren’t dying with his profile against the night sky over water.
“I’ll need your blood,” the man called Candrotha informs me.
“I—I bleed purple,” I stammer. He stops attending to Seatash to gape at me. “I—I thought you knew.”
“You’re a mutation,” he reasoned. My eyes go large and I implore him to see me has who I really am.
“Engineered,” I leave it at that.
We bring the young male into Candrotha’s building via the basement, a reversal of my morning exit. Inside his home I realized he’s an important man of some form. Seatash has draped his body over mine during the process of moving him and he is the second Vecher’s blood on my jacket. I dump him on a sheet covering a couch and close the window blinds so no one can see inside to our shame.
“I don’t have Vecher supplies here. He’ll die in the next half hour without care and I can’t take him to a hospital.” Candrotha looks at me wildly, like I might have something he can use. “I have to use your blood.”
“I don’t want a half-breed’s blood!” Seatash seethes. “I’d rather die!” I stare with my deceitful covers and I swear I can feel my orange eyes burning through to him.
“You’re a liar.” The idiot doesn’t fight. He does not want my blood but he does not want to die. The old man looks at me, scared, really scared. Why do we fall down? “Will it hurt him?” To pick ourselves up.
“I don’t know.”
~Raging and quivering female mass of hormones and tosser of Dark Side Cookies™ (trade marked by Etoile)
This message was edited by the author on September 2, 2012 at 8:28:03 PM
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