Chapter 18

Over the windswept evergreens, wilting oaks, and rolling hills, a swollen sun rose on the horizon. Its light stretched blindingly bright over the school, and glittered off dew dropped grass, forcing nightly shadows back into the darkened corners of the school. It wasn’t warm, and a chill rolled over the school in mist, swarming around the archery stands on the wettened grass wrapped in its grasping fingers.

“When did you start archery?” Tomoe asked, kneeled on the muddy ground, dirtying the trousers of his uniform; he looked up at Lenore expectantly while he packed his bow up, and zipped everything away safely in the bag. Lenore hesitantly pulled her eyes away from the wilds of the forest, and the light that carved its way across her face. A gentle expression had softened her.

“Ten years ago.” She answered, her voice a whisper slipping into the wind rolling past them. Tomoe’s eyes widened, then an equally spellbound, and downcast expression flickered clearly onto his face; he pressed his lips together thoughtfully.

“Do you think it’s worth learning?” He asked.

“Why? Do you think it isn’t?”

“You started so young… I’m…” he fumbled, unable to grasp at the words he wanted.

“You’re fourteen, kid. You have time.” She told him dryly, “the real question is why do you want to learn?”

Tomoe didn’t answer, and his knuckles whitened as he grasped his bow bag—his jaw was fixed tight with something like determination. Lenore leaned down, and squeezed his shoulder awkwardly, an attempt at comfort. It seemed to work; he turned to her, a sunlit smile on his face.

“You want to know something?” She asked.

“Yes,” he responded with a rapid, overly excitedly nod of his head, loosening the ponytail his hair was tied into.

“Most people do things because they’re good at them, that’s half of enjoyment, and I am no different. I started archery because I thought it was cool, and I continued because I good. When I started competition, I met people better than me, older than me. That left me with a choice, one you have, do you work harder to be better, or let it go because the joy has been sucked out?” She asked, looking down at him, little hope or expectation on her face, like she expected him to take the easy answer.

He didn’t reply, and simply turned his head back, a heavy sigh rolling from his lips when he looked upon his bow. Lenore didn’t say anything more for a few weighty seconds, and let her breath go, curling into steam before her lips.

“You don’t have to answer now. You should get ready for breakfast, but if you want to get better, meet me here, same time, next week.” She didn’t linger for a reaction, or answer; she shoved her hands into her pockets, and walked along dawnlight illuminated pathways, shining off the worn pathway, peppered by bunches of rotted leaves, and glistening from the nights light rainfall.

It smelt fresh, and sweetly cold—the sort of sweet that ached your teeth, and the freshness that felt like swallowing ice water. It didn’t help the exhaustion burning behind her eyes, however, an unyielding reminder the nightmare which had shaken her from a restless slumber.

She stopped herself, moments before she reflectively rolled her shoulders, and felt the tiredness draped about her triple, upon the reminder of her lame arm, and blistering pain now pulsing in her back with each breath, no matter how featherlight. They shivered, and stung with every expansion and fall of her chest.

Eventually, after minutes of pacing, wandering aimlessly past doors, trapped in a limbo where didn’t want the day to begin, but couldn’t stop it, she wrapped her fingers around the thorn crested handle, almost aching in its chill, and was immediately cloaked in burning warmth. Lantern light flickered gently, flames dancing within the aged glass, and it dimly illuminated the corridor.

Lenore strode gracefully, though a heaviness resounded through each step; they echoed from the floors, and around the walls—they drilled incessantly into her skull, and she pressed her hand harshly into the flowering bruise on her eye to ground herself. A kaleidoscope of flashing patterns, colours and shapes overlaid the hallway—and a pulsing ache flared for a moment, lingering long enough to give her a brief reprieve before her focus shifted once again.

“Lenore?” A raspy, early morning voice called out, laced with warmth—she felt shivers creep daringly up her spine, alongside a vibrant flush on her face, and she hoped the low light, and her dark complexion would hide it. Though, nothing could hide the rattle of the fast beating heart within her chest.

She turned slowly on her heel—Ms Capri stood metres from her, looking down from her position upon the oak stairs, clearly having come down from the staff quatres. Her perfume came sharply, and hadn’t dissapated even slightly yet, curling around Lenore’s senses like a painfully tight fist. Her hair hadn’t fallen either, entirely perfect, no frizz to be seen. Her fingers stilled twisting her rings, and Lenore felt the bitter taste of Miss Capri’s anxiety heighten.

Lenore’s features, once tightened with tension, fell soft, and she couldn’t help the words that slipped like silk from her lips, “what’s wrong?” She stepped forward surely, and met Ms Capri halfway, who had a conflicted expression upon her face, she didn’t meet Lenore’s gaze, which was unshakingly set upon her.

“It’s nothing to worry yourself about,” she answered with a casual flick of her hand.

“You’re clearly bothered, so it really isn’t nothing.” Lenore replied firmly, but gently; she stretched out her hand, gaining a hesitant look, and a glance around from Miss Capri, but moments later, she took her hand, their fingers intertwined. The ever tender scarred flesh of Lenore’s hand brushed against Ms Capri’s uncannily soft skin. It felt like cold water to a burn.

“Rachel Fairburn’s dead,” she answered mutely, and Lenore felt a weight settle in her chest, and something sink in her stomach, like disappointment—she tightened her grip comfortingly, careful to restrain her strength.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you two were… close.” She said.

“We weren’t, hardly friends. That isn’t why I’m concerned.” She breathed out wearily, and pursed her lips, like she was trying to stop herself from saying something—Lenore parted her lips to speak, but as Miss Capri shifted her hand slightly, the metal of a ring brushed Lenore’s chainlink scar, and she yelped like a whipped dog, ripingd her hand away sharply.

A rumbling hiss, like a growl, pushed through her teeth, and she looked down at her hand.

“What happened? Are you okay?” She asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Lenore said roughly, “it’s just your rings, they brushed against my scar. Its never stop being sensitive… I just didn’t expect it.” She answered, and shoved her tingling hand into her pocket, tightening and loosening it in a fist.

Ms Capri’s expression looked raw with guilt, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” She said, and Lenore didn’t hesitate to shake her head reassuringly.

“Don’t apologise. Please. You couldn’t have known.” She implored with a smile, wavering slightly at the edges—falling entirely when Miss Capri distractedly stepped closer, pulling on Lenore’s senses like a string; she seemed to be focused on something else. She held her breath. She looked down, and it was utterly quiet between them.

“You know, I think that boy looks up to you,” she said quietly.

Lenore canted her head, a furrow pulling tight between her brows questioningly. “What do you mean?” She asked.

“My room is above the archery field, I saw you coaching him.” She answered, and the subtlest pink tinted her cheeks at the confession. Lenore felt an amused smile creep up her lips, before she smothered it.

“He’s a good kid.” She answered, and her mouth tightly closed, growing dry when Ms Capri reached up to her collar—it was messily done, wrinkled, and only partially folded; it wasn’t easy to get dressed, especially without help. Her ringed fingers curled around the collar, and fixed it, tightening her loose tie, then she glanced down, but stopped herself.

“Your shirt’s buttoned wrong,” she stated, and Lenore laughed awkwardly, nervous tension lacing it.

“It is,” Lenore said stiffly, “it’s… hard to get dressed right now.” She admitted sheepishly, colour pinkening her face, and creeping down her neck, beyond her collar. She felt a hand smooth over her pinstriped blazer, lingering longer than necessary.

“Can I fix it?” She asked.

Lenore felt her heart lurch, then slam in her chest, shaking her ribcage, and make her pulse run like a rivers rapids in her ears. Her throat thickened, and she didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply nodded. Either, fortunately, or unfortunately, she couldn’t decide, the wrongly buttoned section laid high, slightly beneath where her tie met the collar.

She knew Miss Capri could hear—likely feel—her racing heartbeat, especially as she unbuttoned the top three buttons; her shirt parted slightly, revealing her vest which luckily laid under her overshirt. The warmth of Ms Capri’s skin leeched through as she deftly fixed the buttons, brushed some wrinkles from her shirt, and slowly stepped back.

After a few tension strangled moments passed, she cleared her throat, “I should be getting to work now. I’ll see you tomorrow for our session.” She offered a soft smile, weighed down at the edges, and stalked down the hall, heels clicking behind her.

Lenore simply watched, absolutely awestruck, and her lay mouth parted for heavy breaths to pass; she quickly closed it, so she didn’t look like a gaping fool.

—

Lenore had felt the curling of serpentine dread tighten in her stomach, ever since she left Miss Capri, and had heard of Rachel Fairburns death; though, it wasn’t the woman’s death that bothered her deeply—she wasn’t pleased, nor vindicated by the occurance—but L.O.I.S did. Her curiosity had sunk its claws into her back, and wouldn’t be shaken free now. Its breath came hot at her neck, whispering curses into her ears.

It wasn’t softened by the tension that pulled tight through her muscles at every turned corner and ajar door—against her will, she expected something to be waiting, a bleached smile, knife edge claws, or rake-like teeth. She felt the tremble affecting her hands, and stuffed them into her pockets. She strided, with a confidence she didn’t feel, even as the subtle voice in her mind told her to hide under the covers, like a child cowering from a monster that could exist.

The rattling of footsteps, and rumbling mumble of voices slowly bit, and chewed away at her composure—she pressed her palm into her eye, again—something she had found herself doing frequently today. “Only one lesson left,” she told herself. Her hands tightened into fists in her pockets, and she felt her pulse race through the seething scars.

The richly varnished, wooden panneled door of the English classroom lay open, and she heard voices filter out—she breathed in deeply, readied herself, and gracefully walked in; she kept her chin high, and heard the room fall silent. Her face grew hot. The chair trembled when she slumped down into it, and flashed her classmates a narrowed look, which forced their focus to shift from her.

“Miss Yuson,” Ms Zhang said slowly, and her eyes crept worryingly over Lenore, who was slumped in her seat, a dark burning lining her eyes, that stared up with unintentional contempt; she leaned down, and dropped her voice a whisper, “are you okay?”

Lenore simply tilted her head upwards, and a let startling coldness gleam in her eyes, “perfectly fine,” she said smoothly. The shake threatening her voice stayed trapped in her throat, and she swallowed roughly. Miss Zhang pursed her lips with unsaid words; she looked between her, and the classroom, before wiping off her concerned expression. She stood up straight.

Lenore’s knuckles paled, and the page crinkled beneath her hold, fingers tightening on the paper; her eyes flickered along the page, and words flashed in and out of view, drifting around—she clawed at her eye, but couldn’t focus. Her eyes simply glazed over, and then read the same line once, then twice, and over again, until she felt a familiar burning erupt up her throat—she felt like throwing the book through the window.

She couldn’t shake the heat rising up her face, and her chest began to tighten in a familiar manner—she closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the whispers, laughter, chatter of students, and the heavy perfume, and stinking cologne, swirling so thickly through the air, she could practically see it. She breathed in deeply, once, feeling it drag down her throat, then she breathed out, but it didn’t help.

Lenore resignedly realised that no manner of calming breathing, or techniques would help her this time. Her composure had frayed to a strings width. She just needed to survive her last lesson, then she could squirrel herself away in her room.

She forced herself to inch through the words on the book, tracing along each one, slowly reading, and hardly understanding anything; a headache had begun to flare, like a nail being dragged along her skull. She felt a twitching, a pain playing under her nailbeds, her claws desperate to snap out.

The classroom door slammed open. Lorelai stood in the doorway, and winced, before offering a charming smile, and walking on in. Lenore’s teeth cut into her lip, and a dribble of blood followed suit. Her head rung. Blood pumped in her ears, and her throat closed. She stumbled up, hearing voices ring around her. Lorelai’s face flashed in her vision, and she could see her talking, but couldn’t hear anything. She slipped past her. Once, she walked into the empty hallway, everything blurred around her, even Lorelai’s voice calling after her, and she sprinted.

Her footsteps pounded against the floor. Her breathing came quickly, and she felt like she had been shoved underwater. The world seemed to blur around her, twisting with the patterns of sunlight on water, and she felt like she was choking. Her stitches pulled tight as her muscles rippled, and her arm shifted painfully.

She paid little mind to it.

Her palm collided roughly with a wooden door, and it slammed shut behind her—she jolted, and felt the impact reverberate through her teeth. She let out a meek sound when the door shook in its frame. Her fingers dug into the bathroom counter, and the faux marble cracked beneath her grip. Her head snapped up the mirror when she heard a growl, and the shifting smoke of the wolf twisted her shadow, into something that the light didn’t cast.

“What do you want?” She asked breathlessly, between gasps of air. It didn’t speak, and the shadow simply shifted forward, slinking into Lenore’s figure. Then, she went limp, but the scalding pain didn’t come, she could feel it, though, holding her muscles rigid. Her head slammed against the tile floor, and the light blinked out, darkness blinked in, like a light switch flicked off.

When Lenore awoke, with her usual feverish heat making sweat bead from her forehead, she didn’t find herself in the bathroom, or in Nevermore at all—she wasn’t in the forsaken forest clearing either. Her head lolled against a concrete, scratch mark ridden floor, much like walls, built from the same white stone, and covered with scratches. Her boiling blood ran cold.

Panic thickened her throat, and the calming smell of cut grass fought against the choking smell of mistletoe. She quickly stood up, and felt the world shift on its axis, shaking her like an earthquake. “Why?” She asked herself, “why here? Again?” Her question was soon answered, in the form of the rumbling of thunder, pounding of rain against the hospital, and a strike of lighting—it blinded her momentarily, and her shadow disappeared for a flash.

“Oh,” a breath escaped her mouth, “that’s why,” realisation hit her like a freight train—she remembered this day, from the whip of lightning, crackle of thunder, and the moisture wicked by the walls. It was her fondest memory of this place. Lenore felt a familiar panic grow when the door slammed open, hitting the wall, and wobbling in its frame. She stepped back.

Faceless figures, dressed in scrubs and coats, swarmed by the door, “throw her in,” one said, and a scrappy, lanky girl was thrown in, she had grown tall, but her skin seemed stretched over bone from malnutrition—her features were sunken, hollow, and utterly haunted. The shadow of her youth lingered still, even with muscle rippling beneath her skin, and fat in her cheeks. The appearance of a startled deer hadn’t left her, though—it lingered in the distant look in her eye.

She crumbled at the floor, inches before her older self, and looked up, like she could see Lenore; then, her head snapped over the doctors when they spoke, “change,” he said, she shook her head violently, backing up to the wall, and sinking into it. “Don’t deny what you are. There’s something different about you, and I will find out what it is.” He said, “its either that, or…” he trailed off with a knife edge grin.

The cell went heavenly white again, only for a moment, then everything went dark, the lights flicking off, bulbs bursting, and glittering the floor with glass. Thunder growled, the air went still; Lenore stood, freedom lying metres from her, through the open door, and the panicking employees. She heard the buzzing of security doors opening, and muffled voices—she knew this was her chance.

She pushed off her heel, and tackled into them, forcefully shoving them down—her chest collided with the doctors. She loomed over him. Her fist cracked into his face, and blood flowed from his crushed nose. “I should kill you,” she breathed, an animalistic rage lighting her eyes. She stood up, on unsteady feet, set them a seething look, and ran for freedom.

Lenore swiftly found it, smashing through glass, rotted wood, and paint as she jumped through a second story window; her body crunched, and crushed a wooden flower box. She was dazed for a moment, before quickly regaining her wits. She crawled a few metres, then heard an alarm blare, and everything became a blur around her. She stood up, and sprinted forward, over wet grass, damp mud, which sprayed at her legs. She ran for miles, into the dark, further into the twisted forest.

Lenore’s head pounded. It had gotten worse, throbbing deeply in the back of her skull, and her vision was spotted by dark drifting shapes, harsh against the florescent light. She groaned, and slowly pulled herself up, stumbling—she braced herself on the counter; Lenore watched as her reflection doubled, then tripled beneath the light.

“Fuck,” she cradled her head, and screwed her eyes closed, “of all times to get a concussion.”

She clicked her phone on, and the time illuminated back at her, 3:10. It had only been thirty seconds, she hadn’t been out long. Her ears twitched, catching footsteps, and voices filtered through the walls; they were moving away from her, she sighed in relief. She inched open the door, and looked around before stepping into the empty hall.

—

Lenore kneeled down on the wooden floor, and single-handedly yanked the heavy suitcase out from under her bed; it scraped against the floor, and she unzipped it, revealing a single item left behind. It was a worn plush raccoon, missing an eye, with fluff falling out. She kicked her suitcase under her bed, and slipped into it.

She sunk beneath her covers, and turned off her lamp; darkness fell on the room, and she held her childhood toy against her chest like a life line. It wasn’t peaceful, even as she lay there, she could hear conversation through the walls, but couldn’t distinguish between the fractured voices of memories playing in her mind, and what was real.

Tension strung through her body, and her body trembled beneath the covers—she attempted to push away the biting voices, coming from faces she couldn’t remember, all she could recall were bleached smiles. They wouldn’t leave her mind, and the throbbing of her head didn’t help.

She didn’t react when her door opened, and Lorelai rushed in, breathing heavily, “what happened?” She asked harshly. Lenore stayed quiet, and felt the bed dip behind her; Lorelai’s hand hovered shakily over her shoulder, and she pulled back before she could touch her—a conflicted look played on her face.

“Nothing,” she murmured, “I fell, and hit my head.”

“Don’t bullshit me, you only get that raggedy thing out when you are well and truly fucked,” Lorelai said lowly, but her voice strained with supressed volume, “someone else might believe you, you’re a good liar, you’ve had to be, but I know you.”

Lenore looked over her shoulder, “I really did fall, I just- that door slamming…”

“It sent you back,” Lorelai concluded with a sigh.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“The day I got out of that place,” she said.

“You told me about that. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to you there.”

“It definitely was,” Lenore added.

Silence hung for a few moments, before Lenore spoke up again, in a whisper, “I didn’t remember how I looked then, I was so…”

“Small,” Lorelai said. “You really were, I wanted them dead when I saw you; you were rake thin, and that look in your eye, I still can’t forget it.” She looked down at Lenore, and they stared at each other for a moment, “it’s there now.”

Lenore closed her eyes momentarily, watching lights flash in the darkness, “I never believed in fate before then, but I think that’s why I got out of there.”

“Then, I thank fate. I never thought I would see you again, and it was killing me. I couldn’t even ask to visit. I couldn’t tell anyone how much I missed you.” Lorelai said, eyes glassing over, and she looked at the ceiling, “fuck,” she laughed bitterly, “I’m going to ruin my makeup.”

Lenore smiled softly, something bittersweet gleaming in her eyes, “I’m sorry. I know it was hard on you, I shouldn’t have—”

“—No, don’t do that. It might’ve been hard on me, but I know what you went through.” She said firmly. “Now, what happened? Why did you fall?”

“In the bathroom, I saw it.” She said, and Lorelai went stiff, a horror glazing across her eyes—Lenore could smell the dread billowing off her, like smoke from a wildfire, and Lorelai shifted away, subtly, but enough to notice. “I fainted, and cracked my head against the tile. It gave me a concussion.”

“You should go to the nurse,” she said. “Concussions take weeks to heal from, you should tell someone you need a day or two off at least.”

“When I shredded my back, I didn’t take time off. I’ve had a concussion before, it isn’t my first rodeo. It should take a day or two to heal.” Lenore said, and Lorelai gritted her teeth, standing up suddenly; she brushed a hand over her braids.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good. Why does every conversation with you become an argument?” She said, a little too loudly, and Lenore’s head seared with pain, “I’m going to tell the nurse, whether you want me to or not.”

Lenore didn’t have any energy to argue, “I won’t stop you.” She murmured, and the door closed as Lorelai left. 

—

Hi, exams are over, and I’m back.