Page 111 of Florescentia

Every pang of my heart, a dinner bell.

The thorax opened, cracking and crunching as the exoskeleton parted down the middle and revealed one set of teeth, then another.

I ran. By the stars, I ran; I didn’t even have time to think.

The ground cut my feet, my legs numb to whatever came in their way. The willow branches crashed around me, scraping against my body in my narrow escape, only a pull of hair to mark their efforts.

The arachnid was like someone was shaking a bag of chicken bones, rattling as it hurled after me. I jumped a log and went deeper into the forest, trees appearing as soon as they came into my vision, the scenery spawning when in proximity, just to disappear in my peripheral vision.

A shriek behind me, the ground shaking under my bare feet.

I didn’t know if it was worth hiding; I supposed it could have found me through other senses alone. So I went where my legs carried me. Twigs and woody weeds whipped against my legs, the burn barely noticeable between the itch in my muscles and the heat of my skin.

Up ahead was a bare parting in the trees. Nothing but the stars in the horizon.

A cliff.

I looked behind me. The beast’s legs clawing at the ground, its body bouncing back whenever it bumped into trees and fallen logs. The claws reached for me with every gallop.

The edge of the cliff was getting closer, faster.

Suddenly, I dropped.

The wind was knocked from my lungs as my chest hit the ground, the gravel burning as my cheek slid across the sediment of rocks and dust.

The black blur of the beast darted over me, though it attempted to reach back, to pivot. Its claws dug into the dirt, slicing the earth to anchor.

My face pressed into the ground, and I wrenched my eyes closed so I wouldn’t have to witness what would become of me. Dirt collected under my nails in anticipation, my last attempt at grounding.

But nothing came.

Pieces of dirt fell from my forehead when I finally lifted my face.

The path had been carved with wild talon trenches, pulled-up roots and rocks in its wake until the tracks ended at the ledge.

My legs wouldn’t move, so I dragged myself to the edge, afraid to stand, as if something would swoop over me.

When my hand touched the ledge, the dirt and rocks loosened and fell.

I waited for the sound of the debris at the bottom, but everything was quiet once more.

I dragged my body forward until I could peek down the face of the cliff, into darkness. Claw marks tracked down the side. Moist, newly turned dirt from the predator I’d narrowly escaped, then some that were much older and dry.

With shaky hands, I pushed my body away from the unstable ridge. Sweat mixed with the grime of the dirt and blood from my cuts. I sat down, brushing my hair back as I caught my breath.

My combinations were stained with black dirt. My knees were beaten, there was a deep gash in my calf, and throbbing from when my head hit the ground had put me in an unproductive trance. Flashes of fleshy imagery blocked my mind the minute I saw my leg. The blood was bringing back terrible memories, overwhelming my senses. The last time I’d seen such blood permeated the forefront of my mind.

The red, stringy muscles. The membrane that surrounded an eye. The way skin looked when devoid of blood. How bodies smelled when sanitized by the mortuary. The way Dorian looked, so cold on the slab.

I buried my face in my knees, pulling them close.

My breaths came hard at first, ragged and stinging my throat in a dry strain. I had to calm myself by thinking of the ocean. I thought of the sound of waves, of starving gulls and faraway ships. Then other water-like pleasures—baths, the feeling of a freshly cleaned face, iris oils, a crisp spritz with fresh-slapped mint.

A breeze picked up, brushing my hair behind me. When I looked up, the darkness called. It may not have been literal, but I felt it. Like the way you feel sun on your face, a phantom pain, or the wound of someone missing. It was there, and it called to me. But it was not sad or horrific like my last call to the depths. It was peace.

But I did not answer it, not this time.

I let the wind touch my face, to wipe the sweat from my brow and cool my skin.