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It is not a human kick that might break my nose and give me a concussion. No, it's strong enough that I can feel the front of my skull cave, nose crushed, jaw shattered, cheekbones splintering. If I were mortal, it would have killed me in one blow.
Cracking reverberates through my skull, followed by blood welling up in my mouth, though through the cataclysmic pain I can’t tell what it is that’s bleeding. I spit and watch a tooth splatter onto the bare concrete amidst thick gobs of blood.
I scream again, this time while trying to scramble to my feet. The wordhelpslurs on my split lips, garbled by my broken jaw, as if anyone would or could.
I’m still as fast as the most well trained human athlete but he is faster. He grabs me by my hair and yanks me up. His fist moves so fast a human might not have seen it, but I watch its hyperbolic curve as it flies towards my throat. My screams die in a pitiful retching sound as the force of his blow caves in my windpipe. Now I scream from pain, and suffocation, though nothing but choking comes out. Every inch of my body above the shoulders feels like it’s been in a head-on collision – raw, distorted, and more painful than I could have ever imagined.
He sighs like a mother that has heard her first moment of silence in days and drops me to the floor. “That’s better.”
Horrified, I clutch at my throat. It feels wrong and uneven under my hands. When I try to move my jaw, it seems to slip from its sockets and pull in the wrong direction. When I try to breathe, my lungs scream, tight and empty as if I am drowning. My hands come away slippery with blood.
Panicked, I scramble for the door. He lets me get all the way across the room before catching up and throwing me against the wall. “Will you settle down or do I need to break your legs?”
I don’t dare to move again. Frozen with pain and fear, I watch him saunter through the dusty room. There is half a counter left from the previous owners, cables sticking from holes in the walls. At the back, there was once a wall separating the shop from what looks like a kitchen, yellow tiles and one stainless-steel counter left. Now, the wall is nothing but a shin-high stump, steel rods sticking out into the dusty air.
“Do you like history, Deni?” He steps over the broken wall, turning his back on me.
With an ache, I think of Celeste’s library.No, I try to say, though it sounds only like wet, swollen lips smacking together. More blood drips from my face to the floor. It begins to dawn on me that I might have really screwed up.
This is the curse of immortality – for some, it means a life of beauty and wellbeing. For most, it means being forced to keep living in moments when you should no longer have to. To keep on living when the body has been disassembled, into gorey mush or dust, when your lungs have collapsed and your brain stopped firing – as long as your head is still on your shoulders and there is no stake in your heart.
He bends over something in the kitchen and I take the moment to pull my feet under me. I need to get out. It’s hard to orient myself as my left eye socket is busted and the other has begun to swell, but I manage to stumble towards the door. A loud clanking noise makes me look back. He is standing among the rubble, twirling a broken metal pipe in his hand, concrete lumps still stuck to it where he pulled it from the wall. His grin when he meets my eyes is animalistic and wild.
My hands find the doorhandle and for one sweet moment I might make it – then he is behind me again.He’s so fast.He grabs me by the shoulder and hurls me back. I land on the remains of the wall, my back cracking as it snaps over the concrete stump. I roll over and slump to the floor, choking on my blood, the muscles of my back screaming.
He steps over me slowly. “I think there is a lot to learn from history.” With a menacing smile, he squats down. I flinch as he runs the bent end of the metal pipe over my cheek. “All this ‘hashtag justice-for-witches’ nonsense seems to have given witches the impression that they can get away with anything nowadays. They think because they’re descendant from Hecate or whatever rubbish it is they believe, they are better than us.”
His hand shoots forward and he grabs my face, his fingers digging into the swollen flesh of my cheeks. I can feel where the two halves of my fractured jaw grind past each other. Stars dance before my eyes as he forces me to look at him.
“I’m sure you know that humans used to burn witches. You want to know what they don’t tell you in history class? Humans might have been dumb enough to burn witches but us? We used toenslavethem. That is the natural order of things. Vampires aren’t meant to grovel in the dirt like animals.” He jerks my head forward as if to underline his point. “You’re here right now because you’re too weak and cowardly to take what is rightfully yours. Blood is meant to betaken, not begged for. And as if that isn’t pathetic enough you cuck yourself out to some witch like her little puppet.” He grimaces and spits on the floor.
The words roll off me like rain, my mind too occupied with the pain to comprehend what he’s saying.
He leans in, his breath cooling the blood that is going sticky on my face. “Should she ever find you, tell Celeste that she has no idea what’s coming for her. If she’s smart, she’ll leave this city and never come back.”
Should she ever find you.It never even occurred to me that I might be lying here for weeks before someone discovers me, half-dead but unable to die. This pushes me to make one more attempt at fleeing, hoisting myself up even though the muscles in my back seem to be crushed. He laughs and shoves me back down with ease.
The pipe comes down in hard, even blows. He could make this faster but seems to be taking his time, enjoying himself. In the beginning, I still try to shield myself, raising my arms and pulling up my knees to protect my vulnerable stomach. But his attacks are hard enough to break my arms and the ribs beneath them in one hit, like being struck by a car – except he does it over, and over, and over again.
I hate the sensation of fainting, I’ve always hated it. The cold shivers, the tunneling vision. Now, I pray for the mercy of unconsciousness. I’ve never wanted death more. If there is such a thing as hell, I’m sure this is it, having to feel and feel and feel. Each blow results in a cracking sound, or the wet sound of skin splitting.
Somewhere, through the absurd, almost insanity-inducing amount of pain, I remember something Celeste said.Thinking of a witch is like calling her name.As my body flinches and shakes, not from the strength of its own muscles but under the force of the blows landing on it, I try to conjure up her image. The vivid auburn of her hair, the shimmer of the city reflecting in her bright blue eyes, the deep velvet of her voice.
In time, I can no longer tell when the pipe hits me. It makes no difference, as there is no part of me left that isn’t broken and already burning hot and bright with pain. I can no longer feel the floor beneath me or hear the sound of my body being ground into pulp. There is only pain, and at the core of it, a tiny fraction of my mind clings to the image of a beautiful woman who can light a fire with the snap of her fingers. It is like a mantra keeping me anchored to reality.Celeste. Celeste. Celeste.
13. POOR, POOR KITTEN
It’s hard to say whether I lie there for an hour or a year. At times, it feels like I have always been here and will remain here for the rest of time.
And then, through the veil of agony, comes a slow, quiet, creeping cold. It sinks through me, soothing the pain, easing the madness. Reality comes back, even if only a little. I can tell that my head is still above my shoulders, my legs beneath my torso, my arms… well, they are present, anyway. Through my swollen eyes and the blood crusted around them, I can see movement, blurry and confusing.
Something touches my face, gentle and soft. It feels like cool water in the throat of the parched. “Oh, poor kitten.” Celeste’s voice is like music.
I try to say something –helloperhaps, or something equally mundane. My mouth makes a wet, blubbering sound.
“Sssshh.”
My body is lifted. It doesn’t feel right, bent at all the wrong angles, but at least the pain is distant now.
