Short chapter. I think this event should stand alone, though.
24 – Burial
For the first time in a month, a noise stirred the garden: Parlay’s slim form entered from the six-tree hex door. Her hair was greasy and short and uneven; her clothes were crooked and tinged with stains.
“Nobody,” she said, looking at the lush plants bordering the path. “There’s nobody left.”
Her shoe crunched on an empty rory shell and she dropped her gaze down. With raw, pink eyes she saw the tiny husks speckling the stone.
“And I can’t get away from it, can I?” she asked. “There’ll always be something,” she said, raising her foot and smashing another. “Something here to remind me of all the people I failed.”
She marched ahead, running her hand across the grasses, flowers, and reeds at her side. As she brushed them they twisted and the color faded; the moisture bled out, shimmering in the sun. For every plant that she touched the similar kinds were effected, every kind that decorated every spot. The garden rustled and cracked as she walked: branches falling and buds bursting from their stems. As she reached the front stairs the way behind her was dead.
“This is my great prize––for being so nice,” she uttered, pushing the door open. A small package sat on the foyer table. She picked it up with a swipe. The label read “To: Mean.”
“Friends I can’t ever see again,” she cried, flinging the box across the room. “People that understood me for one, stupid day!”
Tears trickled from her eyes and she rubbed with her palm. She laughed through a sob, snapping up an amulet from the table. Squeezing it tight, vein oozed out between her fingers.
“Are you watching?” she shouted into the vast room. She drew out the red matter into a crude, jagged blade. “This is funny to you, right!?”
She swung the vein and hacked into the table: leaving deep dents in the wood. Pieces of vein shattered off as she flailed at everything around her––the couch, the wall, the piano––fragmenting all over the floor until a cracked stump was left. She hissed through her teeth at the rest of the room as the red pieces writhed between the tiled floor, sinking into the cracks. A slow groan worked its way up through the mansion’s high walls, and the chandelier above Parlay shook.
“I just want it to end,” she said as the walls broke open: flashes of red tearing through. Sharp spines pressed up through the floor, growing up through the couch and the furniture; tearing it all into shreds. The pots surrounding the pit with the lily all jumped as the vein went in: They shook and shattered, spilling the dirt in every direction along with the leafy plants they held. The chandelier’s chain snapped and the golden frame fell with a clang to the floor, where it was wrenched apart the minute it landed. The room filled with the whirring of the bladed vein teeth; every object was shredded and Parlay moved through the dust.
“I don’t want want to be me anymore,” she said, walking into the pit where the lily was. She fell upon the brown leaves and clutched at her hair, drawing her legs in and sobbing.
“I don’t want to remember––” she cried out as her skin split and shifted. “I don’t want to think; I don’t want to remember.”
The dust covered her and the vein withdrew. Her sobs gave way to deep laughter.
Parlay comes home to her mansion after spending a month searching for survivors. Depressed and distraught, she kills everything in her garden. After entering her house she destroys everything there and buries the person she was.
For the first time in a month, a noise stirred the garden: Parlay’s slim form entered from the six-tree hex door.
I should probably say “A month after the disaster” or something. I hate to be so direct, but with all the skipping through time and different versions of Parlay I should probably just make everything clear from the start.
“There’ll always be something,” she said, raising her foot and smashing another.
Smashing another foot? I forgot the target noun again. One word: that’s all it takes, man!
For every plant that she touched the similar kinds were effected….
YES MATT I KNOW. I meant “affected.” I’ll still be disappointed if you don’t send me a text message about this, though.
Sharp spines pressed up through the floor, growing up through the couch and the furniture; tearing it all into shreds.
MORE things exploding that aren’t described well enough. Smashing things in a rage is something I enjoy, though. Oops–I mean I enjoy WRITING about smashing things in a rage. Ha ha.