I turned and promptly vomited, the images of the small dead bodies, Winona’s gasping breaths, and Ranbir’s raw screams bombarding me. My leg poured blood onto the white floors, and my sick stained the walls. Still, the only thing I could think was that this death, this brokenness, this disaster, was my fault. I brought horror upon this sweet and unsuspecting place.
All of it was enough to send me down a spiral.
With my throat on fire, my fingers throbbing, and my stomach twisted, I took the stool in front of the instrument and threw it against the wall. The white quartz chipped but held steady, wood from the seat splintering off in pieces. I grabbed the largest chunk of the chair, and with an unbearable amount of anger and self-loathing, I began smashing the pianoforte.
Chapter Six
Asher
Perhaps I would always be haunted by the smell of burning bodies.
Chapter Seven
Bellamy
What were goodbyes if not the end?
II
Act II
~ To Lead ~
Chapter Eight
Asher
It had been one month since I had chai.
What a foolish thing, to hide behind lies and boats and bottles of mead. To pretend one is anything other than the monster they were born to be. To whisper to oneself that life is made of pain and joy and the molding of the two—that fault and failure are a balance of success and triumph.
For so long, I had done that. Convinced myself that I could recover from every misstep, that my mistakes would be redeemed by my fight to save a broken world. Up until that very moment, I had drowned my mind in liquor and pain and planning.
Yet as I looked down on my fingers, now whole once more save for the small scars that stood out in stark contrast to my olive skin, I realized how wrong I had been.
The nausea in my stomach came not only from the rocking ship as waves barreled into it, but also from the recollection of the dead and hollow look in Ranbir’s eyes as he had fixed these very fingers. The gasp he had made when he later healed my bleeding arms.
No, I had not had chai in quite some time. How could I when memories of Ranbir’s smiling face and Winona’s soft touch plagued the taste of those spices?
“Hey, little brat, are you still sulking about being cut off?”
I sighed, looking up to meet Henry’s moss green eyes, his orange hair at startling odds with the dull blue-gray water and the faded wood surrounding us. Stubble littered his tan face, growing out now that he no longer had Winona to cut it. A part of me wondered if he refused to do so because he could not bring himself to have such an act be done by anyone but the green-haired Sun.
He was staring down at me, a smirk on his freckled face despite the clear concern that pinched his brow.
It seemed I had taken to drinking too much, and pumpkin, here, was not impressed.
“Do not look at me like I am some fragile addict who is constantly five seconds away from offing themself,” I hissed.
“Are you not?”
At that precise moment, a wave smashed into the boat with enough force to set me off balance, and my stomach decided that it was not willing to contain the bread and coffee from earlier. I clutched for the edge, leaning over and vomiting.
Henry’s hands found my body, holding up my hair and rubbing soothing circles on my back. When I stopped heaving, I wiped my mouth, gasping for fresh air and picturing solid ground.
At least this time I was not puking up rum.
“At least this time you are not puking up mead.”
