Dead Flesh

With the bathroom in near darkness, I brought my face close to the mirror fixed to the wall above the sink and stared into it. My face now looked just as it had before dying, not deformed and misshapen like it had when waking in the mortuary. To look at me, I appeared normal, my bright hazel eyes losing none of their sparkle, my skin pale as always, but without blemish. I dropped the blanket from around my shoulders, letting it flutter to the tiled floor. I rolled back my shoulders and my wings unfolded from my back. They were as black as ever, those bony fingers folded into fists at the tip of each wing. I looked at my fingers and my claws appeared like a set of knives, and my mouth filled with blood as my fangs drew down from my gums. I looked at my naked reflection, at the half-breed staring back at me, and there were cracks. Not on the surface of the mirror, but on me. I’d first noticed them on the morning after fleeing the mortuary. All of us had slept in, and I had woken to find Potter lying next to me, his head resting against my chest.



I had gently eased myself away, not wanting to wake him. Once in the bathroom, I had looked at myself in the mirror. I’d wanted to know if being dead had changed me. Did I still have my wings, my claws, my fangs? And yes I did, but there was something else. When in my true half-breed form, there were now cracks. With my fingertips, I touched the skin covering my left cheekbone. The cracks were very faint, barely visible, but they were there. Like the tiny cracks you get at the bottom of a very old china teacup. There were others, too. A network of cracks like a very faint spider’s web, covered my neck, shoulders, and down between my breasts, over the flat of my stomach and down across my thighs. I rubbed at them, then snapped my hand away. I looked at the dust-like powder that now covered my fingers. I rubbed my fingertips together in a circular motion and it felt as if they were covered in ash.



Potter had stirred in the other room, and I swung the bathroom door closed. I didn’t want him to see me like this. What was happening to me? Like I said, it was as if I were cracking up.



That had been six weeks ago, and now as I looked in the mirror, the cracks were still there, more visible, as if deeper somehow, giving me an ancient-looking appearance. From a distance they looked like wrinkles, the kind that I shouldn’t be finding until my late fifties – but I was never going to reach my late fifties, right? Now that I was dead, was I going to age? Was I going to stay at the age of twenty for the rest of eternity? Every young girl’s dream – but not mine. I knew deep inside of me I wouldn’t last another fifty years alive or dead. Whatever curse or blessing the Elders had cast upon me wasn’t for eternity – it was for now. How long was now? Weeks, months, years, before I cracked up totally and turned into a pile of ash – just like the palace where I had died?



I just had this feeling, like a knot in my stomach, that I was back from the dead for a limited period of time. But why bring me back at all? Why bring any of us back? Couldn’t we have been left to rest in peace? I mean, isn’t that the whole point of dying – that we finally find peace? Was bringing me back just a punishment for failing to make my choice? No. I didn’t believe that. Why punish Potter, Isidor, and Kayla too? I had been brought back for a reason – we all had.



I turned off the taps and changing back, I took my iPod from the shelf and slipped into the water. Turning it on, I thumbed through the tracks, and closing my eyes, I lay back and listened to Leona Lewis sing Happy.



Chapter Two



Kayla



Lot 13 tasted bitter, as usual, but I screwed up my nose as it slowly rolled down the back of my throat. It was disgusting and nothing like real blood. The real stuff - the red stuff - was lovely. Lot 13 was like Diet Coke - the red stuff was like the full-fat version. There was no comparison. But it was better than nothing and it dulled that constant itch that wouldn’t go away. But that itch, the one that drove me half-crazy at times, seemed like a mild irritation today - like a wasp hovering around your ice cream, compared to the noise.



I could hear Kiera going to her bathroom, even from my room all the way down the hall. The sound of the water rushing from the taps and filling the bath was almost deafening and I wanted to scream at her to turn them off. But there had been a lot that I had wanted to scream about lately, so taking one of my pillows, I buried my head beneath it. With the pillow smothering my face and ears, I could still hear the sound of Kiera’s blanket flutter to the floor. She stopped and I knew that she was looking at herself in the mirror again. Not out of vanity - Kiera wasn’t like that - she was looking at something else. I didn’t know what, but I knew that she was staring at herself again. I could see it in her eyes. Kiera hadn’t been the same since coming back - but then again, I don’t think any of us had been the same.



I heard Kiera climb into the bath and at last, the sound of running water stopped. My hearing wasn’t usually this intense - but whenever I got upset - angry or frightened, the sounds around me became louder - oh yeah - loud wasn’t the word. Sometimes I felt like stuffing my fingers into my ears and screaming. There had always been a soundtrack, as I had called it, since the age of six - a faint background noise, like someone whispering at me from behind a wall. But sometimes it intensified and was worse than deafening. And it was like that today and had been since I’d come back from The Hollows - the dead.



Listening to music helped and I was forever swiping Kiera’s iPod - the music helped to drown out the soundtrack. But Kiera had it now - she was listening to it in the bath. I could hear the music hissing from beneath my pillow. I had my own but it was busted. Dropped it throwing a hissy-fit at my mum and cracked the screen - the thing was screwed after that.



And I knew it was because of my mother, my father and…I didn’t want to think of the other one’s name, that the soundtrack had been cranked up to full. Since being back from The Hollows, I’d had time to think - reflect about everything that had happened there. I’d wanted to come back here, it had been my idea, it was my home. But to walk the quiet corridors and passageways, to sit alone in the vast kitchen, and walk the grounds had made me think of the ones I had loved and lost…because of him.



I was angry - no - I was fucking raging inside. Even though I was dead I could still feel things – pain. I still hurt. But even though he humiliated me, cut my ears off and then murdered me, I knew that I was angrier at myself than him. How had I been so dumb? Why had I been so flattered by the words that he had whispered? And I knew the answer to those questions - I had been desperate. I had been desperate for the red stuff that he had supplied me. But even more desperate to be loved. I had lost my mother and father but I had found a brother - Isidor. Why hadn’t I turned to him? Even when he tried to warn me, I didn’t listen. For someone who can sometimes hear too much - I had failed to hear my brother’s warnings and that’s why I was freaking angry with myself.



But hey, Kayla, you’re alive, girl - you came back from the dead - you got another shot. But not really. I’m still dead, right? The Elders told me I was a Dark Angel - a dead angel more like. And what exactly was a dark angel? What was I brought back for? To help protect Kiera, they had told me. Protect her from what? I mean, Kiera didn’t need looking after - I’d seen her kick more Vampyrus butt than I cared to remember; she looked after Kiera and I wished that I could be more like her. Kiera was my protector - she was my friend, my sister.



Maybe Kiera didn’t need that kind of protection - the fang-ripping and clawing, tearing kind. Maybe she just needed a friend? Someone to be there for her - to be there for each other. Like I said, I knew she was troubled by something - the walls of her room were covered from floor to ceiling in those newspaper cuttings. It was like she was looking for something. I knew she didn’t know what, exactly, but I knew that she would see it eventually.



The soundtrack had started to fade a little, so pulling the pillow from over my head, I climbed from my bed and padded across my bedroom to the large bay windows leading to the balcony. I pulled back the curtains a fraction and peered outside. The day looked miserable again and I had forgotten how bleak this place could be in the winter…spring…oh, who was I trying to kid? The place was freaking bleak all year round.



From my window, I spied Isidor coming back through the woods carrying an armful of branches. His dark hair was swept off his brow and his Shaggy-Doo beard jutted from his chin. He hated it when I called it that. That’s what Potter called it and was always taking the piss. And that was another thing - being dead hadn’t stopped those two from bitching at one another. They were constantly at each other’s throats. But Isidor hit back just as hard as Potter now, or should I say Gabriel! I couldn’t help but snigger aloud every time Isidor taunted him. Seeing Potter get wound up had been my happiest moments since coming back.



I watched Isidor drop the pile of branches onto the drive at the foot of the steps that led to the front door. He took a flick-knife from the pocket of his jeans and sat down where he began to sharpen them. Pulling on a pair of jogging bottoms, trainers, and a sweatshirt, I left my room to join him.



“What are you doing, Isidor?” I asked, sitting beside him on the step.



“Making stakes,” he said back, as he carved away at the tips of the branches.



“Why?” I asked.



“Why not?” he smiled at me, then went back to the sharpening. “What else is there to do around here?”



“Don’t tell me you’re missing The Hollows and what happened there?” I half-smiled, placing my arm about his shoulder.



“It’s because of what happened there that I’m making these stakes,” Isidor said, not looking at me.



“I don’t understand?” I said. “That’s all finished with now, we’re safe here. Besides, we’re dead already - how can we die twice?”



Then, stopping what he was doing, Isidor turned to face me. “You’ve noticed the changes, right?”



“I guess,” I said, looking straight at him.



“Then I don’t think we’re safe - dead or alive,” and he went back to his cutting.