chapter-I
“Fuck,” Jerking upward, Reyhn curses.
His mind is static, his vision blurs. It feels like a pair of hands is squeezing his head. He lets out a sound, a mix of a whimper and a grunt.
“I…” Reyhn murmurs, his vision clearing.
Everything twists around him. He breathes slowly, eyes darting around the room for something. On a bed, in a cell that looked more like an apartment left unclean for too long. Right. He’s a prisoner…on death-row.
Orange light consumes his vision. A cabin appears in front of him. Familiar. Flame springs into the air, the night turning day.
Look at what you’ve done. And now, you choose to complain?
He tries to rub his eyes, and winces. His hand tingles sharply, and he flexes it. The feeling barely dissipates. All his joints begin to crackle with pain.
“Goddamn it.” he groans, falling back into the mattress.
A screech–a woman–tears into the scorching air. It sounds dry, dead, and molten. The scent of burning wood and hair stings his nostrils. His face could melt off at the heat in front of him. Screams get quieter, the crashing of wood drowns it out.
You need to get over it.
“Nghn–” a pathetic sound. “Not…not again. Please.”
His throat feels like someone made him swallow gravel. Every word burns.
Reyhn sits on the grass, legs folded beneath him, his arms stuck to his side. Burning debris fall dangerously close to him. He still can’t move a finger. A cold hand plants onto his shoulder, and before he could turn to see who, it stops. Cold, dark, nothingness.
After all, nobody can take back burning their own mother.
He curls into a fetal position, turning to the side. A sheen of sweat covers him. Reyhn constantly switches positions, settling with laying on his chest, his legs sprawled out awkwardly, and his arms folded under himself. His feet dangle off the mattress.
‘BEEP.’ an annoying sound rings out.
With struggle, Reyhn looks up at the clock. ‘6:00AM’ it screams, with bright letters that make his already aching eyes water. He inhales, shoulders shooting with pain when he flips himself over.
“Get up.” Reyhn uses a hoarse voice, rough from lack of use.
He shuts his eyes closed, trying to ignore every ache thumping into his joints. He tries to sit up, but ultimately falls back down into the bed. Instead, he props himself up by the elbows, dragging himself backwards until his back touches the wall.
Reyhn tilts his head up slightly, looking into the ceiling. It’s dark, and makes everything else feel so, so, so, much larger. He turns away, swallowing a lump in his throat.
He distracts himself with his side table, a block of metal painted to look like marble. The digital clock flickers its shiny red. Used paper with scribbles he forgot he even drew almost fly away, if not for the pen barely holding them down. A pill bottle…
Oh. Medicine. He needs it, right? Reyhn doesn’t touch them, blinking like the orange bottle would walk to him. With unsteady fingers, he reaches out and snatches the poor thing.
He shakes a few pills into his hand, not bothering to count how many. His eyes do a deep-search of the room, looking for something to drink. Nope, not a single glass of water in sight.
With a small, ‘meh,’ Reyhn presses his palm against his mouth. His throat flares worse than before, no cooling beverage to calm his throat down. He coughs, making it worse
‘It doesn’t compare,’ he thinks. ‘Not to…’
“...Mom.” he whispers, the word coming out awkwardly.
Nothing would compare to her pain. Simply uttering the word, ‘mom,’ feels wrong.
Does her voice still sound in your head?
A thought that wasn’t his own speaks. It’s lacey and serpent-like, that of a demon. Reyhn could almost imagine a forked tongue darting out to taste the air.
If only he could kill off that stupid voice. The pills were supposed to stop it, but over the years, it’s been getting worse. At this point, the small capsules act like duct tape over a pothole.
He usually wonders, there’s probably a better treatment for this. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Reyhn barely had a week left on his life, and why waste some time and money on somebody who’ll die soon?
Sometimes, he imagines where they’d be if there was an afterlife. Would she turn him away? Would she hate him? Or, would she blame him ’till the very end?
Why would she want her son to die in regret?
Reyhn sighs, glaring at the space between his spread-out knees.
“Shut up.” he mutters.
He’s gotten used to it. It’s annoying, but it offers comfort. No matter how ill-sounded it may be.
She doesn’t resent you.
He chuckles, the sound rasp and hollow. “I wish I could believe that.”
For some reason, he waits. Waiting for something. Anything. Waiting for some kind of magic to appear and send him back in time and tell him it was just a dream.
…Nothing.
Air hisses through Reyhns’s teeth, letting out a breath he forgot he even held. He examines the pill container, rolling it back-and-forth along his palm. It’s plastic, the body orange and the lid and faded label white.
Get up.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Reyhn barks.
Yet, he lifts his legs to the side of the bed. His feet press against the painted floor. The freezing metal turns his toes to ice. At least it makes him feel more alive.
Slowly standing, his limbs wobble. He’s sure he’s been stronger, but who knows how long ago that was?
‘It’s just dread,’ he thinks.
Maybe, just maybe he’s right this one time. Maybe it’s dread from losing his life sooner than he’d expected. Maybe. For some twisted reason, it’s the best comfort he has.
…
Reyhn stumbles into the bathroom, his fingers twitching on the wall for support. He almost trips, his knees buckling.
He faces the large mirror, and he sees himself completely.
The almost-spitting image of his mother. Dark, mid-length hair that reddens under the yellow light. Defined jaw, with freckles lightly scattered against its skin. His figure is tall, and his grey pupils are smoky in color.
Almost.
Hair is unkempt, who bothers brushing when you’re too busy laying in bed? His skin is stretchy and pale, dotted with scars and lines.
His hands aren’t an exception, his left palm suffers from bad stitches and small bumps. His cheeks are hollow, his hooded eyes covered by dark circles around the burn marks under his eyes.
By God, how he hates that reflection. So similar to her, and so different, like he’s a broken version of a pristine toy. The longer he stares, the more he sees her.
“No…” he murmurs.
Reyhn shifts his gaze to the sink. His hands grip the sink edge so hard, his knuckles turn white. With a shuddering breath, he grabs an extra towel, draping it over the mirror. It doesn’t cover the surface completely, but it’s good enough.
Calming himself down, his gaze sears into the cloth. It’s boring, but he holds it up for a while. A lone fly lands on his nose, and Reyhn almost jumps. He shakes his head, and it zooms off elsewhere.
He brushes his teeth, using his forearm to wipe his face after. When he glances at the shower, he pauses, itching to wash away his dirt and grime. Reyhn strips down and grabs another towel from a rather decorated metal hook.
He steps into the cramped shower.
Lucky him. The water is hot today. Too hot, actually. While his skin burns, Reyhn endures it, scrubbing himself down with some cheap soap. Small bubbles float about as he does so.
He finishes quickly. As he steps out, his arms instinctively wrap around him. His entire body trembles, the warm humid air replaced by a freezing breeze. He wraps the towel around his waist, tucking in a small section to secure it.
He takes smaller towel and drops it onto his head. Reyhn dips to grab his older, discarded clothes and shoots it into a laundry bin.
Opening the door, he almost slams it shut. It’s even colder outside. He sprints to the bedroom, barely saving himself from slipping. Stopping at the door, he messes with the knob and enters.
He rips his closet door open, hands fumbling through clothes to find something warm. Reyhn suits himself into a long-sleeve and pants, wondering how he’d survived in just a tank top and shorts a while ago.
He sighs in relief at the warmth. Taking a hanger, he shoves the towel into it, hooking it into the closet knob. Turning around, he massages his head through the small towel.
‘6:53’ the dark clock flickered.
“Hn,” Reyhn grunts, like the clock would respond.
He finds his way into the ‘living’ room. Almost the entirety of it is thrashed and ruined–something he did the first day he got here. The bean bag is ripped apart, its insides left uncleaned on the floor. The only unscathed item is the couch.
The prison always sends food to his quarters when he sleeps, he wonders how they reacted when they saw the mess he made. There’s a plate on a table. It’s filled with things to eat, but Reyhn settles for a sandwich sliced in half. It’s better than he thought it would be, but that doesn’t mean it’s good.
Plopping himself onto the couch, a loud, screech-like buzz from a microphone comes on.
“What is it–”
“Hello, prisoners of the beloved Luetzy Prison!” A smooth, masculine voice comes on. “I’m your new, and final announcer, Kristian Synclare!”
“–this time?” Reyhn finishes his sentence. “Kristian?”
“Now that that’s out of the way…All death row inmates from MS-1-20, kindly exit your chambers.” Kristian says, sounding more like a TV host than a prison announcer.
“And don’t any of you dare try anything. Your head will be blown off as fast as a flash!” he said too happily.
Trying to ignore the few shots Reyhn hears outside, he thinks back to the past, when they first met. His mind is blurry, but he can make out lights.
A festival. He’s been there with Kristian since the day they first met. Knitting his eyebrows together, Reyhn sorts his memories.
Oh, yes. Now, he remembers…
-chapter-Id
