Vengeance (Burning Beliefs #2)

Chapter Twelve *edited*

SERENA'S POV

It's the feeling of being trapped. Every bone broken in your body, your eyes darting to whatever silver sliver of light cracks through the eternal ebony. Every darkness you've ever felt consumes you. You don't know where you are, you don't know how much time you've spent in here. How many days, how many years, how many months, how many little tickings of the clock, they all meld into one. A sloppy mixture of everything happening at the same time as nothing happening. Breathing becomes a very concious thing; because you haven't seen what you look like. You don't know how old. You don't know how young, how sick, how deprived, how absolutely blind you are. You don't know which breath will be your last.

Except I'm not buried alive. I'm not timeless, mindless, underneath the ground. My grave has been dug, inside of my mind. The pictures in my head, so dark that sometimes I have dreams of walking through darkness and it feels the same as walking in the sun.

The only thing keeping me human, at least part-human, is holding onto Gracie. And onto my dad. And onto Sam and Dean, and Zach. All of the people who would never leave me behind, never break my heart, never disappoint me because we are all equally bad.

So much blood has run over my hands that they've stained red. I look at the crackled scarlet at the edges of my fingernails, and I pick it off when I can't sleep at night. I burn if I stay under the covers, so I shove them to the ground. I sit straight, my back to the mattress, and close my eyes. I try and picture them. Try and picture what they're doing now. I daydream of finally kissing Zach again, of tasting cupcakes, of bear-hugging Uncle Sam and Dean, and Disney marathons and ice cream with Gracie. Everything I can't have is what I strive for.

As I am right now, trapped in this dark state of mind, in this twisted reality, I am hopeless, lifeless, loveless, and simply less of me.

A Victorian hotel. A large grandfather clock striking twelve times. My room smells like wood polish, and charcoal. The loud clangs paint themselves over every corner of the entire estate, everywhere and everything, but it's untouchable.

The fire starts up on its own. I have the 'presidential suite', with a large canopy bed, and a Narnian wardrobe, plush pink satin chairs positioned in front of a Turkish rug, set before a grand white fireplace.

A leather armchair is occupied by the King. I climb silently out of bed, and sit down across from him. I've learned not to protest. It's proven worthless.

"There is a final assignment for you," his eyes reflect the cold, collected hatred behind the flames.

"Final," I repeat dexterously.

"It will be challenging," his irises flicker into the depths of mine. "It's not an easy job."

"Where is it?"

"The warehouse."

We flash out.

Both of us are standing still in a darkened alley between walls made of wooden crates. The ceiling is unfinished, the tarps torn, the frozen stars twinkling a million miles away.

There isn't a single spectrum of manufactured light in the place. It's entirely dark. It's ornamented in shadows. The moonlight wavers like warm milk across the pavement, silver and bluish paintbrushes blending and blurring and mixing. The broken lights above us swing on rusted chains. It's cold in here, mid-Autumn cold, with a spice of a breeze that makes your skin prickle.

"Where are we?" I ask, running my fingers over a crate. They're covered in dust.

"Ohio," he says.

He starts walking down the pathway. I follow him steadily.

We weave through the sporadic maze, footstep by footstep, hearing our own breath echoed against the concrete, until we're at a clearing. Kind of. Boxes have been pushed to the side, leaving the stained cement floor completely open. Spraypainted red and blue figures cover the window like posters, graphiti the floor, and script the boxes surrounding us.