The Cycle

Chapter Fourteen

MYRA’S glow faded, so did her words, but they'd shined light in a place she would rather it remain hidden. It forced her to acknowledge the future which laid beyond her current circumstance. Not an obligation, but responsibility, to herself and those around her. She could reshape her life — though she was not ashamed of who she was; could change things for others — become an example for her younger sister; could no longer hide behind lies disguised as truth — the universe was against her; could no longer cry, 'the light have deserted me.' — create the light she desired; could tear down her perceived inadequacies, and become, as had been pointed at, the person she had the potential to become.

    "What if I just want my life back?" The rushing waters said otherwise. "Fade into obscurity? "

    "Then I should be hunting those creatures."

    The flickering candle flames drew her attention. "You should know, I did not save you in that world, I meant to leave you behind, in fact, I left you. At least, I thought I did."

    "I know, I saw you."

    Mabel wiggled her fingers, clenched and unclenched them. The next steps she would take would draw her closer to the myth of the third charm. Would it spring up and snare her, or . . .

    She faced Myra, and for a brief moment, her eyes wondered the dim lit space in search of Abigail. She forgot. Abigail, had left. "You said, my pain is your pain. I never thought Abigail would—"

    "Don't judge her."

    "I'm not. I just . . . "

    "These may not be the correct words," said Myra, "but, Abigail, and a great majority in Eden, are sheltered from the harsh reality of this world. After so long in Eden, they forget the pain and the struggle of living, of fighting to see the next day, hoping it comes with a semblance of hope. Sure, behind everyone, despite their smiles, lies a ghost they don't want to remember . . ." She paused, like she wanted to say more; sighed, then went silent.

    "And you? What's your story?" Mabel asked.

    "Uninteresting."

    "Lovely, I'm stuck in a space saturated with the sick smell of blood, the stench of rotting corpse; graced with the presence of a woman whom I should be cautious of, yet pray she might divine a way forward for me — maybe your story gives me hope that I'll be alright at the end."
   
    "Leave the dark and gloom for me, that's my thing."

    "Yes, you said that before," said Mabel, "but then I look at you —"

    "Don't do that. Don't try to read me. You are far too young. When all this is over, and you become an Edenite, then, probably live for another 50 to 80 years, then you can try."

    When you become an Edenite . . . The rushing waters . . .

    "What's the matter?" Myra asked, "what's that look on your face?"

    Mabel bit the inside of her lower lips, placed her palm over her belly, then fisted the skin. She listened more closely; heard the drips, and plops; heard the rushing waters, the splatters and the ripplings; moaned the understanding that came with it: death that loomed and rushed over; a soul—drowning.

    "I'm dying," she said.

    "What do you—"

    The lifeless animals jerked with sudden life—the action startled both of them. Then slowly, from bloated corpse ready to burst, they shriveled to bony things. Black liquid oozed from their mouths; and their flesh followed: dissolved in the bubbling gooey puddle.
   
    "Hmm . . . That's done," said Zalima. "I couldn't get the number, but Tayo got your lady friend out. " She smoothed the creases on her gown; her bloodied nose was clean, and the slashed wrist, healed.