So You Might be Soulless

34|| Sick

Diya made it to the abandoned back gates of the library before she vomited.

At least it was in one of the fancy gold urns and not on the marbled steps.

I'm so sorry. She thought to the person who would have to clean her mess as she wiped the dribble from her chin.

Another wave hit her and she threw up again, the acidic bile burned the back of her throat and almost washed away the horrendous shock she'd just received.

A sob bubbled past her lips and she slid down, pressing her knees to her chest. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, gripping her hair as if she would rip it all out. I thought I would be over it by now. I thought I'd gotten over it.

She was eleven-years-old and standing at the edge of a bed, a wet towel in her hands which she squeezed tightly over a basin. Her eyes were fixed on the sweating woman in the bed, the sheets tangled over her writhing form.

"It's okay, Sayna-se," Diya whispered, pressing the cloth on the woman's forehead and wishing with all the hope in her heart that it would be true.

"Eris," Sayna mouthed, her amber eyes hazy and unfocused. She gripped Diya's hands tightly, trying to speak but was robbed of her voice.

"I'm here," Diya choked out, gently pushing back the fiery strands of hair that seemed to have lost their lustre.

The door creaked open and a woman walked in with an obsidian crown studded with multi-coloured opals strode in, her dark robes swirled around her like a raging tsunami.

"Ma!" Diya cried and flung herself into the waiting arms of the woman. "Ma, she's not getting better. I've tried everything. I don't- I don't know what–"

"Hush, my little melantha." The woman brushed away Diya's tears and held her close. "We've done all we can. We just have to hope Sayna can brave this storm."

Her stomach rolled and threw out its contents, but Diya couldn't make it to the urn in time. The crisp and well-cut uniform was now soiled and stank of expired food.

Diya couldn't stop the stream of tears flowing down her face, sounds echoing in her head she thought she would never hear again.

The jubilant shouts over the screams.

The sound of metal slicing through the air.

The family she'd murdered in their beds- the first of many. The first of countless kills she'd make for her honour.

No honour can be born from death. No matter how many medals and cheers she'd received that said otherwise.

She clamped her hands over her ears. Stop!

"Can you hear them, little Necromancer?" A spirit crooned, dragging a cold finger down her cheek. "Can you hear their cries? Or do you pretend to ignore them all?"

"I was a child!" Diya cried, scrambling back but slipping on her own sick. "I was a– I was a–"

"A murderer." A new voice. An old ghost that haunted her personal graveyard.

"No," Diya sniffled, shaking her head and ignoring the vile way her clothes stuck to her body. "No, you're dead. You're not here. You're gone. You've passed on. You can't be here."

"Even in death, you'll tell me what to do." Was that a laugh- colder, crueller, and more callous than she'd remembered- or a loose slate dragging over the brick roof?

Diya raised her trembling arms and flicked her wrist in gestures she'd done a thousand times to banish ghosts. But her fingers fumbled and crashed together and did nothing more than spur on the cackling voices.