The Rider's Fate

Knock, Knock.

Ch. 1: Knock

Warning: This story contains depictions of violence and mental health struggles that may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

The Fate of the Rider is to fight the glorious battle and hold the line between humanity and the demonic. They are the ones who fight with steel and fire.

My life changed one day in August.

My day had been going wrong since my alarm rang. My clothes had been moved and crinkled, there was no milk in the fridge for my morning tea, and then Bernie died. My trusty, rust bucket of a car had spluttered and died on the way to the village. My meagre savings, bulked by working my teenage years away in the local café, had taken a brutal hit.

So while he languished in the garage, I was waiting. I could walk back home from the village, but I didn't fancy waiting around in the airy house in case my mother came home early. As I crossed the quay, a surprisingly cold wind cut across the water. I shoved my hands deep into my flimsy coat pockets and tucked my chin tight; any hope of setting myself up on a bench by the water was quashed. Dark clouds taunted on the horizon.

Not my day.

I shucked my bag over a narrow shoulder as I spun away from the boardwalk and hurried along the pavement. The village of Dragain was quiet this afternoon, save for walking old couples and children shrieking in the local park beyond the main street.

As I neared the flashing pedestrian lights, a man lumbering my way tripped over a loose paving stone. His heavy weight stumbled towards me, and I moved to steady him, arms raised as if I had even half a hope of catching him.

His hand caught my wrist, long nails digging into my skin. Yelping, I yanked away, and he blustered past me with a grunt.

"Eejit." I cradled my wrist to my chest, glaring over my shoulder at him. When it was clear that he wasn't going to apologise, I examined my wrist. No blood had been drawn, but there were half-moon grooves cut into my skin.

Anxiety knotted behind my breastbone. Thoughts rushed, lapping over each other, as choppy as the water behind me. Who knew what kind of dirt lingered under his nails? The small path of nail grooves began to tingle. I stopped and closed my eyes, uncaring of how someone might see me. I forced myself to remember Dr. Lindsay's advice.

You can't control everything, Neely.

She had given me loads of tidbits to help my intrusive thoughts, but since Mam had gotten paranoid that other people might know her daughter wasn't right, I had stopped going.

Crossing the boardwalk, I worked on calming myself down. A scratch didn't mean instant gangrene or some kind of contagious bacteria. It wouldn't cause me to swell and float away into the skies. It was just a scratch.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. I flinched, glancing up at the skies. The dark clouds had rolled in quickly, bringing a smattering of rain. In the play park, children shrieked as their parents tried to usher them under umbrellas like little ducklings.

I reached my destination without succumbing to a violent, flesh-eating bacteria. On the corner of the main street sat a tiny little café called Cupán Tae, with great wide windows that looked out onto the water, blue-shell walls, and white painted windowsills that were crammed with decorated potted plans teeming with flowers. Warmth washed over me, chased by the bitter but inviting smell of freshly made coffee.

I liked to imagine that when I moved out and got my own little apartment, I would replicate the cosiness of this snug. Of course, I would arrange everything differently and fix the chipped paint because who knew if that paint would chip off into an open cup of coffee and cause lead poisoning, which would...