Author Games: The Absent Empress

Finals: King

A King's Throne:

(2 parts) Mistakes

(1 part) Moving On

(3 parts) Green Apple Vodka

People say a lot of things. Talk to ten different people and you'll get ten different answers to the same question. What you believe, however, is a choice you have to consciously make every day. Kitty knew that. He knows it still, even as he stares up at the flecks of grey that pepper the pale white ceiling of his bedroom. The blue sheets move beneath his fingers. Smooth. Soft. Slow. Just like his breath, the way it rises and falls and pushes the blankets off his bare chest millimeters at a time. He doesn't rise, even though his eyes blink from the morning light that streams in through the window. He has to make a choice, perhaps the most difficult choice he's ever made, and he makes it every day. What does he believe? What does he choose to be his reality?

It tugs in the back of his mind, beckoning him back into the gentle haze of forgetfulness. Nothing has ever been so tempting, to float away on a cloud of nothingness that shields him from the pains of the world. The pains of moving on, of facing the world. Beside him, the bed is cold. The sheets haven't been disturbed, the pillows unruffled. Whoever belongs to the other side of the mattress hasn't been there. And as he stares, hands splayed out to run his nails so softly across the surface of the blankets, he wonders. Patience is key. The words feel familiar, like an old motto from another life. They belong to a different Kitty, someone he must choose whether or not to be today. The lull of ignorance is forbidden fruit on his tongue. It's still so easy to forget, to wander in the daze he's become so accustomed to. But he doesn't. He can't.

There's music coming from the kitchen. That is what finally pulls his eyes away from the ceiling. His body rises, sheets falling off at last as he sits up. Goosebumps chill his arms, hands running over them to try and restore the warmth he deprives himself of. Kitty's feet touch the ground, first one and then the other, and he stands. It takes five steps to cross into the open doorway, just five. For such a small number, every step feels heavier than the last.

He sees him in a kitchen chair. King's eyes are focused on the laces of his boots, fingers weaving between string as he chases the knot that will secure them to his feet. Body leaning against the frame of the door, Kitty doesn't make a sound— doesn't disturb the look of concentration on the other boy's face. He hasn't put on a shirt yet and the freckles that dot his body make up a million new constellations, each one more elaborate than the last. Once, Kitty felt he knew them all. Now his eyes are drawn to King's shoulder blade, where the pattern of stardust and supernovas is shredded into three pale scars that scream of violence and fear. He can see the gauze wrapped around the boy's forearm and feel the guilt that accompanies it. What happens on the bad days, Kitty doesn't know. He only witnesses to the aftermath, but King never gives up on him. Never stays away. No matter how many scars he collects from the talons that grow from Kitty's nail beds.

The air tastes like cotton, dry and think and heavy in his lungs. Each breath feels like an effort, but it's for nothing. There's no clarity, no sense, just a vague outline of a world that has ceased to make sense. Colors, lights, sounds, they all exist in a plane of being that he is no longer a part of. He is a machine, pumping blood and expelling carbon dioxide, controlled solely but mechanical, automated responses. "Lawrence?" There is a name, a sound, vibrations in the air that are supposed to mean something. But they don't. They don't. A hand on his shoulder tries to pull his attention. "Lawrence, you have visitors." He responds to stimuli primally if he responds at all. Pain means fear. Discomfort means anger. But that is all he has. All he knows. There's a sigh, he feels the breath on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid this is usually what he's like. You won't get much of anything out of him."