Bloodmark

03: Registration

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The carriage jerks from side to side, rickety from age and untreated streets. It jostles my bones, but the fact that I have been hunted and trapped numbs me. Merlin flashes a toothless smile at me from across the carriage. Sometimes he gives the ropes a tug, chaffing my wrists.

My head against the window, I try to ignore the ache. Beneath the ropes, my wrists have started to turn red. Tears trickle silently down my cheeks, dripping onto my lap.

Merlin had warned me not to attempt to escape. But my body has surrendered. As has my mind. It echoes the words of my mother: since I opened my eyes at birth and a bloodmark stained my eye, I have belonged to the vampyrs.

Besides, running away would be suicide now. Endless hunting to find the runaway Bloodmark. To capture an elusive Bloodmark would ensure even more coinage for the horrid hunters. Bernaud would describe me to an artist, and an illustration of my likeness would appear in the newspapers—along with the words, "Wanted: Bloodmark." If I were to run, my life would become even worse. The paranoia would be grounded in truth: they know I have a bloodmark; hiding would be especially pointless, unless I were to vanish into the slums. Would I even manage to make it that far?

As my body rocks with the moving carriage, my mind slows. The dread that I would be hunted has quickened my thoughts for so long, to have my mind slow down feels odd. The fear I harvested the past seventeen years has been for naught. The paranoia I carried in my hands feels meaningless now. Why did I work so hard to hide such a public bloodmark? Every reflection told me that my fate was inevitable.

My reflection was right.

My body lurches as the carriage comes to a stop. It feels as if it weighs a ton. Perhaps this is the weight of giving up, of giving in. The hope I fostered feels empty.

And yet, a strange sense of comfort tickles my ribcage ever so faintly. I have been found. No more running. It loosens the muscles of my shoulders just enough that I now notice their ache.

I step from the sweltering carriage. Merlin tugs me behind him, and I wince as the ropes dig into my wrists. Keeping my head and gaze lowered, I let Bernaud and Merlin guide me into the registration office.

Merlin shoves me onto a chair and removes my binds, per Bernaud's instructions. But Merlin hovers, arms crossed, as though daring me to run away. However, my tired body and mind have given in, and I sink into the hard seat.

Behind the desk, which is piled with papers and attended by a scowling woman, are several rooms. The windows which offer anyone who visits a glance inside show that most of the rooms remain empty. The metal bunk beds and bare mattresses host notches and stains, signs that they're leftovers from when the registrar was a holding cell. A washing bin and mirror accompany the rusting beds. A bathroom must be tucked down the dark hallway. While they are hardly luxurious, with dirty concrete floors and hints of water tucked in the stone corners, the holding cells boast better living conditions than some of the apartment buildings in Lred.