Bloodmark

18: Salve

[feedback, critique, and comments welcome; please point out any typos] 

I can't sleep. Not just because the sun peeks through the slits in the curtains, telling my brain I should be awake. But also because my skin continues to tingle. The sensation is so strong, I worry that my entire body is vibrating. It keeps my mind from quieting enough to slip into slumber. So instead, I sit upright in bed, toying with the edge of the duvet.

Sometimes my fingertips lightly dance over the King's Mark. It bristles at my touch and randomly flares like a stoked fire. A sigh passes my lips. The feeling of my Mark when reunited with its painter is dangerously addictive. And it refuses to lessen, like King Atlas had promised.

Maybe I'm dysfunctional. Maybe my body works in a wrong way, clinging to anything that feels like intimacy or a connection.

I've never been with a man. In Lred, I didn't even have friends. The only sort of interaction I hosted occurred at work, often the boss admonishing my accounting errors. Otherwise, I sought to be unseen. I kept my head down, always invisible, never allowing anyone to linger.

Running. Hiding. Fleeing from an inescapable fate—and my identity. My bloodmark. But now, I have no need to hide. As the Mark of the King, everyone knows I'm a Bloodmark. There is no need to run, to hide, to flee.

Slipping off the bed, my feet pad to the vanity. Just enough light enters my room that I can make out the features of my face. Seated before the mirror, my heart pounds and my hands shake. But despite the trembling, I push my hair out of my face and look directly at my reflection.

In the dim lighting, the bloodmark doesn't immediately repulse me. The shadows hide the spiderwebs of burst vessels. I lean forward for a closer view. From here, my right eye looks black, like spilled ink. Right now, it isn't so bad.

But I know, beneath a steady beam of light, the black would morph into russet and pink and flecks of blue. And I know that if King Atlas saw it, he'd be disgusted. Just like everyone else.

My reflection shifts, and soon it is my mother staring back at me. We share the same dark strands, but she keeps hers tucked in a bun at the nape of her neck. And her dark brown eyes are stern, a permanent scowl on her face. Even in my shadow-induced vision she can't look directly at me.

Hair sweeping across my face again, I turn away from the mirror. Her image vanishes, replaced by the luxury and riches of this room. If she could see me now—what would she say?

It doesn't matter. Since she kicked me out at age fifteen, we hadn't exchanged a word, not even passing glances in the streets of Lred. I don't know what happened to her. Sometimes I envision her in the countryside, raising chickens and tending gardens. Other times, she's still at the factory, back bent, forehead glistening, tucked inside a cramped loft that she shares with two other factory workers.