The Final Messenger

4. Vignettes

It is dawn again. She is coiling underneath the earth. It is pleasantly cool, damp and inky in here, where all that exists is a girl's lifeless body and tiny earthworms keeping her company. How reassuring — this shuffling of soil beneath the shell of her ear. A weak but comforting sensation of crinkling, crumbling and crushing moving feebly beneath her head. Here to make the earth a more fertilised, better place than when they first found it. She is safe here, wrapped in the safe confines of a manmade cocoon.

Nobody needs to be washed off her hands. Nobody has to be packed into a bag. Nobody waits with bated breath for a fist raised shy of their hair or a knowing look of hunger. No need for her to do anything.

•••

It's the fifth time she's had this dream now. Niryn lies awake in bed for some time, eyes lazily drifting to the dust particles that float above her. The air tastes stale and humid, likely as a result from having just rained. As always, the sky outside is a shade of albumen, the sun the colour of yolk. She's also been having a lot of egg dreams lately as well. Niryn has no idea as to what they mean, just that she has to scrub the feeling of them off her skin.

Niryn gets up from the bed ungracefully, her limbs feeling like they're detached from her body. Suddenly, her mind flashes back to yesterday — the sounds of screaming and thrashing vomiting into her psyche. Eyes the colour of charcoal starts to haze over with a thin film. Not a great start to a new day. Then again, why should someone like her deserve great days?

Niryn chooses to use the shower instead of the bathtub, as it is does not reek of rust. At first she combs through tendrils of black, slowly picking apart the tangles one by one. But the memories of yesterday get too much for her and she starts furiously scrubbing her head.

After a long while, she is nearly done. Her skin scrubbed raw and her scalp is on fire. All that's left is to turn off the heater and shower, but she can't bring herself to stop the soothing water hitting her neck just yet.

Eventually, she does turn off everything.

It's the second day she's been in this house. Niryn has to keep on moving to avoid getting caught, so she can't be familiar with any one house. She hasn't quite explored the kitchen yet, so that's her first pitstop. There she finds cereal, eggs and potatoes, even vegetables like cabbage, brussel sprouts and chives.

"So they are feeding me with real food after all," Niryn mutters to herself. Folding up the sleeves of her green sweater, Niryn fries an egg and chives together. She also prepares a bowl of cornflakes without milk. Not her favourite cereal, but whatever. She can't be picky.

After she is done cooking, Niryn sits down on a small wooden table. Opposite her is an empty seat. Its absence making itself known. She stares at it, cutlery clinking against wood, wondering not for the first time what it's like to have friends.

Or a lover.

Even before the outbreak, she never made any actual friends. Always reading a book or talking to herself in the corner, the other kids were put off. They never gave her a real chance. It was also likely due to her looking different from the others that put them off too. She thought it was time to move past — well, racism. But kids easily adopt the same prejudice as their parents, despite not having been born with it.

Finally she digs in, wishing she had Maggi sauce.

•••

She never knew what flowers to bring for mum and pa's graves.

A couple of dog violets and grey-blue cornflowers. She doesn't even know what emotion she's feeling right now. There is wind here, and it's picking up on the few strands that have clung to her dry, tired face. Two years. Ten months. Three days. A lifetime.

She crouches down, jaw clenched as she does so. She creates a mock pathway in the grass and soil for the flowers. They'll get blown away anyhow. But she wants to see them stay long enough clasped above their hidden figures, that they — they aren't her. That they will remain, impossibly, for as long as they can. That they'll keep a sentiment she can't promise.

Blurry meshes of pale blue and grey assault her vision as she stands up too fast. It is all too fast. She doesn't even know where her brother, Aegean, is. Wherever he is, it is nowhere cornflowers can remain. Niryn stands up slowly, head swiveling around to see if anyone else is there.

Faded red cardigan. Pearl grey dress with a collar. Sage green stockings. Her stalker is not as daring today, as she stands further away than they've ever done before. Pale, slender, haunting. It amuses her that this stalker of hers has the decency not to approach each time Niryn gives her parents a visit.

Who would have thought that the dead would shy away from the other dead? They likely wanted to give the best impression and by some disgusting logic, thought the best way to go about it was to respect human customs for the deceased and mourning.

From what she could tell, the stranger looks about as young as she is. The thing always stands at a distance anyway. She imagines that this stalker of hers has dull, ambiguously blue eyes. The stranger wears a shock of platinum blonde hair, travelling in a braid down her back.

Niryn sighs. Irritatingly enough, she's come to associate the smell of petrichor and something faintly charged in the air with the stranger. A smell she used to cherish. They always appear in late afternoons, during or just after a rainstorm. Never before.

•••

Fingers thumb over the broken nail, peeling it even more in the process. The tiniest bit of blood peeks through and Niryn brings it to her nose to sniff. This is why I don't have any friends, she thinks. It's about time she cut her nails anyway. She's been neglecting her body not just in terms of sleep, but other areas as well. Time to search for a nail clipper.

She rummages uncaringly through the owner's vanity table, unable to find any hint of the metal clipper. What Niryn does find however is an insignia that bears a resemblance to her own. The design is of a golden hand reaching out for an olive branch, except the one she's holding now shows a flower wreath instead. She's not sure what this version of the insignia means.

Her own one basically translates to 'human touched by the gods,' a symbol which she finds extremely pretentious. Reason being the immortal beings it refers to that deign to bless her with their protection are vampires. The symbol signifies certain humans as untouchable by predators of the bloodthirsty kind, as they were either related to or strongly cherished by the vampire who gifted it. Whether or not it actually wards other vampires from touching the human, Niryn isn't as convinced.

She decides to keep it anyway in her breast pocket.

After a while, Niryn does manage to find a clipper. As she sets to work clipping off earth-caked nails, she stares out the window. There — in the distance, she spots a familiar mop of red-brown hair behind the bushes. It is coming up to the door now.

Kieran? They usually don't bother her after a day of feasting. What do they want with her now? She quickly clips off the last toenail, leaving its shape lopsided.

"Kieran? Kieran, what are you doing here?" Niryn speaks into the peephole.

"There's a new resident in town. She wants to see you, miss," his gravelly voice mutters through the door.

"Who? Who wants to see me?" repeats Niryn.

"That you'll have to see for yourself." She can hear the smile in his voice.

Oh, goddamn it. She opens the door wide. There is no one inside the Cadillac, so he must be taking her to the house. That was a prospect she was not excited about. With a sigh, Niryn reluctantly says, "Alright, Kieran. Give me a minute to pack my stuff."

The ride is smooth and comes without interruptions. Orange-red flakes playfully flow and twist, rushing headfirst towards the ground beneath the glossy exterior of the car. It's only noon, but Niryn already feels drained.

As Kieran walks her up to the footpath of the house, she considers running away and never coming back. But they would probably hunt her down and succeed anyway. So she stays put, legs in sync with the old man.

When the door opens to welcome the both of them, Niryn is absolutely stunned.

It's her —

Her stalker.