from Epiphany 2023
Featured Prose
The Renewal of O’Brien: A 1984 Short Story
by Em Clemens
O’Brien didn’t know how long he had been in the Ministry of Love. With lots of time on his hands, O’Brien contemplated much. Gideon had told him that sometimes, the Brotherhood would sneak razor blades under meal trays to imprisoned members. O’Brien wasn’t sure if he would use it, though. Sure, it would be better than being beaten to death, but he could take a beating, he had taken many before. How bad could it be?
He thought about the origin of his hatred of Big Brother. He was seven years old, and he and his six-year-old sister Mallory lived with his father. He despised his father. The fat lush would come home from work late, pick up a bottle of Victory Gin, and pass out on the couch until morning. With a man who barely knew he was a father, Mallory looked to her older brother for everything, and while he loved his sister more than anything in the world, O’Brien knew he shouldn’t have had to be responsible for her.
As he continued to reflect, O’Brien managed to find one aspect of his father that earned him a pinch of respect: his arrest. The vacuous lug managed to be arrested for Thoughtcrime and conspiracy against the Party. Where he found the time or brain capacity to plot against Big Brother is what O’Brien would never know, but watching his father get dragged from his home, practically tearing off the doorframe while O’Brien shielded a crying Mallory, carved a new sulcus. Yes, O’Brien hated his father, but he grew to hate the establishment more that took away what could have been.
O’Brien and his sister were sent to the Wantful Home, a home for parentless children run by the Junior Spies. There, O’Brien chose to play the game in hopes of climbing the ladder and destroying the Party from within. He quickly rose through the ranks of the Junior Spies and was offered a position at the Ministry of Truth when he turned eighteen, where he met Gideon. Gideon showed him how things worked at the Ministry of Truth, and eventually, the two became friends. O’Brien smiled at the thought of Gideon. If he was tortured, he knew he wouldn’t give him up; he couldn’t. He would make him proud. And, with that thought, he fell asleep.
*******
O’Brien was awakened by the sound of the door opening to reveal Alister Gideon, followed by two guards. O’Brien sat up in shock, unable to keep the expression from his face.
“What are you doing here?” Gideon gave a weary smile. “Damion, I believe I owe you an apology.” O’Brien’s shock faltered, and in another instant, he understood what he meant.
“No, that’s not… No! You bloody coward!” O’Brien’s fists punctuated his cries with two blows to the porcelain wall.
“You dared to pretend to be my friend! When we spoke of the corruption of the Party and burning it to the ground, you sat there and agreed! You deserve to burn with the rest of them!”
“Are you done yet?”
“You betrayed me! Do you even believe what you spoke about for hours on end?” O’Brien’s hands were on his head, a mixture of anger and fear displayed on his face.
Gideon started. “Son-”
“Don’t even think about calling me son.”
“When you wake up, you will realize this was all because I cared about you.”
One of the guards stepped out from behind Gideon, carrying a truncheon. He ran up faster than O’Brien could react and hit him in the left knee. The room crystallized around him, as he fell to the ground. The throbbing of his knee masked the point of the needle plunged into his arm. He was asleep in a matter of seconds.
When he awoke, he was lying on a bench, with his hands and feet tied to the legs. Gideon was standing next to him. He glanced over and saw O’Brien blink.
“You’re awake,” Gideon spoke. O’Brien didn’t respond, merely closing his eyes again. Gideon chuckled.
“You’ll have to look at me eventually, Damion.”
“Not if I can help it.” Gideon turned and sat on the bench. His voice was soaked in contempt.
“No, I’m sure you won’t.”
With those words, O’Brien’s body seized, every muscle contracting toward the transverse plane. His eyes were squeezed shut, desperate to block the pain and the smug look on Gideon’s face he would receive if he opened them. Just as suddenly as the pain started, it receded.
“That was thirty,” said Gideon. “If you open your eyes, you will see that the dial to your right runs up to one hundred. Let’s see if you can handle more.”
Once again, the pain return. O’Brien couldn’t stop his eyes from flying open, but it didn’t matter. All he saw was white. As his body contorted, he retracted his earlier contemplation. He couldn’t handle the torture.
“No,” O’Brien realized, “This isn’t torture. This is Hell.”
Throughout O’Brien’s stay in the Ministry of Love, he was beaten, crippled, and starved; his skin becoming stuck to his skeleton like a wet singlet. His brain was split in two. His past was liquified and cupped in Gideon’s hands, some pieces slipping through the parts in his fingers, other pieces puddling in the valleys of his palms. His muttering became instinctual, a way to distract from an imminent bullet ricocheting in his head. He would go on for hours, often too hoarse to create noise, but his lips would continue to move. One day, as he silently muttered, he began to cry. His mouth stretched to make room for a scream that would never come. He curled in on himself and shook, trying to force tears from dehydrated ducts, yet all he found was the sting of salt. Gideon would come in eventually, placing one hand on O’Brien’s back and the other on his head, speaking sweet words of emotional relief if all he did was submit. So, O’Brien began his renewal.
The wooden bench dawned a blanket, and eventually a small pillow. He was given a piece of chalk and board, rebuilding his hand strength and loyalty to Big Brother. His hair slowly grew back, a few dull, mouse brown strands ending above his ears. Yet still, his bowels twisted in hate. He did what he was told, he accepted obedience and submission, but hated himself and the Party for it. As he wrote his mottos in chalk one day, filled with the same disgust and malevolence as always, he didn’t notice Gideon enter his cell.
“Get up, son,” Gideon said gently.
O’Brien stood up to face his mentor. Gideon took him by the shoulders and spoke.
“You are doing great work. You have accepted your role in Big Brother, but it is not enough to accept him. You must love him with every fiber of your being. Tell me, Damion, do you love Big Brother?”
He considered lying, but a change in expression from Gideon let O’Brien know that he could not get away with a lie.
“I hate him.”
“Good. Admittance is crucial to your cure. I would like to show you something.”
Gideon took O’Brien by the hand and began walking toward the cell door.
“Where are you taking me?” questioned O’Brien.
Gideon replied. “To Room 101.”
Room 101 was tall and dark, with a wooden chair centered on the floor. Above the chair was a wooden rod extending from the high ceiling with an adjustable chin strap attached to it. Gideon guided O’Brien over and sat him on the chair, using a thick rope to tie his hands to the wood behind him and fastening the strap under his chin.
“What is this place?” asked O’Brien, not registering the covered jar in the guard’s hands.
“This, Damion,” said Gideon, “is the worst thing in the world. It is what you fear in the night and know you cannot protect yourself from. It is what you hear when the silence of a room is deafened by the loudness of your thoughts, and to be left alone with them is to submit to your death. It is what defines who you are.”
O’Brien watched as the guard handed the jar to Gideon, and, with a twitch of the corner of his mouth, began lightly swirling the jar in his hands.
“Fear in and of itself varies from person to person.” Gideon continued, slowly stepping closer to O’Brien. “Many people don’t understand their fear and why they have it, it simply exists in the back of their mind. It is instinctual, innate, coded.”
He stopped five paces away from the chair. A low hum was admitting from the jar that O’Brien could barely hear, but he felt through every bone in his body.
“In your case, Damion, your worst fear is bees.”
Gideon removed the covering to reveal a jar so full of hornets, you could not tell where one bee stopped and the other started. Tears raced down O’Brien’s face. Fear gripped his lungs and stretched them, tying one to his stomach and the other to his heart. He had no bargaining chip, no coin to spare him a punishment that he could not explain why was worse than death. His mind caved in on itself, blurring and warping his vision, flashing his eyes with every color to exist. Each waking second was filled with memories of the past, moments that had undoubtedly led him to where he was today. As his blood violently bubbled over the walls of his arteries, and the laminate tape of his brain was nearly unwound, he dug from a long-buried wallet a single silver piece.
“Do it to Mallory! Do it to Mallory!” O’Brien managed to yell. “I don’t care what you do to her! Skin her, beat her, burn her at the stake, but please, just give it to my sister instead!”
His throat caved and his brain blended as the jar remained frozen for a moment next to his face. His vision was dancing fuchsia and violet, but he was still vaguely aware of the fading of humming from his ears.
O’Brien walked down the largest hall within the Ministry of Truth. He checked his wristwatch, the tightness of the band causing his thick wrists to wrap around the sides. He had 7 minutes before he was late. He passed many people, most of which he did not recognize. A girl with a red sash and mouse-like hair was vaguely familiar, but not enough for him to linger on the thought. His director, Richard, resided in room 4010, and he was standing outside of his door the second the long hand on his wristwatch hit the thirty. He knocked firmly twice.
“Enter.” Came a voice from the other side.
When O’Brien opened the door, he was greeted by Richard in a large, brown leather chair sitting at a desk of nearly the same color.
“You requested to see me?” questioned O’Brien, closing the door behind him.
“Yes, regarding a certain project of yours,” Richard said, his gaze unwavering from the papers in front of him. “I’ve received word that surveillance on Winston Smith from Mr. Charrington’s shop has him expressing the desire to join the Brotherhood.”
“Internally or externally?” O’Brien questioned.
“Both,” replied Richard, finally shifting his gaze to meet O’Brien’s. “My request to further initiate contact has been approved. As you know, you will be the one to give Smith Goldstein’s work. What is your current plan of initiation?”
O’Brien thought for a moment. Winston Smith was one of the more complex cases he’d worked on, primarily caused by his tendency to overthink the smallest of interactions. He could use it to his advantage.
“The language expert, Syme. Surreptitiously mentioning his vaporized friend and an invitation to my apartment will cause such a stir of his head that he will have no choice but to accept my offer. He will likely bring his lady, Julia, so we will be able to convert two for the time of one.”
“Excellent. I will petition her team to task the idea, and should they approve, the desire to attend with Winston will be inserted. In the meantime, he should be given the book.”
“There should be no problem in that.”
Richard nodded and rose from his chair, shuffling his way toward O’Brien. He extended his hand to meet that of his agent’s.
“I trust you will do a great service for the Party, as you always have.”
“I will not let you down, sir.”
And with that remark, he turned and exited the office, the door closing behind him. O’Brien began down the hallway, following the way from which he came. Had he not been so conscious as to keep an expressionless face, he would have let out a sigh of contentment. His first lone assignment was nearly complete.
by Em Clemens
O’Brien didn’t know how long he had been in the Ministry of Love. With lots of time on his hands, O’Brien contemplated much. Gideon had told him that sometimes, the Brotherhood would sneak razor blades under meal trays to imprisoned members. O’Brien wasn’t sure if he would use it, though. Sure, it would be better than being beaten to death, but he could take a beating, he had taken many before. How bad could it be?
He thought about the origin of his hatred of Big Brother. He was seven years old, and he and his six-year-old sister Mallory lived with his father. He despised his father. The fat lush would come home from work late, pick up a bottle of Victory Gin, and pass out on the couch until morning. With a man who barely knew he was a father, Mallory looked to her older brother for everything, and while he loved his sister more than anything in the world, O’Brien knew he shouldn’t have had to be responsible for her.
As he continued to reflect, O’Brien managed to find one aspect of his father that earned him a pinch of respect: his arrest. The vacuous lug managed to be arrested for Thoughtcrime and conspiracy against the Party. Where he found the time or brain capacity to plot against Big Brother is what O’Brien would never know, but watching his father get dragged from his home, practically tearing off the doorframe while O’Brien shielded a crying Mallory, carved a new sulcus. Yes, O’Brien hated his father, but he grew to hate the establishment more that took away what could have been.
O’Brien and his sister were sent to the Wantful Home, a home for parentless children run by the Junior Spies. There, O’Brien chose to play the game in hopes of climbing the ladder and destroying the Party from within. He quickly rose through the ranks of the Junior Spies and was offered a position at the Ministry of Truth when he turned eighteen, where he met Gideon. Gideon showed him how things worked at the Ministry of Truth, and eventually, the two became friends. O’Brien smiled at the thought of Gideon. If he was tortured, he knew he wouldn’t give him up; he couldn’t. He would make him proud. And, with that thought, he fell asleep.
*******
O’Brien was awakened by the sound of the door opening to reveal Alister Gideon, followed by two guards. O’Brien sat up in shock, unable to keep the expression from his face.
“What are you doing here?” Gideon gave a weary smile. “Damion, I believe I owe you an apology.” O’Brien’s shock faltered, and in another instant, he understood what he meant.
“No, that’s not… No! You bloody coward!” O’Brien’s fists punctuated his cries with two blows to the porcelain wall.
“You dared to pretend to be my friend! When we spoke of the corruption of the Party and burning it to the ground, you sat there and agreed! You deserve to burn with the rest of them!”
“Are you done yet?”
“You betrayed me! Do you even believe what you spoke about for hours on end?” O’Brien’s hands were on his head, a mixture of anger and fear displayed on his face.
Gideon started. “Son-”
“Don’t even think about calling me son.”
“When you wake up, you will realize this was all because I cared about you.”
One of the guards stepped out from behind Gideon, carrying a truncheon. He ran up faster than O’Brien could react and hit him in the left knee. The room crystallized around him, as he fell to the ground. The throbbing of his knee masked the point of the needle plunged into his arm. He was asleep in a matter of seconds.
When he awoke, he was lying on a bench, with his hands and feet tied to the legs. Gideon was standing next to him. He glanced over and saw O’Brien blink.
“You’re awake,” Gideon spoke. O’Brien didn’t respond, merely closing his eyes again. Gideon chuckled.
“You’ll have to look at me eventually, Damion.”
“Not if I can help it.” Gideon turned and sat on the bench. His voice was soaked in contempt.
“No, I’m sure you won’t.”
With those words, O’Brien’s body seized, every muscle contracting toward the transverse plane. His eyes were squeezed shut, desperate to block the pain and the smug look on Gideon’s face he would receive if he opened them. Just as suddenly as the pain started, it receded.
“That was thirty,” said Gideon. “If you open your eyes, you will see that the dial to your right runs up to one hundred. Let’s see if you can handle more.”
Once again, the pain return. O’Brien couldn’t stop his eyes from flying open, but it didn’t matter. All he saw was white. As his body contorted, he retracted his earlier contemplation. He couldn’t handle the torture.
“No,” O’Brien realized, “This isn’t torture. This is Hell.”
Throughout O’Brien’s stay in the Ministry of Love, he was beaten, crippled, and starved; his skin becoming stuck to his skeleton like a wet singlet. His brain was split in two. His past was liquified and cupped in Gideon’s hands, some pieces slipping through the parts in his fingers, other pieces puddling in the valleys of his palms. His muttering became instinctual, a way to distract from an imminent bullet ricocheting in his head. He would go on for hours, often too hoarse to create noise, but his lips would continue to move. One day, as he silently muttered, he began to cry. His mouth stretched to make room for a scream that would never come. He curled in on himself and shook, trying to force tears from dehydrated ducts, yet all he found was the sting of salt. Gideon would come in eventually, placing one hand on O’Brien’s back and the other on his head, speaking sweet words of emotional relief if all he did was submit. So, O’Brien began his renewal.
The wooden bench dawned a blanket, and eventually a small pillow. He was given a piece of chalk and board, rebuilding his hand strength and loyalty to Big Brother. His hair slowly grew back, a few dull, mouse brown strands ending above his ears. Yet still, his bowels twisted in hate. He did what he was told, he accepted obedience and submission, but hated himself and the Party for it. As he wrote his mottos in chalk one day, filled with the same disgust and malevolence as always, he didn’t notice Gideon enter his cell.
“Get up, son,” Gideon said gently.
O’Brien stood up to face his mentor. Gideon took him by the shoulders and spoke.
“You are doing great work. You have accepted your role in Big Brother, but it is not enough to accept him. You must love him with every fiber of your being. Tell me, Damion, do you love Big Brother?”
He considered lying, but a change in expression from Gideon let O’Brien know that he could not get away with a lie.
“I hate him.”
“Good. Admittance is crucial to your cure. I would like to show you something.”
Gideon took O’Brien by the hand and began walking toward the cell door.
“Where are you taking me?” questioned O’Brien.
Gideon replied. “To Room 101.”
Room 101 was tall and dark, with a wooden chair centered on the floor. Above the chair was a wooden rod extending from the high ceiling with an adjustable chin strap attached to it. Gideon guided O’Brien over and sat him on the chair, using a thick rope to tie his hands to the wood behind him and fastening the strap under his chin.
“What is this place?” asked O’Brien, not registering the covered jar in the guard’s hands.
“This, Damion,” said Gideon, “is the worst thing in the world. It is what you fear in the night and know you cannot protect yourself from. It is what you hear when the silence of a room is deafened by the loudness of your thoughts, and to be left alone with them is to submit to your death. It is what defines who you are.”
O’Brien watched as the guard handed the jar to Gideon, and, with a twitch of the corner of his mouth, began lightly swirling the jar in his hands.
“Fear in and of itself varies from person to person.” Gideon continued, slowly stepping closer to O’Brien. “Many people don’t understand their fear and why they have it, it simply exists in the back of their mind. It is instinctual, innate, coded.”
He stopped five paces away from the chair. A low hum was admitting from the jar that O’Brien could barely hear, but he felt through every bone in his body.
“In your case, Damion, your worst fear is bees.”
Gideon removed the covering to reveal a jar so full of hornets, you could not tell where one bee stopped and the other started. Tears raced down O’Brien’s face. Fear gripped his lungs and stretched them, tying one to his stomach and the other to his heart. He had no bargaining chip, no coin to spare him a punishment that he could not explain why was worse than death. His mind caved in on itself, blurring and warping his vision, flashing his eyes with every color to exist. Each waking second was filled with memories of the past, moments that had undoubtedly led him to where he was today. As his blood violently bubbled over the walls of his arteries, and the laminate tape of his brain was nearly unwound, he dug from a long-buried wallet a single silver piece.
“Do it to Mallory! Do it to Mallory!” O’Brien managed to yell. “I don’t care what you do to her! Skin her, beat her, burn her at the stake, but please, just give it to my sister instead!”
His throat caved and his brain blended as the jar remained frozen for a moment next to his face. His vision was dancing fuchsia and violet, but he was still vaguely aware of the fading of humming from his ears.
O’Brien walked down the largest hall within the Ministry of Truth. He checked his wristwatch, the tightness of the band causing his thick wrists to wrap around the sides. He had 7 minutes before he was late. He passed many people, most of which he did not recognize. A girl with a red sash and mouse-like hair was vaguely familiar, but not enough for him to linger on the thought. His director, Richard, resided in room 4010, and he was standing outside of his door the second the long hand on his wristwatch hit the thirty. He knocked firmly twice.
“Enter.” Came a voice from the other side.
When O’Brien opened the door, he was greeted by Richard in a large, brown leather chair sitting at a desk of nearly the same color.
“You requested to see me?” questioned O’Brien, closing the door behind him.
“Yes, regarding a certain project of yours,” Richard said, his gaze unwavering from the papers in front of him. “I’ve received word that surveillance on Winston Smith from Mr. Charrington’s shop has him expressing the desire to join the Brotherhood.”
“Internally or externally?” O’Brien questioned.
“Both,” replied Richard, finally shifting his gaze to meet O’Brien’s. “My request to further initiate contact has been approved. As you know, you will be the one to give Smith Goldstein’s work. What is your current plan of initiation?”
O’Brien thought for a moment. Winston Smith was one of the more complex cases he’d worked on, primarily caused by his tendency to overthink the smallest of interactions. He could use it to his advantage.
“The language expert, Syme. Surreptitiously mentioning his vaporized friend and an invitation to my apartment will cause such a stir of his head that he will have no choice but to accept my offer. He will likely bring his lady, Julia, so we will be able to convert two for the time of one.”
“Excellent. I will petition her team to task the idea, and should they approve, the desire to attend with Winston will be inserted. In the meantime, he should be given the book.”
“There should be no problem in that.”
Richard nodded and rose from his chair, shuffling his way toward O’Brien. He extended his hand to meet that of his agent’s.
“I trust you will do a great service for the Party, as you always have.”
“I will not let you down, sir.”
And with that remark, he turned and exited the office, the door closing behind him. O’Brien began down the hallway, following the way from which he came. Had he not been so conscious as to keep an expressionless face, he would have let out a sigh of contentment. His first lone assignment was nearly complete.
Stalking Jack the Ripper
By Lara Glauner
By Lara Glauner
~ Audrey Rose Wadsworth, the daughter of a wealthy Lord in 1880s London, has a rather unusual hobby. Helping her uncle deduct autopsies on the recently deceased, she is one of the first involved in the mysterious case of a new serial killer haunting the streets of London- “Black Apron” better known as Jack the Ripper. Along with the help of the arrogant forensic science student Thomas Cresswell, she is determined to uncover the true identity of the brutal murderer.~
Stalking Jack the Ripper by Kerri Maniscalco was first released in 2017 but became widely popular on BookTok in 2022. This is a novel that I heard about everywhere. In fact, I could hardly find book recommendations that did not include it. If you are even remotely interested in new Y/A literature, you’ve probably heard this book mentioned at least once.
It was praised and discussed so much; I was just READY for it. When I saw this book in the store, I immediately bought it and thought I had found my book of the year. I mean, History, Romance, and Thriller in one? Yes, please.
Now, from this long premise about what I *thought* I would think about it, you can probably already guess that it was, in fact, not my book of the year. I was of course thoroughly disappointed. But before I say anything else I would like to note that this is objectively not really a bad book. I can truly see why people might enjoy it as much as they evidently do. It was simply not at all what I hoped and expected it would be. I think my biggest mistake was seeing it more as a thriller, mystery, and romance than primarily as a Young Adult book. This whole novel feels like it is trying too hard to convince its targeted young readers they are reading a book for older people. Yes, this is a book about Jack the Ripper, and the murder victims are described in more or less vivid detail. But the plot and characters are so flat and easy to grasp, they felt like stock characters that you can see in every recent book of the same genre. The plot twist was taken straight out of a 2010s children’s movie and the overall atmosphere never truly captured me. 17-year-old Audrey Rose doesn’t really work as a main character in my opinion. I would have loved to see the events of this story unfold from the viewpoint of a more mature character. The love interest in this novel, Thomas Cresswell, fits well into the plot but is by no means original. All of the other people in this story are barely characterized, which does not interfere with the story but makes the whole world of this book feel like a cardboard cutout. They are also all made to seem stupid or at least incompetent in comparison to the main character to make her look better. Spoiler: it doesn’t work. No matter how cool your teen protagonist may be, she will not be able to solve a murder case better than all the highly trained detectives in London.
This book is the first of a series of 4 novels. Online reviews even seem to like these more than this first work, but I honestly don’t see how these same characters can make a truly interesting story without undergoing a complete personality change. However, I do think that Kerri Maniscalco’s writing has potential, so I do hope we will see better books from her in the future.
Stalking Jack the Ripper by Kerri Maniscalco was first released in 2017 but became widely popular on BookTok in 2022. This is a novel that I heard about everywhere. In fact, I could hardly find book recommendations that did not include it. If you are even remotely interested in new Y/A literature, you’ve probably heard this book mentioned at least once.
It was praised and discussed so much; I was just READY for it. When I saw this book in the store, I immediately bought it and thought I had found my book of the year. I mean, History, Romance, and Thriller in one? Yes, please.
Now, from this long premise about what I *thought* I would think about it, you can probably already guess that it was, in fact, not my book of the year. I was of course thoroughly disappointed. But before I say anything else I would like to note that this is objectively not really a bad book. I can truly see why people might enjoy it as much as they evidently do. It was simply not at all what I hoped and expected it would be. I think my biggest mistake was seeing it more as a thriller, mystery, and romance than primarily as a Young Adult book. This whole novel feels like it is trying too hard to convince its targeted young readers they are reading a book for older people. Yes, this is a book about Jack the Ripper, and the murder victims are described in more or less vivid detail. But the plot and characters are so flat and easy to grasp, they felt like stock characters that you can see in every recent book of the same genre. The plot twist was taken straight out of a 2010s children’s movie and the overall atmosphere never truly captured me. 17-year-old Audrey Rose doesn’t really work as a main character in my opinion. I would have loved to see the events of this story unfold from the viewpoint of a more mature character. The love interest in this novel, Thomas Cresswell, fits well into the plot but is by no means original. All of the other people in this story are barely characterized, which does not interfere with the story but makes the whole world of this book feel like a cardboard cutout. They are also all made to seem stupid or at least incompetent in comparison to the main character to make her look better. Spoiler: it doesn’t work. No matter how cool your teen protagonist may be, she will not be able to solve a murder case better than all the highly trained detectives in London.
This book is the first of a series of 4 novels. Online reviews even seem to like these more than this first work, but I honestly don’t see how these same characters can make a truly interesting story without undergoing a complete personality change. However, I do think that Kerri Maniscalco’s writing has potential, so I do hope we will see better books from her in the future.
from Ignite 2019
Featured Prose
You’re Safe in my Arms
by Lauren Additon
Friamarah wished Tataynia was here. Although she did possess knowledge of medicine and healing, it wasn’t enough to stop the bleeding. Tataynia knew how to heal, how to stabilize people. She has seen the tiefling hover her jeweled hands over many wounds before, muttering small words of comfort as a small, soft light radiated from her hands. The next thing anyone knew, all that was left was a faint scar that would heal with time. Friamarah shook her head furiously; she wasn’t capable of that. She pushed through and blinked back hot tears, applying more pressure on the gaping gash on Marina’s chest. The result was a string of curses and a whimper, making her resolve falter for a moment.
Her eyes were so incredibly focused on the gash spanning from Marina’s clavicle to just above her belly button. Her eyes were focused, but her mind was focusing on keeping the vile, sour acid taste at bay at the back of her throat. It rose steadily, threatening her as she forced herself to gag it back down. Friamarah cursed at herself in elvish, blinking her blurry eyes clear. “It isn’t the time to be weak,” she bitterly thought to herself. She heard Marina whisper her name, but she didn't look up. She couldn't bear to look at her, knowing the saddened face Marina was going to give her.
Friamarah pushed harder, tears once held back now dripping onto her face rapidly. A calloused hand landed on top of both of her shaking, bloody ones. She stopped, an ached sob slipping from her lips. Hesitantly, Friamarah looked up at Marina’s face. Marina, her Marina, was giving her the most gentle look she’d ever seen. There was a smile of acceptance on her face. Her other hand reached up to clutch both of Friamarah’s. Friamarah sucked in a shaky breath as they both tightened the grip on each other’s hands.
Their knuckles turned white. Marina used the last bits of her strength to lean up and kiss Friamarah weakly. She fell back, her grip loosening until she was limp. Friamarah shook, her body being wracked with violent, loud cries. She threw her body over Marina’s, burying her face in the remains of Marina’s leather armor. Her pained sobs turned into agonizing screams of her love’s name. Blood soaked into her clothes.
Blood was seeping onto her dark skin. It stained her long, silver hair. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered to her. Friamarah cradled Marina’s corpse in her arms, giving desperate kisses to Marina’s forehead. She kissed her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, anywhere she saw, thinking it would bring her back. It had to bring her back, it had to. It didn’t.
by Lauren Additon
Friamarah wished Tataynia was here. Although she did possess knowledge of medicine and healing, it wasn’t enough to stop the bleeding. Tataynia knew how to heal, how to stabilize people. She has seen the tiefling hover her jeweled hands over many wounds before, muttering small words of comfort as a small, soft light radiated from her hands. The next thing anyone knew, all that was left was a faint scar that would heal with time. Friamarah shook her head furiously; she wasn’t capable of that. She pushed through and blinked back hot tears, applying more pressure on the gaping gash on Marina’s chest. The result was a string of curses and a whimper, making her resolve falter for a moment.
Her eyes were so incredibly focused on the gash spanning from Marina’s clavicle to just above her belly button. Her eyes were focused, but her mind was focusing on keeping the vile, sour acid taste at bay at the back of her throat. It rose steadily, threatening her as she forced herself to gag it back down. Friamarah cursed at herself in elvish, blinking her blurry eyes clear. “It isn’t the time to be weak,” she bitterly thought to herself. She heard Marina whisper her name, but she didn't look up. She couldn't bear to look at her, knowing the saddened face Marina was going to give her.
Friamarah pushed harder, tears once held back now dripping onto her face rapidly. A calloused hand landed on top of both of her shaking, bloody ones. She stopped, an ached sob slipping from her lips. Hesitantly, Friamarah looked up at Marina’s face. Marina, her Marina, was giving her the most gentle look she’d ever seen. There was a smile of acceptance on her face. Her other hand reached up to clutch both of Friamarah’s. Friamarah sucked in a shaky breath as they both tightened the grip on each other’s hands.
Their knuckles turned white. Marina used the last bits of her strength to lean up and kiss Friamarah weakly. She fell back, her grip loosening until she was limp. Friamarah shook, her body being wracked with violent, loud cries. She threw her body over Marina’s, burying her face in the remains of Marina’s leather armor. Her pained sobs turned into agonizing screams of her love’s name. Blood soaked into her clothes.
Blood was seeping onto her dark skin. It stained her long, silver hair. She didn’t care. Nothing mattered to her. Friamarah cradled Marina’s corpse in her arms, giving desperate kisses to Marina’s forehead. She kissed her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, anywhere she saw, thinking it would bring her back. It had to bring her back, it had to. It didn’t.