Chapter Text
Kiah Devlin has rotten luck.
She doesn't try to deny the fact, because it is just that. A fact.
Maybe a normal person would be upset; maybe they would cry themself to sleep every night and pray to a god that isn't there and pretend to be strong. Maybe a normal person would try to get help or at least tell a friend about their life. Maybe they would react differently, but there is a second fact that Kiah knows; she is not a normal person.
This isn't her personal opinion, of course, because she's not sure she even has one. No, instead, she's been told time and time again that she isn't normal. Admittedly, the different ways people have told her are diverse enough to be slightly interesting, but she can't find it in herself to care or not whether she thinks about it. Some call her a freak, others try to get her a therapist or psychologist, and a rare few try to be her friends.
She knows how that goes, however.
"You're, like, really weird. Don't you feel anything?"
"I'm sorry, but the rest of my friends are kind of...er...uncomfortable with you. But you understand, right?"
"You know, I didn't mean any of that literally. You're kind of pathetic."
"You need to go get help, dude. I can't keep being your friend like this."
She never does get help, in the end. There's a simple reason why that no one seems to grasp; she doesn't need it. Sure, she hasn't felt any true emotion since she was seven, but can't anyone see that it's made her better? She doesn't need to worry about boys she likes or whether or not her friend really enjoyed hanging out or if she made someone uncomfortable. Everyone is just stupid, she's decided, to think that not feeling anything is wrong. Even if sometimes she does stare at the shadows in her room and wonder what the ache in her chest is, if that's what it feels like to be stabbed by a knife that hasn't been properly sharpened. Even if sometimes she does watch other people talk and laugh with their friends and feels a strange sensation in her chest, or maybe her stomach, like someone's grabbed a hold of her intestines and began tugging her along. Even if—
It doesn't matter.
It never will.
Currently, staring into the shattered mirror in front of her, Kiah feels sick. She says feels because she does, physically, feel sick, like she's going to throw up, but maybe a normal person would also feel emotionally sick, however one would articulate that. Maybe it's the feelings of maggots crawling through skin, the smell of stomach acid and cigarette smoke, half lidded eyes and someone slumped over.
She vaguely recalls, once upon a time, those being her own memories.
The fragmented reflection of her in the mirror feels accurate, to say the least. She wonders if her new foster mother knows how "fucked up" everyone says she is; the scars, the blank stare, the horrible hygiene. The blatant disregard for anything that matters, including her own life. Surely, she must, considering she got a briefing on Kiah before adopting the seventeen year old, but maybe it hasn't hit her yet. See: oily black hair that hasn't been cut by a professional for nearly a decade, jaggedly uneven and falling into her face, yellowed teeth, purplish eyebags that are beginning to look more like bruises than anything. It's either the eternal ache within her body or the horrible memories that torment her in sleep; out of the two, the physical pain is better. It's grounding, at least. It keeps her from thinking too long about things. Two birds with one stone, Kiah thinks is the correct phrase.
Absentmindedly, she wonders what it would feel like to hold a shard of glass. She's heard that it's dangerous, but so far everything she's done that's "dangerous" has been survivable, and that's all that matters. Before she knows it, she's holding a shard as wide as her thigh in her hand, skin prickling around the sharp edges. She squeezes.
Blood trickles out slowly at first, and then faster as it collects together into rivulets, streaming out of her hand like some cult member about to make an oath or cast a spell. It's cool. She wonders if the blood comes out faster from her neck; she's pretty sure she read somewhere that there are two types of veins in the human body, and one of them bleeds faster than the other. She raises the glass to her throat, feeling the cooling sensation of it against feverish skin. She remembers her eighth grade science class well enough to know that when two objects are touching, heat rushes into the colder of the two until they even out, and that's why the glass is only cool for a moment. Or maybe it's the other way around; eighth grade was when one of her foster brothers took an interest in punching walls and bringing over girls who smelled of smoke and sherry.
In the bloodied, fogged up shard of glass, she sees where her blood has pooled on the floor, and...hold up, that's not right. Blood isn't supposed to be that bright.
It's probably the blood loss, Kiah decides. She presses the glass further against her neck, feeling at first the prick of it against her skin, then the burn, then—nothing. Warmth, though faint, and then wetness.
She decides that the feeling kind of sucks. It's better in different areas; she throws the shard of glass down, the faint specks of blood against the bottom shards of the mirror mixing with the black that already crawls between fragments.
She feels kind of faint, she's realising, so she sits down despite the way it soaks her knees in blood. That's fine. Her skin has been through far worse; the patchwork on her knees attests to that, a stark contrast to her already pale complexion. It's from a mix of being inside so often and bad genetics, she'd tell someone willing to listen.
There's no one like that, though.
One more year, Kiah reminds herself as the edges of her vision go static, and her shirt sticks uncomfortably to her collar. She's probably not going to die from this, all things considered. Really. She's been through worse.
Or at least, that's what she tells herself as her body goes limp.
Kiah's first thought is that she really did manage to die.
Her second thought is that the afterlife actually really sucks.
She's in a cramped space, first and foremost, though at least it's all cushioned. It's dark and hot, and whatever's she wearing—oh, the Egyptians were right about your possessions being moved on with you—isn't helping, at least two layers thick and insulated. Who decided that a corpse needed to wear something like that?
Ugh, wait, she hates the idea of someone undressing her and redressing her. She's heard the facts about how hard it is to get a job as a mortician because of what some people do to the corpses, but she also knows that some people slip through the cracks. Please, she thinks, don't let my mortician be one of the people who slipped through.
It's not a prayer, but maybe for once it would be better if it was.
The temperature suddenly increases, light blurring at the very edges of Kiah's vision, and she feels the familiar cold sensation of flame flicking at her fingers. She doesn't finch away, only pausing when the door caves inward on her before turning to dust, just a moment away from burning her...alive.
She's alive.
Moreover, she's in a strangely ornate room she's never seen before, a small...cat (?) in front of her. Its almost cute, but Kiah is more focused on the disappointment of confirming that yes, she is in fact breathing, and her pulse races underneath the veil thin skin of her wrists, adrenaline still fighting through her system even though she feels no fear. Is that normal? She's pretty sure you have to be afraid to trigger the fight or flight response, and in turn, trigger adrenaline. Then again, the only form of biology she ever really paid attention to was seventh grade science class, when they were learning the different systems of the body. After all, a bird with broken wings is no good; it's a fate worse than both death and life.
"Myah! You, human! Give me your robes!" A voice demands, drawing Kiah out of her thoughts at least partially. And the voice...belongs to the cat.
"What the fuck," she breathes out, staring down at the tiny thing. Now that she's actually curious, she can see where flames flicker in its ear, where its tail separates into three prongs at the end instead of a single point. What is this thing? And...where is she, actually? There are coffins all around her, and if this is the afterlife, it is majorly confusing. And also very disappointing.
"You heard me! I'm the Great Grim, and I'm about to be the best mage you'll ever see!" The cat continues, blissfully unaware of Kiah's internal epiphany. Well...
"Shit," she hisses, pain searing through her fingertips where she'd pressed them together just a moment ago. Yep, definitely alive. She's pretty sure if she was in the afterlife, she wouldn't be able to feel pain.
"Hey, human! Pay attention t' me!" The cat finally looks up, and Kiah is pretty sure she hears a hiss as it finally sees her, and not just her outfit. "Nyah! Why're you looking at me like that, creepy lady?!"
...creepy lady.
It's not the worst thing she's been called.
"I'm not that creepy," she whispers, and now that she's actually trying to speak normally, she realises how faint her voice sounds, how much her throat hurts. "Why do you need my robes, huh?"
The cat is still for a moment, and it gives Kiah enough time to register everything about herself that she was previously ignoring in the naive hopes that she was dead. Her hair is falling over her face, probably why the cat said she was creepy, and she feels the clothes—robes, she does in fact confirm—she's wearing draping over her figure, no doubt making her look like a ghost rather than a girl. Her throat is sore, and her hand kind of hurts, but one glance confirms that any injury they might've had isn't there, only faint scarring.
"Because—because I'm gonna be the best mage ever, and so I need t' go to the best school! Don't ya have any brains behind those eyes?" The cat snipes, which is just about the most absurd thing Kiah has ever witnessed in her life, but she can't deny the logic behind it, even if...oh, what the hell. If the cat is talking, why can't mages be real, as well?
"Okay, kitty. Don't get your tail in a twist," Kiah replies, offering a smile that earns her only another hiss. Every time she tries to be nice. People just don't appreciate her efforts, do they?
Untying the robes takes little effort. The air is cool against her skin, and she rolls her sleeves up just to feel it a little better, admiring the fancy details of her new blouse and slacks, as well as the...corset? Waist piece? She doesn't know anything about fashion. The cat's—she vaguely remembers it said its name was Grim—looking genuinely excited now, even moreso as she slips the robes on over its small frame, watching as they resize themself to fit it, like a Halloween costume. It's honestly cool to watch.
"Ya know, you might just be worthy of being my hench-human!" The cat...laughs? Sniggers? Whatever. It's almost amusing, but instead Kiah just stares. No way is she spending her "one more year" serving a talking cat. No, she's going to call Ms. Giroux and head back home, apologise for leaving in the middle of the night, and then hold on for one more year.
"I don't do servitude, kitty. You better get going if you wanna stay here, 'cause I think the other coffins are opening," Kiah whispers instead, already standing back up and looking around for an exit. It's not a lie; the other coffins in the room are beginning to open, and she thinks she can see a bit of purple here in one, almost artificial orange in another, navy blue—Jesus Christ, this school must be, like, the gayest highschool to ever exist, if this many kids have dyed hair. Before she even spots a doorway, she notices Grim is, in fact, scurrying away, heading towards the center of the room where a pedestal and a...floating mirror stands. Sure. Whatever. Gay school with a floating mirror, why not. Kiah just wants to leave.
Ah, there. A window. It's not going to be graceful, and if she's higher up, then she's probably going to break a few bones, but when has that ever stopped her? It sure as hell didn't nearly two years ago.
The window in question is, surprisingly, unlocked. Even if it wasn't, she would've had no problem with ramming her body into it until it broke, though she supposes that would've been a lot more disruptive, and catching someone's attention is the last thing she wants right now. At the very least, she can actually see the ground outside the window, and it looks more like a mildly painful fall than a "go to the hospital" fall. She's more than used to slipping out of windows, for any number of reasons, so carefully climbing out of this one is no trouble; hopefully, the bush beneath her will provide some semblance of a cushion.
As she falls for all of five seconds (maybe more? Less?), she enjoys the brief sensation of weightlessness, how it almost spawns worry into her mind—and then she's crashing into the brush, branches breaking under her and thorns scraping her forearms, drawing pinpricks of red that bloom into sweet poppies moments later. She doesn't mind, but she knows she will when she's washing the stains off later. It's fine, at least—she doesn't think anything is broken, and as she sits up properly, she doesn't see anyone around. She can work with this.
Her legs ache as she sits up. Her head feels lighter than it should, her brain stuffed with cotton rather than three pounds of meat or whatever it is brains are made out of, the world spinning around her for a split second before it settles for just tucking itself partially into darkness at the edges. This is why she hates falling, especially when there's not enough time to make sure she lands right. Well, she supposes there's not a "right" way to land when it's falling the way she does it, but it doesn't matter.
She's in a courtyard, she thinks, as she looks around, committing the well and lonely bench to memory before standing and stretching. The blouse is surprisingly adaptable, not straining against her chest or sagging when she finally begins walking. She thinks she sees an exit—and, lo and behold, she sees a long set of stairs stretching away from the courtyard. For once, Lady Luck is smiling down on her.
"Thanks," she mutters to no one in particular, trying to keep herself steady as she begins to head towards the steps. They go on far longer than she would like, but it's better than nothing. Better than being caught where she's probably not supposed to be. Descending the steps feels like torture, but she vaguely sees a field and a house, so maybe once she gets down she can rest and call Ms. Giroux. Which, speaking—Kiah reaches into her pockets, letting herself feel somewhat pleased for a moment at actually having some, before realising that her phone isn't with her.
Well. That sucks. Maybe she lost it in the coffin? Or in her robes? She's not going back, though...well, she can always just ask to borrow someone's phone. She always makes sure to memorise numbers, so it's not too bad. Though, her phone case was kind of cool. She's going to miss it.
Getting down to the field and the house takes, like, twenty minutes, which Kiah thinks is way too long for a set of stairs, but it's fine. She's just going to call her foster mother, and then she'll be back at the Giroux house, sleeping in an actual bed and wearing non bloody clothing.
...even if it's the same hoodie and jeans she's worn for the past four months.
Up close, the house is obviously old. The foundation looks like it's been eaten away at for way too long, and cobwebs take up half of the front porch, but it doesn't look like it's in active danger of collapsing. Even with a hole in the window and shards of glass shattered on both sides, it's probably fine.
Probably.
"Heeeey!" Her voice is faint even as she tries to yell, knocking on the door once, twice, thrice. She waits for a minute, and—no reply. Of course not. It's—whatever. It's fine. Annoying, but she doesn't feel anything, right? "Hey! Hey, hey, hey. Open up! It's freezing out here!"
It's really not, but usually people feel like they have to attend to other people's needs when they're dire. Right...? Kiah isn't really sure. If it was her, she'd just tune herself right out.
Maybe that's what's happening.
She nudges the door, and it...opens. Oh, it was never locked in the first place. Maybe walking into a random house on the edge of a strange campus isn't the best idea, but she's currently out of any other options. At the very least, it'll be a layer of protection against the elements, if not a way for her to find a way to contact Ms. Giroux.
As it turns out, the house is no good at protecting her against anything. It is cold, and ratty, and ramshackle, and she hates it. There's a single clean, non moth-eaten mattress in the entire house, and no phone, so she supposes she's staying here for the night. She's pretty sure she saw the edge of a cliff from the higher position of the courtyard, but maybe she's just too tired at the moment. She's not on an island, right? After all, that would be absurd. People don't just go from the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma, to random islands overnight.
Though...supposedly, talking cats and floating coffins also don't exist. So maybe she is on an island. It'll be a nice change of pace, but she's going to miss her laptop. It had her favourite music downloaded.
"Ey, Arnold! Look what we got here!" A raspy voice calls out, though Kiah can't see anyone even with the way she jolts to full attention, sitting up.
"Is it living?" Another voice—deeper, just slightly so, and almost...throaty?—asks, and Kiah can swear that someone's in the room with her.
Yup! Breathing and burnt," the first voice replies, just as a rush of cold air comes through the room, the ratty old blanket Kiah had found earlier doing nothing to ease the chill. "Lookie here—even shivering like a scared kid."
"Hey, the both of you better settle down. It ain't no fun if the kid's already scared half to death," a third voice interrupts, this one gutteral and commanding (though only like a father with a beer belly and a temper problem), apparently enough so that the first voices listen.
"Sorry, Arnold."
"My bad, Arnold."
Before Kiah can even open her mouth, three shapes materialised in front of her, not much unlike cartoon ghosts. White, whispy bodies and large eyes, no clothing except for old capes and tophats littered with wholes.
"...ghosts?" She whispers, earning a hearty chuckle from the middle one.
"Ey, that's right, kid. What's a little tyke like you doing here, huh? Didn'tcha parents ever teach ya not to trespass?" The middle ghost begins, leaning close. Kiah supposes it would have been intimidating for anyone, but unfortunately for these ghosts, she is not someone else.
"Not particularly," she replies instead, already tugging the blanket back up and turning around to lay down. The three ghosts murmur in confusion, before one of them—this one is the shortest, she thinks—materialises in front of her. Now it's just plain annoying. "I'm trying to go to bed, you know?"
"Ya aren't scared of us? We could really use a new companion, y'know," the short one tries, and she's pretty sure this is the second voice she heard—so, not Arnold. Arnold is probably the middle one.
"I don't really do fear. So." Kiah shifts, attempting to get comfortable, which is more of a losing battle than anything with such a ratty old mattress. One of the ghosts gives a small hum, the others murmuring among themselves as if trying to decipher her words into something else. Which is great—just what she needs. More people who either think she's psycho or want to "help" her.
"Watcha doing here, kid? Ya know it's not all that safe in here," the first voice—the skinny ghost, then—asks, even though Kiah's eyes are already closed. She couldn't be bothered to open them, really, but what else would one expect from a girl like here? Certainly not respect. She also doesn't do that.
"Sleeping. Like I said," She replies, and for a moment the only sound is the ghosts talking to each other again, before she hears the soft whoosh of the wind and can only assume they left. Good. She needs to get some sleep if she expects to do anything meaningful tomorrow.
She falls asleep, in the end, clutching the ratty old blanket, curled into the fetal position like a child—which is absurd, she thinks later, but she reasons that it was a natural reaction to being so cold. Not because she was alone and maybe even a little afraid, completely lost and without any form of communication. The last time she felt fear was—was a long time ago, is the point, so she doesn't do fear. No, she falls asleep completely content, and completely unbothered. As per usual.