Little Hidden Darknesses
Fourteen:

While I wasn’t sure how I got there, I was never more relieved than when I cleared the trees and the motel lay before me – a flat, rectangular building in all its peeling-paint, nest-infested glory. The neon pink sign lit up the otherwise murky sky, guiding me across the parking lot and onto the deck.

My right foot wouldn’t lift up high enough and I tripped, falling palms flat on the uneven, splintery wood.

I momentarily stayed like this, studying my skin. The veins in my hands thumped in pace with my heartbeat, the glow brightening and dimming like the T in the motel sign. A pool of dark-red blood amassed on the deck, dripping, dripping, dripping from my forehead.

Suddenly I wished for the forest’s darkness to envelope me, to shield me from the sight of it.

“Fuck.” The word emerged half-mangled from my lips, and barely louder than a huff of breath.

That was all I could manage. That, and scrambling to my feet and shuffling across the deck to my room. At least I hoped it was my room, since I had no idea where I was going other than following motoric memory. Doors were doors and windows were windows.

I pressed down on my gash, trying to compress it. My head felt thick and my veins empty, and my lungs gurgled with every inhale. Probably a concussion, I figured to myself. And all because of those horrible Vinsants. They did this to me, and they didn’t even care.

Why this town endured them, I had no idea.

Just as my thoughts started to scramble, I reached my room and opened the door. I practically fell inside, then slammed it shut behind me. All I wanted to do was lie down, but my instincts told me I had to assess the situation regarding my head – and all the blood it spewed.

I tried to control my breathing, to deepen and slow my breaths, but it didn’t seem to work. Especially when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror again – the monster with golden eyes and veins. It seemed more prominent now, perhaps because I spent so much time in the fog. Or perhaps my loss of blood finally caused delusion to kick in.

Whether or not I had lost my mind, I stormed to the window and shut it. The bottoms of my palms seared upon the smallest touch, but I relished it, as it distracted me from the pain in my head, from thinking of everything that might happen. Of how I might die. Alone.

In a motel room.

On an island isolated from the outside world.

Would the Vinsants even care? Probably not. Heck, they’d throw a banquet instead of a funeral, tie chains around my corpse and toss me from the dock into the dark, stormy ocean.

“Shut up, Eira,” I said to myself and turned with my back against the window. I breathed in, out, in, out, then pushed away and launched my wobbly self toward the bathroom. The door was open on a screen, and the light inside on. Just like my mum preferred it at home.

Or what used to be home.

I pushed it open and struggled toward the sink. The door warbled on its hinges, bashing against the tiles behind it. I heard something shatter, only that didn’t matter right now.

What mattered was the blue-eyed, pale-faced girl staring back at me in the cabinet mirror. Her eyes no longer glowed and her skin no longer throbbed gold. Instead, half of her face was covered in blood, and her eyes burned red from tears I didn’t even notice were there.

I gnawed my bottom lip to stop myself from crying. But how did it all come down to this? How did searching for my long lost family turn into me leaning over a rusty basin in a mouldy motel with a probably lethal headwound? This was not the plan. I never wanted to end up like this.

The girl in the mirror stared at me without blinking. The edges of her mouth twitched, her bottom lip still clenched between her teeth. My heart shattered at the sight of her, entirely broken. Broken and confused and alone. Maybe a bit scared. Fine, more than a bit.

When I could no longer stand the sight of her – myself – I opened the tap and splashed my face with water. The stained porcelain filled with red, more and more after each splash.

I shut my eyes and reached for a towel to dry my face. After several pats, I dared a glance in the mirror again. Okay, not as bad. Instead of broken, the girl merely looked worn now.

Worn and half dead.

My grip tightened on the towel, as now came the part I dreaded the most. Cleaning my wound.

I leaned in toward the mirror and swept aside the bloodiest part of my hair. It hurt a little as I did so, yet not as much I expected. In fact, I hardly felt anything more than a slight sting. The sound, however, was what threw me – dried clots of blood peeling off my skin.

Even before seeing the actual wound, I felt sick to my stomach.

Bit by bit, I continued to smooth away my hair. Adrenaline pumped into my fingers, making them tremble.

A whimper escaped my lips when I finished, bracing myself for excruciating pain when I dab it with a towel. But as I pressed it down to absorb – possibly stop – the blood, nothing happened. Nothing except for another little sting. A sting and a mushy sound.

I gulped.

It was now or never.

If I was about to see my brain, I couldn’t postpone it any longer – as messed up as that seemed. But, then again, everything about this town seemed messed up. Messed up and crazy.

Except crazy wasn’t the word for what I saw when I removed the towel and checked out my head. Instead of my brain, I saw flesh. My scalp. Exactly as it looked this morning.

It was no longer bleeding, and no longer throbbing. The blood around it came off like paint, as though someone had applied it for a costume. As though it wasn’t even mine. But it was. I had felt the gash when my head hit the stone. I had felt the blood drain from my body, and my head becoming lighter. Only there was no gash, not even a tiny scar.

My wound had healed.

And in a matter of minutes.