SHORT STORY: BREATHE

Breathe, the man told himself as he pressed through the crowded streets. 

Breathe, he thought as the other people on the street eyed him as he passed, their gaze flitting over him and then away nervously. 

Breathe, it was like some incantation that would keep him safe, and it just might, for a time. He probably had another couple months before his lungs collapsed but until then he could keep up the charade. There was little, though, that he could do about his skin or hair, and he was certain more than one passerby saw through the hair and make-up for what he really was. Months back, he himself had been one of those people, hurrying along, glancing nervously at everyone he passed, looking for the signs, for disguises. From time to time an alarm would be raised and people would hurry to watch the guards go about their work. Most of the time it was a false alarm but every once in a while...

A metallic screech rent the air and a harsh, yellow light flooded over him. His eyes strained to adjust but didn't quite seem able to manage it anymore. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and their fingers sank into the numerous layers of padding he'd had to use to make the clothes fit.

Breathe, he thought, though panic was setting in and a haze began to settle on his mind, making it harder to think. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was get home. Yes, if they would only let him go home he could go to bed and wake up the next day as though none of this had ever happened.

Those strong hands pushed him aside and he fell out of the light. It took him a moment to reorient himself, and when he finally blinked back the last of the vision spots it was already over. The guards stood over the fallen clothes, hair piece and pile of dust: all that remained of the poor Unfortunate.

Such will be my end if I don't get going, he thought to himself and hurried away.

The rest of the trip was a blur. The fear and the haze in his mind didn't diminished, it wouldn't until the next day dawned, and it was all he could do just to get home and lock the door. The sun was just beginning to set.

He welcomed the darkness of his home. Light became more and more of an annoyance with each passing day. Regardless, he lit a few two-hour candles to keep up appearances before he went downstairs. Cold earth felt good against his feet. He ran his hand along one of the walls, letting the soil run between his fingers. He breathed deep, remembering a time when he could still smell the freshness of it all.

Barrels and crates lined the far wall, stacked on top of the other things. He didn't dare throw them out in case they should be discovered and lead the authorities back to him. He made his way over to the small alcove set into the wall behind the barrels and crates. He checked the chains and their anchors before strapping himself in, locking the chains together with thick padlocks. Once in place he could hang freely, almost comfortably, while he waited for the insanity of night to pass. He had the keys to the locks, of course, and he could let himself out once the sun had risen. But while the insanity was upon him, he would never even think to try and unlock himself.

He hung, swinging back and forth gently to a tune he hummed to himself while he waited for the haze in his mind to overwhelm him. It wouldn't be long now, perhaps another minute or so.

Someone knocked on his door.

Panic. From time to time the guards would do night checks to make sure no one was hiding an Unfortunate relative. He had, at best another five minutes of sanity. At worst he'd be able to finish unchaining himself in time for him to lose his mind. Either way if he didn't go up and answer his door they'd know something was wrong. No one left candles burning while they were out, they were too expensive a commodity.

Quick as he could, he undid his fetters and raced back up the stairs. The panic induced a brief moment of lucidity but it would only hasten the approach of his curse. He composed himself behind the door.

Breathe, he thought and pulled his door open.

A monster stood before him. Pale, almost translucent skin hung from a skeletal body. The creatures eyes were sunken and the false hair piece did little to hide the fact that the creature was completely bald.

“Let me in,” a strangely human female voice demanded.

He stumbled back, and as he did, he realized he was in fact looking at a mirror. The woman who had spoken lowered the mirror and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

“I know your secret,” She said. “You will hide me or your secret stops being so.”

True Mirrors, while extremely rare, were the only sure way to identify an Unfortunate. The secrets to crafting them were known only to a select few and fewer still could afford the expense. Mundane mirrors were common enough, though they reflected the same as what people saw. Occasionally a person could get a glimpse of a True Self through a mundane mirror, but only ever out of the corner of the eye and never on purpose.

So, as the woman relocked the door and placed her mirror inside a satchel slung over her shoulder, he watched her with uncertain eyes. Her skin was pink and lively. Her hair was thick and flowing. He could see the pulse in her neck where her blood still flowed and her breath came in strong, steady puffs. She'd been running. From what, he could only imagine. The haze seemed to be clearing and while he knew that could not be, he also recognized what it meant moments too late.

His body gained a stiffness it hadn't had before. His eyes hurt from the candle light and a dull rage began to build in his mind as the flickering light tormented him. The woman tensed as he began to edge toward her. A part of him fought against it, tried to make himself go back downstairs where he could chain himself up, but night had fallen in full and its power held sway over him.

“Get back,” She warned, though the next words she spoke fell on deaf ears as his fall into darkness became complete.

He lunged with speed that would have been impossible for a normal human. She tried to cry out, to call for help but he was upon her. She struggled with her bag, shoving it between the two of them as they fought. His jaws gnashed at her pulsing throat, inches away, spittle flecking her face. She got one of her hands inside the bag and, with her other hand, she pushed him off of her.

She rolled away from him, rising to her feet and planting a booted kick to his face before finally withdrawing something from her bag.

Pain as he'd never experienced it before erupted in his head, though not from the kick. Bright as the sun, a beam of light extended from the object in her outstretched hand. Lucidity returned to his mind. He had been in the process of standing back up when the beam of light hit him and he crumpled back down to his knees.

“Can you understand me?” She panted.

He nodded, whimpering at the pain. It was so great he couldn't move.

“Speak!” She commanded.

“Yes,” The word jumped from his mouth at the shock of being spoken to so loudly. Surely someone would have heard their fight, be coming to investigate. They should hide, soon, or they'd both be forfeit.

“Where do you pass the nights?” She asked.

He turned toward the basement and she motioned for him to move that way. He began to crawl. She was careful to keep the light on him. It didn't matter if it shone in his eyes or not, the mere presence of such a bright light was enough to keep him sane for the time being.

He led her down into the basement and she forced him into a standing position once inside the alcove. She held the light in her mouth, always pointed at his face, while she chained him up. At last she lowered the light and the haze and the darkness crashed back down upon him. He struggled against his bonds, desperate to get at her, so close he could almost taste her. She watched him for a long time as he fought before turning and going back upstairs.

Pain, or the lack thereof, brought him back to his senses. The thick chains that held him bound dug deep into his chest, arms and legs, cutting his flesh in places where the padding in his clothes had been pushed aside. He should be in agony from it all but, where his sight, hearing, smell and taste had all increased since his cursing, for whatever reason, his sense of touch had all but vanished. In a way he was grateful for that aspect of his curse since his body didn't seem to heal as quickly as it use to and the accumulation of his various wounds would have been unbearable otherwise. Still, there was the hunger to deal with. It wasn't a physical hunger, but rather something deeper, instinctual, ravenous.

One of the stairs leading down into the basement squeaked. He looked, the hunger flaring up from the depths, as the woman descended into view. He groaned and shut his eyes against the urge to loose himself.

Breathe, he thought, reasserting what humanity he had. Every morning it was just a little harder to wait to unlock himself, took a little longer for his mind and body to be truly his again. Eventually he would never wake from the nightmare. He could smell her, she'd bathed recently and the scented soaps were like the savory seasonings on a fine meal.

Breathe, he continued as her footsteps moved fully into his room. The bestial part of his mind took hold for a moment and he strained against the chains, snarling. But still he managed to keep his eyes shut. Her footsteps stopped.

The other things, hidden beneath the barrels and crates, thudded from within their confines. It was quiet, she probably couldn't hear it. They had fallen mostly silent over the last several days but perhaps the presence of his guest had stirred them from their slumber.

“You alright?” She asked, her breath as sweet as ever.

Strange that she would be concerned for him, considering she knew what he was.

Breathe, the mantra lost a bit of its power each time he used it but he didn't dare give it up.

“I'll be fine,” He said at last. “Just give me a bit longer.”

She didn't leave as he'd hoped she would. Instead she sat down on a crate. The Unfortunate thing beneath it protested against the added weight, but again it was so quiet she didn't seem to notice. He opened his eyes and the beast within didn't stir. The sun had risen in full and he was safe once more. The woman sat with her back to the wall, drawing with her finger on the dirt floor. The crate beside her was open, its contents already sifted through. False hair pieces, make-up, padded clothes, all symbols of what his life had become.

Strange, he thought, he didn't hear her going through it.

The keys clinked as he began unlocking himself and she turned immediately, reaching for something in her jacket pocket. She stopped herself halfway, though, and rested her hand in her lap in a failed attempt to conceal the motion. She watched him unlock his bonds with mild curiosity.

“You use so many,” She commented after the fifth lock.

“Yes,” He muttered. His throat and lips were dry and made talking difficult. “So?”

“I've just never seen anyone take such precautions.”

He snorted. “So that's your game.”

“What?”

“What'd you do?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” She said a bit too quickly to be believed.

He laughed, a dry, cracked sounding laugh. “You slept in my house, knowing what I am...you're desperate.”

She huffed in response but said nothing to contradict him. Instead she turned her attention to the box beside her. Nothing in them would have been of use to her. The hair pieces were all styled for men, the make-up would only replicate real flesh tones, not enhance. The clothing would only serve to make her look fat with the added padding.

He suddenly felt very self conscious with her there, looking back and forth from him to his contraband. His make-up would be smeared if not all but removed from the past nights insanity. He didn't even know what he looked like, not entirely at least. He always applied the base coat to his skin before looking in the mirror to finish his work.

As if realizing his inner discomfort, the woman looked back to him and said, “You don't look so bad, considering how long you've been Unfortunate,” She mused for a moment. “I've seen much worse.”

“They don't eat,” He said as the last of his bonds fell loose.

“You do?” She asked and he saw a glimpse of horror in her eyes. “But I thought you chained—

“Eat normal food,” He interrupted her. “It doesn't satisfy, but it does help.”

The hollow feeling in his stomach grew intense for a moment but he pushed it back with the promise of a fine breakfast.

“Come on,” He said, “You look half stared yourself,” And he lead the way back up the stairs. A few thumps from the floor called out as they left the basement.

The woman sat, stiff and ridged, with her back to the wall so she could keep the windows and doors all in her view. She ate the food he gave her, but only grudgingly. Her pack never left her side nor was the pack ever closed, in case she ever needed anything from it in a hurry.

The man ate. The food needed little seasonings for it to become savory to his enhanced senses but, like everything else he ate, it failed to satisfy the ever-present gnawing in his stomach that threatened to consume him.

“So,” He said, wiping his mouth and pushing his empty plate aside. “What would drive a High Born Lady like yourself to go and willingly spend the night in the house of an Unfortunate?”

She stiffened even more, if that were possible. “I'm not High Born.”

“Says the Lady with the True Mirror and strange torch that brings clarity to an Unfortunates cursed mind,” He guffawed.

“And what about you?” She asked. “How many Unfortunates still go to work, still keep in touch with their friends? And why?”

The thudding from the basement seemed to echo in his mind, though there was no real way he could hear them through the floor, enhanced hearing or not.

He shook his head. She'd come running up to his house last night, panicked and out of breath. She knew he was Unfortunate, her use of the True Mirror established that right away, but how could she have known so much of his day to day life?

“How long have you been watching me?” He asked, his sense of foreboding growing as he began to doubt the randomness of her coming to him.

She grew solemn. “You honestly don't remember, do you?”

He'd heard of stories where the Unfortunate curse, if allowed to progress, would eventually strip away the Unfortunates memories. But those stories were hardly common, and rarer still were Unfortunates who had lasted long enough to put the stories to the test. But it had been a long time since he'd actually thought about his life from before, he'd lied somewhere else...hadn't he?

“Tell me of your life before the Unfortunate curse came upon you,” She said as if reading his thoughts.

“I moved here shortly before the curse took me,” He said even though he wasn't so certain of that fact now that he thought about it. “I've always been a tailor, though,” He added, “I'm sure of that.”

“Are you now?” She asked and he nodded his head immediately even though his eyes said otherwise. “What's your name?”

That gave him pause. True, there were people at the tailor shop whom he considered to be friends, but the name they knew him by wasn't his real name.

“Who are those Unfortunates that you keep hidden in your basement?” She asked without waiting for him to remember his name.

He thought, again unable to find the answers. He'd guarded them, kept them hidden, listened as their cries turned to moans, and then into thumpings, and now into hardly anything at all.

“That's why I'm here,” She told him, and she reached into her bag.

He immediately shied back, expecting the True Mirror or the strange torch, but instead she pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table. The Line of Kings, the royal pedigree, tracing back to the days before the curse fell upon the land. Along the Line, names had been blotted out, including almost all of the last three generations.

She tapped on of those most recent, blotted out names. “This was you, ten years ago,” She said.

Had he been here for that long? It didn't seem like it, but as she had recently pointed out to him, his memory was not what he'd thought it to be.

“You came, gave your father and his brothers their burial when the curse had gripped them fully, when you could no longer fight the curse in the nights, and took up your place here.”

She pointed to the blotted out name just below his own blot. “And this,” She said, “Was me.”

It took a moment for the new information to sink in. He looked from the blot she pointed to, signifying herself, and then to his blot just above, and then to his father above him. He blinked. He'd come to bury his father, then stayed because he wasn't fit to rule. But now she was here. She was her because...

“I don't remember you,” He admitted.

“I doubt your father remembered you either.”

“Those poor Unfortunates in my basement—

“Are your forebears,” She interrupted him. “And they've been granted a proper burial which is more than any other Unfortunate can say.”

“And now it's my turn to join them?” He asked, unable to believe it. Surely he could hold off a bit longer before he had to be forced bellow the earth.

“The curse in the Royal family has always followed the same pattern,” She explained. “The day the current Royal Unfortunate loses control in the day light is always preceded by the next Royal losing control at night. And the first signs of the curse fell on me two nights ago. My heart stopped beating last night.” It had, he could no longer see the throb in her neck and the color was already leaving her face.

“But I—

“You lost control on your way home yesterday. The guards saw it happen right after they destroyed another Unfortunate next to you.”

“No I didn't!” He exclaimed. It was impossible.

“Do you remember how you got home?” She asked.

He started to say that he did, but that was a lie and so he hung his head and struggled to fight back tears that, since his cursing, couldn't come. “Does it have to be tonight?”

She nodded. “It's only going to get worse,” She said. “You probably won't let me bury you if we waited.”

The soil felt good on his skin. He would have liked to have been buried in it, but without a proper coffin there was no guarantee that he wouldn't claw his way free when the insanity took him. And so, that day he didn't go to work but instead they fashioned a makeshift coffin for him. The hole was easy enough with the soft earth and both of them working together. Strangely, all that day he hardly felt the effects of the curse, even as night approached. When everything was ready, they set his coffin down in the hole and he climbed in. She began to hammer into place the planks that served as his lid. At last, as he felt the insanity finally starting to creep forward in his mind, she moved to place the final plank.

“Wait,” He said, and she paused in her work, concern playing on her face. “I, I just, I mean,” He stammered, trying to find the right words as his mind clouded for what would probably be the final time. His body twitched and he struggled to keep control of himself.

“I love you dad,” She said in a hushed, hurried voice and she hammered the last board into place.

His screams split the air and he clawed and scrapped against the wood that separated them. Her mind was becoming fuzzy but she had a few hours yet.

Besides, she thought, The soil feels so nice on my hands.