Adapt (I)

Scarlet

Cool sheets caress my body, making me shiver as my five-year-old body crawls into my bed.

Never before have I known I am dreaming when I dreamt. The realization always hits me when I am ripped from the dream into wakefulness, usually resulting in my panic. Right now, though, I cannot deny that I am dreaming.

I also know that I am seeing another memory I buried away.

It is my bedroom. My five-year-old self pays no attention to it. She is accustomed. Looking back on it now, I know it is a beautiful bedroom, filled with ornate decorations fit for a luxurious child’s wonderland.

I also know that most nights this queen-sized bed feels very lonely and cold.

I drift on the precipice of sleep, thinking children’s thoughts. The day had been uneventful, leaving my energy levels unfettered.

Just as sleep is about to claim me and whisk me into the next day, I hear voices floating across the room. I open my eyes to peer at my still open bedroom door, where the hallway light shines through and reveals the silhouettes of my parents.

I cannot see them properly, but my young mind fills in the details for me. My mother, with her long wheaten blonde hair and fair skin. Her eyes are the colour of apple juice held up to the sun. She is petite. Her small frame is almost too thin, especially when compared to my father.

My father leans against the door jam, dwarfing my mother. He has broad shoulders and caramel skin hidden under a long sleeve shirt. His dark brown hair is cropped at the sides and combed neatly. I can feel his mahogany eyes on me as he speaks in hushed tones to my mother.

“She is growing so fast.” His baritone has no hope of passing as a whisper.

“I know.” A wistful sigh. “Every day, I see more of you in her.” She sounds... glad.

There is a pause. I watch my father’s head swivel to my mother, then back to me. “I hope not. That means we only have another six months with her.”

“We always knew that it was going to happen. I just hope...” My mother trails off.

Another pause, this one loaded with tension my young brain cannot not understand. I see my father’s head swivel again, and I can imagine the pinning stare he has on her.

My mother sighs, then speaks even lower. “I’m afraid I won’t see the day she changes.”

Stop myself from flinching at her words. I don’t want to be caught eavesdropping.

My father’s tone becomes stern. “What?”

I can almost hear my mother’s gulp. “It’s the way of my bloodline. Once I gave birth to her, I gave her my essence. Only one of us can live. It is the balance of the world.”

My father turns to her and grips her shoulders. “Lara, are you telling me that you’re dying?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

“And you knew! You knew all along”

She still doesn’t reply. My father’s fingertips dig into her arms. I cringe back into my covers.

“Lara, please, tell me it’s not true.” His tone is gruff now, abandoning all illusion of quiet.

Silence.

“No.”

“NO.”

“... no.”

The last one is different. The weak sound floats to me, just as the moody darkness of my dream fades and bright light replaces it.

Light! So much light! I am momentarily blinded by it.

Then my eyes adjust, and my mind begins to work. Like perfectly placed dominos gently knocked to their backs, the scene around me begins to make sense.

The hunters are surrounding us, their black clad bodies forming a wall. Wind whips at the trees. Logan is poised above me, his hands raised, palms up. His pose would be non-threatening only that his eyes are what is lighting up the field like ten flood lights. His skin seems to pulse with what looks to be electricity.

On my other side, about ten feet away, is Boe. His body is prone, his face angled toward me. His skin is ashen, and his cheeks look hollow. Before my very eyes I can see the life draining from him.

I launch upward, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. The air around Logan feels electrified. Snaps, like rubber bands, dance across my skin. I stumble away from him and toward Boe.

I roll him over and shake him. “Boe!” I yell over the wind. “Boe!”

He isn’t responding. The swelling of Boe’s bruises has gone down but now his face is hollowing. Purpled skin stretches horrifically over his bones.

I know, somehow, that Logan is doing this. I spear him with my glare, tears running down my cheeks.

“Stop it! Stop it now!”

Logan shakes his head. “I can’t. I need his energy to do this.”

“Then take mine!” I plead. “Just stop! You are killing him!”

Logan looks into my eyes. I can hardly keep my eyes open against the wattage of the light. “I will not take your energy Scarlet. I will not risk your life.”

Red begins to tinge my vision. I hold it back with the sheer force of my own desperation. “If you kill Boe, you lose me.” I do not need to say that I will track him down and kill him slowly. Logan can hear that in my thoughts.

The wind seems to slow around us. “He is just a hunter, Scarlet.” Logan whispers, his voice somehow still carrying to me.

I hold his bright gaze. “So am I, in heart and mind.”

I cannot see any of Logan’s features, but I can feel his indecision.

Then, like a thread being pulled from a sweater, I feel Logan begin to draw on my energy. It doesn’t feel invasive. Rather, it feels exposing.

Beneath my hand, I feel Boe’s breathing regulate. I bow over his chest, letting the relief wash away my anger and desperation. I concentrate on his faded heartbeat, clinging to it like child with a kite on a windy day.