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calligraphist-artemisia · 5 years

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I’ll Take Her Place (Chapter 19)

Summary: AU. When Allura breaks the news that she is to wed Prince Lotor in order to continue the peaceful relationship between Altea and Daibazaal, Pidge knows that she has to do something to change that. And so, with a little help, she comes up with a new plan. A better plan

Pairings: Keith/Pidge (main) ; Shiro/Allura (minor) and Hunk/Lance (minor) ; one-sided Lotor/Allura

Edit 11/18/2018: Since inserting links is currently causing my posts to not appear when you search through the tags, I’m removing them from my most recent chapters until this issue is fixed. To find the rest of the chapters, just check my page and it’ll be under “My Voltron Fanfiction”. I’ll be doing my best to keep the masterpost up-to-date. (For mobile users, every chapter has been tagged with “arranged marriage au”, which may be your best shot at finding the other chapters.)

To find me on AO3 or fanfiction.net, my penname is “kishirokitsune”

Chapter 19

Why?

Why was it so hard to tell her?

It should have been so simple! It was only one sentence: “I am Keith.” That was it. Easy.

Keithir growled into his pillow, his ears pinned back as he took a moment to vent his frustration. He really wanted to tell her as they sat there at the overlook on Olkarion, but every time he tried, he couldn't get the words out. Either she beat him to talking by offering him a piece of dessert or one of the local wildlife would make a noise to distract him.

(Okay, so that was a poor excuse. He knew that. He didn't need Thace to tell him that no less than five times since they arrived back at the Castle of Lions.)

At least he managed to surprise her with one final gift – the book on Galran technology he ordered just for her. The beaming smile on her face was well worth the effort he put in to get a copy printed and bound for her, which was rarely done as digital versions were considered easier to deliver and took up less space. Personally, he thought it was nice to have a few physical copies around.

Other than his inability to tell her the truth about his alias, their date to Olkarion had been fantastic. The food was delicious and conversation flowed as they sat and looked out over the forested valley. It was more perfect than he'd dreamed.

Everything about his future had shifted over the course of the last two months, which he had expected when he agreed to Katie's proposal, and yet...

Keithir rolled over onto his side, contemplating his unexpected friendship with the Green Paladin. A friendship which was steadily growing towards something more.

He slowly exhaled.

That was the reason it was so hard.

He liked her.

A lot.

For more reasons than he could accurately put into words.

And it terrified him, liking someone that much. If he went about things the wrong way, telling the truth about “Keith” could ruin the balance they'd established. It could bring down their whole friendship!

That was why he needed the right moment. It was why he didn't march down and knock on her door to tell her the truth.

I don't want to mess this up. The desperate thought seized him, derailing the rest of his thought process. But what if I'm already too late?

“Pidge, you look beautiful!” Allura gushed as Pidge stepped out of the fitting room.

“You said the same thing about the last fine,” Pidge said, twisting to check out her reflection in the mirrors around her. Just like the last five, the dress flowed over her body and down to the floor. The silk-like material was light and the skirt shifted with every movement, while the bodice pressed firm against her, accentuating her slight curves.

Nilani eagerly moved forward to help her arrange the skirt, tutting over the length and altogether simplistic design. “It needs something else. More layers? No, no, that would be too much. Perhaps beading? A lace overlay?” The half-Altean rambled on to her herself, paying no mind to Pidge's put-out expression at the thought of trying on more.

When Nilani invited her down to try on “a couple” of gowns, she'd expected three or four, not the twenty-seven waiting for her once she arrived. And that was after Allura and Lance had to step in to curb Nilani's desire to put her into more elaborate gowns, reminding her that Pidge had requested a simple, more modest style.

Allura cleared her throat. “How do you like it, Pidge?”

“Uh, well...” Pidge tried to focus on her reflection and ignore the way Nilani hovered nearby. It was pretty enough, with wide straps over her shoulders and a scooped neckline that was almost too low for her comfort.

“A no, then,” Allura said, recognizing the uncomfortable pause for what it was. She strode over to the rack of gowns as Pidge stammered out excuses, not wanting it to seem like she hated all of the hard work Nilani was doing to accommodate her.

Nilani herself watched the princess with curiosity in her gaze as Allura went through the rack until she found one that met her approval. She carried it over to Pidge and pushed her back into the dressing room, going right along with her to help unlace the back of the one she had on.

“Sometimes you have to be a little more forceful about these things,” Allura advised in undertone. “Nilani is a brilliant seamstress, but sometimes she gets so caught up in what she's doing and how she can make it even better. Don't forget, this is all about what you want. If you look at it and you don't like it or if you'll feel uncomfortable wearing it, you won't offend her by telling the truth.” She stepped back when the dress was loosened enough for Pidge to slip out of it. “Now tell me, what do you think of this one?”

For a moment, Pidge thought Allura was testing her and she almost turned it away without really looking at it, but the lace turtleneck caught her attention and the more she looked at it, the more she found herself liking it. “I'll try it on.”

Allura beamed.

Daibazaal.

The home world of the Galra.

Pidge was a bundle of nerves as Keithir helped her down from the shuttle and she set foot on Daibazaal for the very first time. There were only a few guards there to meet the pair of them and Shiro, who Keithir picked as their chaperon for the trip. She'd already been told it would be a low-key affair, with few actually knowing the date and time of their visit, so the lack of crowd was an expected thing and helped a little to calm her. At least she wouldn't have a big audience if she messed up.

She held onto Keithir's hand, letting him take the lead while she looked around, mesmerized by the massive, gleaming buildings and the unusual reddish sky. Architecture wasn't really her thing, but that didn't make it any less fascinating to see the stark differences between the more sleek and bright Altean buildings and the sharper edges the Galra were prone to.

They quickly moved into the citadel, escorted by a handful of guards. Keithir was quiet at her side. Actually, he'd been quiet for most of their journey, lost to his thoughts and unusually inattentive.

What if he's changed his mind?

It wasn't the first time that thought crept in to poison her good mood. And just like with the others, Pidge pushed it away. If Keithir had changed his mind, he would tell her. Or she hoped he would. They only had two weeks and three days left until the end of their courtship and then they would make an official announcement of their engagement.

Pidge became hyper aware of how warm Keithir's hand was around her own.

Two more weeks.

She swallowed, glancing up at his face, wondering if he'd realized the same.

Their courtship was coming to an end, bringing their marriage into full focus. She wracked her mind, trying to remember what, if anything, she'd read about Galra engagements. Was there a proposal involved? How was it done? And what about the engagement period? Were there rules or steps to follow for those three months as well, or were they going to be too busy with wedding planning to worry about that? What about--

Keithir gently squeezed her hand. “Is everything okay, Katie?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Pidge lied unconvincingly. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something. Where are we going first?”

“It's not anything interesting, but I thought I'd show you and Shiro where you'll be staying while we're here. You'll share connected rooms. I hope that's alright,” Keithir said, raising his voice enough for Shiro to hear as well.

“That sounds perfect. What better way for me to keep an eye on Pidge?” Shiro said teasingly.

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.”

Shiro took her sarcasm in stride. “Well, that is my job as your chaperon.”

Keithir looked amused by their banter. He waited until he was sure they were done before telling them the rest of his plans for the evening. “Mother and father ave invited us to join them for dinner. After that, I thought I'd show you around the citadel, if you'd like.”

The spark of anxiety that came up every time Pidge thought about talking to Emperor Zarkon fizzled out with the knowledge that Keithir wanted to give her a tour.

But what if--

Pidge violently beat back her dark thoughts as she squeezed Keithir's hand and smiled up at him. “That sounds great.”

He was going to be in so much trouble if Thace found out what he was doing, but he just wanted a quick moment alone with Katie. They were safe at the citadel; not even Lotor would dare try anything right under Zarkon's nose. (Not that he had to worry about that, as he'd been assured Lotor was off-planet.)

Dinner went smoothly thanks to Shiro, who struck up a quiet conversation with Zarkon regarding security at the wedding. Katie seemed much more relaxed without the Emperor's attention on her and it was a relief to see that she was comfortable talking to the Empress when asked about her current projects. All of that gave him the confidence to do what he'd been meaning to do for weeks.

He couldn't keep waiting for the perfect moment to present itself, so he'd have to create one himself.

There was a balcony he loved to relax at. Well, it was more of a retired crosswalk for the guards, which overlooked a stretch of the inner-city to the east. The view was a spectacular one and the wind was rarely harsh.

“Wow,” Katie breathed as she leaned against the rail, gazing out over the capital city.

As much as he wanted to, Keithir didn't allow himself the pleasure of standing back to watch her for long. He walked up next to her, close enough that they were almost touching. “I've always come up here when I wanted to be alone to think. Something about it helps me clear my head. Makes it easier to talk about things.”

His heart was pounding in his chest as he turned to meet her eyes. “Katie, there's something I need to tell you.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked, looking almost afraid to hear the answer.

Keithir shook his head. “No! No, nothing's wrong. I just...” He paused to take a breath. “I'm--”

“Well now, isn't this a pleasant surprise.”

The sound of that voice, thick like too-sweet honey, had Keithir instinctively moving in front of Katie, shielding her from view. He narrowed his eyes as his brother joined them on the balcony. Behind him was his personal servant, who stood back with his head bowed.

“What do you want, Lotor?” Keithir demanded.

Lotor made a show of acting shocked. “Why, I merely saw my dear little brother and his bride-to-be out here all alone and came to say 'hello'. Is that such a crime to you?”

Everything about him was cold and controlled, his voice ringing with a falsely pleasant tone that set Keithir's nerves on edge. Whatever his brother was there for, it certainly wasn't to say “hello”.

“Well now you have. You can go now.” Keithir didn't care if he was being rude. He wanted Lotor as far away from Katie as possible, as soon as possible.

Lotor tutted softly, whether from the demand or something else. “And leave the two of you alone? As your older brother, it is my duty to escort you back to your chaperon. After all, it would be most unfortunate if anything were to happen to you while you're out here all alone.”

Behind him, Katie inhaled sharply at the unspoken threat.

“We can find our own way back,” Keithir said, maintaining eye contact for another few seconds.

Show no fear.

And then, calmly and dismissively, Keithir turned and ushered Katie away from the balcony, wanting nothing more than to get her back to Shiro and off of Daibazaal. His parents would understand his reasons for cutting their trip short.

He needed to talk to Kolivan. Everything about what just happened felt weird to him.

And since when did Lotor have his personal servant follow him around the citadel?

“Keithir?”

A gentle touch to his arm had him slowing down so Katie wasn't running to keep up with him. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn't think – He's not supposed to be here. I don't know how he found out we were visiting.”

“It is weird,” Katie agreed, easily keeping pace with him as they descended a flight of stairs. “Shiro needs to hear about this.”

“You can tell him on your way back to Altea.”

“You're coming with us, right?”

Keithir didn't hesitate for a second. “Of course I am.”

I'm not letting you out of my sight.

On impulse, he reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. Katie looked startled by the action, but didn't pull away. Instead, she moved a little closer. And despite everything, a tiny burst of affection settled in Keithir's heart, soothing him.

Whatever Lotor was planning, they'd get through it. Together.

#voltron #fanfiction #kidgemas #kidge #arranged marriage au

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the-story-yard-blog · 5 years

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Heaven can wait

Sunlight shines through a dirty window and onto my messy floor, covered in used clothes. I´m in the middle of the room in a queen-sized bed, covered under two blankets. I prefer laying so close to the side that any movement could make me tumble to the floor. A knock on the door makes me stir and fall to the ground. The door opens and reveals a middle-aged man with a mustache. He looks grumpy in my direction while I’m laying on the floor, amused. “Maybe we should put some pillows around your bed.” He says, now also amused.

“I´m not used to having such a big bed,” I mumble.

“You slept in that bed for years.” He says as he takes two small steps into the room.

“Only took a week to forget what it was like,” I mumble as I rub my eyes.

His smile fades. “Breakfast is on the table”

“Isn´t it like midday?” I ask trying to get up.

“Well, it’s breakfast time for you”

“Did you make two breakfasts today?”

“Maybe,” He answers with his smile back on his face. He might be the only Dad in the world who would do that.

“I might have to make a third one if you don’t hurry and come down.”

“Can I get dressed first?”

“Honey, the bacon,” He notes, almost sounding cartoonish. As he leaves the door stays open, typical.

“I´ll be quick,” I yell into his direction. As I open the dark painted closet that I had since I was eight, a bundle of unfolded clothes falls onto me, almost making me fall to the floor, again. If Dad would be here right now he would lose his mind. Not really sure where he got this obsession with nicely folded clothes from since he isn't a neat freak at all. He also didn’t give the character trait of loving neatly folded clothes to me which is unfortunate. He did give me his urgent desire to have an unnecessary tough life by being creative and lazy, maybe the worst combination. But I am thankful for the creativity part, I really am, but man life would be easier if I would find satisfaction in working at an office like Mom. She didn’t give that to me though, just gave me her naturally brown hair and unnaturally dark eye-bags. Not really sure if I want to actually put these clothes back into the closet or just have them lay on my feet, at least that way my feet are cozy.

Why exactly do people dress up for funerals? To impress the dead? Maybe I can try to be the best-looking person there. A quite shallow thought but I definitely have the best crying face, thankfully, I´ll be needing that today. A black dress that goes just below my knees and a black blazer should be enough. Two of the five, maybe six, pieces of clothing that are still inside of the closet.

“It´ll do,” I tell myself. I take both the dress and the blazer out of the closet.

“Oh sweetie what happened here?” I can hear from the doorway. I turn my head and see Dad with a frown on his face.

“Don´t worry about it, we can take care of this when we come back, ok?” His voice gets softer with every word. I nod. He must think this has something to do with the funeral and not my inability to put clothes away properly.

“Can you hurry?” Again, I nod. He awkwardly leaves the room and closes the door for me to change. I put the dress and blazer onto the bed. The seriousness of the situation is hitting me in the back of my head like a murderer hitting me with a shovel he would also eventually use to bury my body. I take the dress in my hands. The fabric feels thin between my fingers. I put the dress up to my nose to smell it. Smells like a perfume I don´t recognize, doesn’t smell like me at all. I rush out of my clothes and into my black armor for today.

After ten minutes of me trying to put on a bit more makeup than usually I give up and storm down the stairs where my father is waiting for me, my purse in his hand.

“Looks good,” Dad says. I ignore him and take my purse. The drive to the funeral is tense. I can tell that Dad wants to speak about it but can’t get himself to. He takes a deep breath like he is about to say something. I turn on the radio. Queen’s “Somebody to love” starts playing. I look over to him when the final bridge of the song starts. He is lip-syncing to the song passionately. We stop at a red light and he gets really into it. I turn off the radio.

“Can anybody find me-” “-Sam” I interrupt his performance.

“I´m sorry, sorry.” He raises his hands in a defensive but playful way. He sniffles and quickly turns his head.

“Are you ok?” He asks me.

“Am I ok?” The confusion of my voice seems to catch him off guard.

“Ok, I´ll ask you again after the funeral.” His voice gets lower at the word “funeral”. Someone honks behind us, making Dad start driving again.

“People are so rude today. Can’t even have a moment with your daughter”

“Can you not act weird...at the funeral?” A moment of silence. Dad seems concentrated on the road now.

“Yeah...sure.” Another moment of silence follows.

“Can you call me Dad please, just for today.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I am. Your Dad” Neither of us says anything to that.

As we get into the church it seems like we are late. Most of the seats are already taken and barely any empty seats are left. I lean over.

“Are we late?” I ask Dad in a whisper while he nervously plays with his tie.

“We are not.” He does not look at me.

“Maybe Rebecca was more popular than you thought.” We sit down in the far back next to an old couple I don´t recognize. The old lady smiles at me as we sit down, the old man doesn´t. They both look like they have been crying.

“What a tragedy.” The old lady utters to Dad and I.

“A young life was taken too soon,” Dad responds back, making the lady tear up.

“Way too young.” She mumbles while wiping away tears.

“Wasn't it kinda her own fault?” I whisper to my Dad without the desire to have anyone but him hear it. I should work on my whisper voice. Dad and the lady look shocked while the man has the same expression on his face as before. Did I really just say that? I turn to Dad.

“Was it not?” I whisper even quieter now. Another old lady sitting a row in front of us turns around.

“This kind of disrespect in a holy place” Dad grabs my arm.

“Can you go outside and wait until this is over” He whispers, to keep the attention away from us.

“Why?” My arm hurts.

“This is unacceptable behavior. You didn’t even want to come”

“Since when?” I do remember telling him that I didn't want to go but that was right after everything went downhill and the only thing I felt towards Becca was anger.

“Just Go”

“Do I not get to say goodbye?”

“Not the most entertaining thing,” I claim bored. We are in the car on the way home. It started raining because of course, it would. The car drives into the driveway. Dad didn’t say anything on the way home. He turns the engine off. I open the door; the smell of fresh rain hits my nose. I wish it would rain more often. I’m halfway out of the car when Dad grabs me by my arm, again.

“I know I acted like the fool that I am,” I say with a tone of sarcasm in my voice before fully getting out of the car. I lean back down to face Dad.

“And all those people hate me, what a shame.” I shut the car door and walk up to the front door past a bunch of flowers. They never liked me anyway.

“Jenna” I turn around expecting trouble.

“There is something I need to show you.” We get to Dad’s office upstairs. Both of us are completely soaked from the few seconds outside. He opens the door slowly, it squeaks. I never get to come in here. The office is small and there are scribbled on papers and unwashed brushes everywhere making the space look even smaller.

“It’s usually more organized,” Dad assures me as he walks over to his desk, taking big steps. The desk has canvases spread upon it. I stay in the doorway. I would have to jump to get to the desk. He puts a few canvases on the floor while I lean my soaked shoulder onto the doorframe.

“What do you think?” He is holding a canvas in his hand. A portrait of…

“Becca? You painted Becca. Why?”

“As a nice gesture. I thought of giving it to the family or maybe...you want it” He wasn’t a friend of the family or Becca. What is he thinking?

“Whatever you do, do not give it to her family.” It’s a well-painted portrait. He’s a talented artist but the portrait doesn't really look too happy. He looks disappointed at that answer.

“The background is too dark and her face too pale, did you mean to make her look...dead?”

“I did not.” He looks even more disappointed now.

“We can hang it up here,” I say.

“In the office?” We both look at the office walls that are all covered in painting.

“Or in the living room...if you want too,” I whisper. The only place where there is still space for a portrait.

“Sounds like an idea,” He notes as he grabs the painting and tries to walk back to the door over the mess of a room.

“Maybe you can give it to Becca's parents in a few weeks or months, I don´t know, seems a bit insensitive to give it to them now, you know how they can be.” Dad successfully gets to the doorway.

“I wanted to do something for them, show some sympathy”

“You care too much Sam.”

“Sorry.” He replies, making me roll my eyes.

“Don’t be” I try to give a small smile before walking down the hall and down the stairs. Dad follows close behind me like a dog. Instead of walking into the living room, I stop at the main door to take my shoes off. As I get into the living room Dad is standing on a chair that is usually positioned in the dining room. He is struggling, trying to find a good angle for the painting. Instead of helping I decide to flop down onto our old mustard yellow couch. After picking up the remote control of the other end off the couch, I turn the TV on and flip through the channels.

The face of an old lady graces the TV. She holds ugly jewelry. Click. A show about houses getting renovated. Click. A soccer game. Click. I sink deeper into the couch. A show about “real” ghost hunter. Click. A local news show. I hear a bang from behind me, I sit up straight and turn my head. Dad is laying on the ground holding his left hand. The painting and the chair he was standing on are laying next to him. I stand up.

“Did you fall?”

“I just like acting like I´m hurt, you should know that.” I love his sarcasm. Usually, I would roll my eyes but it seems like he really hurt himself. After walking up to him and kneeling down, I take his hand carefully. He flinches.

“Sounds like an issue for the hospital,” I tell him while pointing to his hand.

“Or some ice.” He mumbles with pain in his voice.

“Come on.” I get up and stretch out my hand to him and he takes it. In the background, the local news show is still playing.

“The storm will last for a few hours, make sure you are inside, we will keep you updated.” Assures an anchorman in a monochrome voice. Dad, now standing is watching the news from where he fell while I pick up the chair and walk to the main door to put my shoes back on.

“Keep them off sweetie, looks like you’ll be making sure nothing happens to the house.” He blurts while looking at the TV. “...or you.” He whispers to himself.

“Come on. I’ll drive you real quick.” Dad walks up to me.

“One hurt person is already enough.” I end up helping Dad into his jacket.

“So, you want me to stay here? Look after the house for an hour?” I ask confused.

“And yourself” He adds. He worries too much.

“If that’s what you want then go.” I hand him the car keys. He opens the door, wind crashing into the house.

“Do me a favor, put the painting on the wall and...use the ladder from the basement please” I smile and half enthusiastically salute at him.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Ok, see you later.”

“Bye,” I close the door quickly and keep my hand on the doorknob for a moment. The sound of the TV rings through my ears. I walk back into the living room and look at the painting. It has a sinister feel to it even without seeing clearly what's painted on it. I sit down on the couch and look at the TV, ads are now playing. I look back at the painting and decide to do what I was told to do for once. After getting the painting from the ground I hold it in my hands for a second, I carefully lean it against the wall.

After a hot minute, I´m in the basement which does not look as creepy as could be assumed from looking at the house. The lights work perfectly fine but the ladder I’m looking for is unfortunately in the far back of the basement. Thank god this isn’t anyone else's basement which would be creepier. Any basement would be creepier. The dust on the ladder tickles my nose as I grab it with one hand. Heavier than I remember or maybe I just got weaker a possibility. After getting the ladder out of the basement and into the living room I notice that the TV is back on the news station. I put the ladder onto the ground and go into the kitchen to get a nail which I find fast. It’s in the same cabinet where we keep most things we barely ever use. I close the cabinet and the lights turn off.

“Fuck,” I groan into the air. I go back into the living room, take my phone out of the pocket of my blazer and put the flashlight on before laying it onto the ground so it can illuminate the part of the room that I need to be illuminated. I push the ladder close to the wall and take the nail out of my pocket. Wait I need a hammer. Don´t think we have that kind of stuff. I look around the room. The remote control. It feels light in my hand which is a sign that I should not use it as a hammer. I´m up to the ladder with the remote control in one hand and the nail between my lips. Not really caring about the outcome I just hit the nail into the wall with the remote control. Surprise, it did not break. I put the painting up there and it looks as creepy as I thought. Enough work for today. Feels like it’s staring at me, maybe dad painted the eyes too big?

My phone, still on the floor, starts ringing. “Jesus” Wrong moment for a silence disturbing noise. I pick it up and the second I hit the green button the voice of a stressed women yells in my ear.

“Hey Diane,” I answer, not being excited about the following conversation.

“Your Dad is in the hospital.”

“I know”

“And I find out about this now? for what reason?” I let out an annoyed breath.

“But you did find out didn’t you? Isn’t that enough?”

“If one of you gets hurt, I want an immediate call” She snaps.

“Sound like Dad gave you one” I snap back. An average conversation between a daughter and her mother.

“Immediate, Jenna,” She remarks before it's her turn to let out an annoyed breath. After a moment of silence

“How was college today?” Whenever we talk on the phone it sounds like she has a list of things she needs to talk about before hanging up.

“Yeah I...it was good” I lie, not having been to college or any school for that matter in over five months.

“We can talk about this later. I´ll be driving your Dad home from the hospital.” A sudden tension in my body lets me know that I probably have to make up some more lies for later

“Jenna?”

“Yes...see you later bye.” Without waiting for a response, I hang up. I throw the phone onto the couch. Now I have to clean my room before she gets here or maybe at least make it look like a busy college student lives there.

I swing the door open to my room and I am met with a mess that is embarrassing, considering the fact that I had time to not just clean my room but the whole house and even the neighbor's house in the time I haven’t been doing what my mom thinks I´m doing. I might be rubbing off onto Dad. Oh god, we don´t need two unorganized messes in this house. Instead of taking the still scatter clothes from the floor and putting them neatly into the closet, I grab a handful of what I assume are just pieces of clothing and throw them where they belong. Once that is done, I look at my results. Maybe I´m not that messy. My room is cleaner than Dad´s office.

The door to Dad´s office creaks loudly as I open it, like a natural alarm in case anyone would break in. It looks messier in here than before. I take big steps to get to the desk. I look at the other canvases, they all look way happier than the unnecessary creepy painting downstairs. For a moment I think about cleaning up a bit, be a good daughter and take some work from my Dad's hands but all this stuff might be that way for a reason. How would I know what needs to where? I lay my palm on the canvas in front of me. The uneven feel of the dried paint feels nice, almost like a little massage for my hand. My massage stops abruptly when a loud noise makes me jump. Great, now all my relaxation is gone. I turn around to where the noise came from. A crack on the window and blood. Must have been a blind bird or a stupid one. To imply that such odd timing didn’t make me feel a bit uneasy would be a lie, but there are a woods around here, which means they're also must be many birds around. Stupid birds that fly into windows at full speed. The cracking of the office door makes me turn around. I´m on edge now, to say the least.

As I walk downstairs, I realize just how bad the storm has become. I should probably call Dad. My feet touch the last step and the sound of the TV fills my ears. I guess the storm just sounds worse than it actually is and the electricity is working again? My hands fly to the nearest light switch, I push the button but the only light in the room is the one from outside. I walk to the living room and the TV isn’t on. Maybe it’s the radio but we don’t have one. I walk up to the TV, maybe the sound is working but the screen isn´t. I go down on my knees, as I put my hand on the screen it turns on. Still the news show. Still the same guy. I´m about to get up when I notice the screen switching between channels. I get up and hit the TV a few times. It keeps changing channels. I stare at the painting, then back to the person holding the remote, my thoughts start drifting and leaving my head in a cloudy haze. The moon is almost full today and shining into the room. My heart keeps skipping beats.

“What are you thinking about?” Becca asks me as she is casually sitting on the couch. She doesn’t seem tense at all, I wonder if she can tell how fast my heart is beating. Pretty sure most people could hear it.

“What?” My head is still cloudy.

“Like what's going on inside your head?” She asks as she leans forward, her elbows on her knees and her hands on her face.

“Not much, mostly screaming,” I utter a bit too quiet.

“Boo...what a shitty answer. You need to stop acting like a suffering artist Jenna, I´ve been telling you that for years.” She replies with a smile on her face probably thinking back to times gone by. I relax and turn to face her.

“How would you know, you can’t look into my head.” I snap back playfully.

“You are just like your dad.” She claims in a whisper after a moment of silence.

“Sam isn’t a suffering artist. He’s probably the happiest person I know.” I respond, believing everything I say.

“Did I call him a suffering artist or you? Whatever...still painted a portrait of a dead girl.” I don’t react to that, I turn back to look at the portrait. A shiver runs through my body. Did I hit my head or was everything a dream?

“You’re hungry?” I ask as I look back at Becca with a fake smile not knowing what to say. None of this is making sense.

It’s obvious that I am having a mental break or maybe I ate something wrong. Can that make you see stuff? You can eat weed and that’s a drug but it doesn´t make you see stuff. I think. But LSD or any other-

“Jenna?” My thoughts get interrupted and I almost drop the knife I’m holding for the butter I planned on putting on the toast in front of me.

“I´ll be done in a second, you always loved a lot of butter I remember,” I say as we both now stand in the kitchen.

“I think I need some help.” She confesses with a tremble in her voice. I turn around, the knife still in my hand. As I see the issue that made Becca ask for my help I drop the knife. Her arm looks like it’s detaching itself from her body. Only the bones keep the arm attached. The flesh and skin on her upper arm looks like it almost disappeared completely and there is so much blood. Too much blood. Her whole arm is covered and left a track of blood drops on the floor behind her. I stare blankly at the arm. My head gets cloudy again.

“Jenna,” Becca yells in a frustrated tone. I snap out of it and quickly walk to a cabinet in the kitchen which might contain just what we need. I open it quickly almost sending the whole thing flying across the kitchen.

“Thank God,” I shout relieved. I take a roll of tape and before I can walk back to Becca, she is already standing behind making me jump. I start putting tape everywhere there is no skin which seems to have gotten more? Once everything is covered, I try to rip off the tape off but my shaking hands keep me from succeeding in such a simple task. Becca rips the tape out of my hand and bites it off.

“You need to breath.” She tells me.

“You need to stop scaring me,” I demand, feeling slightly exhausted from the constant tension and the handful of real-life jump scares. Becca looks at her arm.

“Not your best work, maybe your Dad would have done a better job, what do you think?” She walks back into the living room smearing some of the blood drops on the floor like she didn’t almost lose her arm out of nowhere. The comment she made slightly irritated me.

“Where is he anyway?” She asks as she sits down on the couch again. I take a deep breath.

“He’s on the way to the hospital.” I turn around the corner to look at her as I’m trying to act casual. “He hurt himself trying to hang up that stupid painting.”

“Let's hope he didn’t get in a crash, what an unfortunate fate that would be.” The comment throws me off and reminds me who I’m talking too.

“You have gotten slower at making sandwiches I see.” She says casually.

“Comes with the age,” I reply light-hearted surprising myself. I go back into the kitchen following the blood on the floor. The butter knife is now also covered in blood. I pick it up and look at it for a second. The blood runs down to my hand. As it touches my hand I throw the knife into the sink. The sound of metal on metal rings in my ears. Another deep breath. I take out a new knife and look at the toast on the plate on the counter. The butter I put on previously has melted and has been replaced with even more blood.

“Great” I whisper to myself. I lean onto the counter, my hands resting on the edge. Gotta say, not a fan of mind tricks. Not when they’re coming from Becca, not when they are coming from my own brain. Slowly I push the plate away with one hand. This all must be the worst dream I ever had. It must be a dream, it hasn't rained that much in years. I straighten my pasture and walk back into the living room without the sandwich that was wished for. I quickly walk to a cabinet under the TV. As I open it reveals way too many snacks for two people. I take a sealed pack of potato chips and throw it to Becca. She easily catches it with her fucked up arm.

“Looks way better there,” Becca states. I don´t know what she is talking about. I close the cabinet while simultaneously following her gaze to the fireplace. Above the fireplace hangs the portrait of Becca. Not where I put it.

“I was gone for ten seconds,” I inform her, confused.

“More like ten minutes,” She adds as she puts a handful of chips in her mouth.

“How did you get up there?” I ask curiously.

“Magic.” She whispers with a smile on her face as a chip falls out of the bag. I sit down on the other end of the couch. The noises of her eating are driving me crazy. It’s all I can focus on. I take my phone out of my pocket and quickly dial a number I have dialed a hundred times before.

“Who are you calling?” Becca asks without taking a break from her chips.

“Sam,” I tell her, slightly annoyed. The phone keeps ringing.

“He probably won’t pick up,” I say with disappointment in my voice.

“Hello?” A voice on the other line.

“Sam?” I ask while standing up and feeling relieved.

“Hey sweetie, I´m on my way home. Will probably take an hour or so.”

“I’m just happy you picked up,” I assure, sounding like a 12-year-old.

“Oh honey, don´t worry I’m save, the storm isn’t that bad.” He insists calmly.

“Ok.”

“See you in an hour or so?” He doesn´t sound so calm anymore.

“Ok,” I repeat. Trying so seem confident.

“Can you say Hi for me?” Becca requests in the background interrupting the conversation. I quickly turn to her.

“Quiet” I whisper as I hold the phone a few inches away from my face.

“Is someone else there?” Dad asks. For a moment I’m quiet. Am I alone?

“Jenna?” I hear coming from the other line.

“No. No one is here, just me.” I lie. Calmness floating over my body from hearing him alive and well. Most importantly alive.

“Rude” whispers Becca then goes back to her chips. I give her an annoyed look which she doesn’t catch.

“One hour Jenna, ok?” He asks with an edge in his voice.

“Yeah, see you later,” I reply, tensing up again.

“Bye” He hangs up. I put the phone on the coffee table. I feel something light hit the back off my head. As I turn around, I notice the, now empty, chip pack laying on the ground close to my feet.

“Can we do something fun now?” My head snaps to Becca.

“I need you to leave,” I announce, anger bubbling up inside me.

“Don´t you want to know what I have been up too? In the afterlife,” She is smiling at me again. I sit down on the couch. I sigh.

“What have you been up to?”

“Doesn´t sound too excited.”

“I know you love talking so I´m gonna let you talk before I have to make...you disappear?”

“And how would you do that?”

“I’ll figure it out...you’re not real,” I whisper the last part.

“There is no afterlife by the way...or maybe there is if you want to call this....” She waves her hand around.

“...this the, oh so feared but sometimes desired, afterlife.”

“How does that make sense?”

“When you die you have to go-”

“-somewhere, I know, but...why are you here and why can I see you?” Becca gets quiet.

“Use your creativity and tell me.” I get up and pace around, the look on her face to sinister for her to be a friendly ghost but also to genuine to be a murderous demon.

“You also don’t know why you’re here,” I say.

“Should I?”

“No one else could know”

“Are you sure?” She asks. I stop pacing.

“How can you die a horrible death and still can’t think for yourself”

“I can think of myself.” Her confident demeanor is crumbling.

“If you could you wouldn´t be dead” I’m not sure where the sudden anger is coming from but I don’t like, it makes me sick to my stomach. I should not keep talking about this.

“Are you blaming me for my death?” She asks. Too late, oh no. Don’t act on anger. Don’t act on anger. Don’t act on anger.

“Yes, I am” Becca stands up. Oh boy. I walk backward until my back is touching the wall. Becca comes up to my face, way to close for my comfort. If she ever listened to me she would know how much I hate this. Blood seeks through the tape that is holding her arm together. She puts her messed up hand on my throat. Chills run down my spine. Her cold fingers tighten around my throat. Blood streams out of her nose. I gasp for air and put my clammy hands on her arm, trying to keep her from pushing harder. A straight slit appears on her face, from above her right eye down to her left cheek. It looks like it goes all around her head but seeing properly becomes for sure harder when all air is leaving your body. I grasp for the tape around her arm, barely touching it as my other hand tries to get her fingers off of my neck. Lightning strikes outside, Becca lets go of me and I fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. I take in deep breaths as the realization of what happened becomes clear to me. Right in front of me, I see blood on the floor but no Becca. She tried to kill me. A wave of frustration, at the thought of having to deal with this ridiculous and horrifying situation, hits me and tears form in my eyes. No sad tears, angry tears. The only kind of tears I ever cry.

“Don’t be a party pooper.” I hear coming from the other side of the room.

“You need to leave. You are not real.” My voice is getting louder with every word. even though my throat is on fire.

“The blood on your hands isn’t real?” I look at my hands. They are covered in dried blood. My head gets cloudy again. I turn my hands into fists and I can feel the crusty blood on my skin.

“It’s not” I lie to myself and start walking in a steady pace towards the sink in the kitchen.

“Are you sure?” Becca asks as she leans onto the wall behind me. I turn on the facet and ice-cold water runs over my heavy hands, the coldness almost making me jump. I rub my hands together but the blood stays where it is. I rub harder making the parts of my hands, which aren’t covered in blood, turn pink from the friction.

“It’s not real?” Becca asks. I can hear the smirk on her lips and wish I could rip it off. I let out a breath before turning to face her.

“Real blood would come off wouldn’t it?” I explain, feeling out of breath.

“Well it did, didn't it?” She replies. A small laugh exists my mouth as I am convinced that she is wrong. I look at my hands and it seems like I´m not playing this game right because there is, in fact, no blood. Just two pink hands that are shaking slightly from the cold water or fear, not sure. I run to the door and it's locked. Where is the key? As I turn around, I see Becca suddenly laying on the floor behind me. An eerie feeling runs through my body.

“Becs?” I ask, slightly on edge. Her head is doing that thing again, the slit. This times it’s darker and it looks somehow creepier than it did the first time. I kneel down in front of her, trying to be brave right now.

“Becca, if you’re in pain you have to tell me,” I whisper trying to sound calm and failing miserably. Why do I feel bad again? After almost being strangled?

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in pain or not Jenna, I´m dead.” I stare at her for a short moment, not knowing how to respond. “Well maybe-”

“-it doesn’t matter Jenna it doesn’t.” She interrupts. The top part of her head slides down an inch and I feel a sudden urge to run to the toilet and puke my brains out.

“What is happening?” I ask trying to keep my insides inside.

“It sucks being the one that looks like this.” She says pointing to her head.

“Must suck to be you and look at it for so long...” Tears start to form in my eyes.

“Tell me if it hurts,” I plead as a tear runs down my face. Becca catches it with her right hand. Her head slides down even further. I start to worry it might fall off completely.

“Catch it,” Becca states in a monotone voice. Without any hesitation, I grab the part of her face that´s sliding down. I can feel her skin on my hand and it just feels so dead. Somehow I’m surprised by this. Another tear rolls down my cheek. Suddenly I don’t feel her hand on my cheek. I look down and her whole arm is laying on the floor next to us. A pulse starts echoing through my ears and I can’t tell if its mine. My arm starts to get weaker, her head seems to get heavier every second. Becca aggressively takes my hand from her head and the top part of her head slams onto the floor. I look down at it and can’t take it any longer. I get up and run to the closest bathroom and vomit into the toilet, almost missing.

“You better get used to it” I can hear her remark from the living room. I flush the toilet and slide down the bathroom wall as a shiver runs through my body.

“God help me” I whisper to myself.

“Trust me he won´t.” Becca is standing in the doorway with only half her head.

“He didn’t help me and I was a nicer person than you so…” She walks away again leaving me with goosebumps on my skin. A few minutes later I’m sitting on the big couch in the living room and Becca is standing in front of a window trying to bind her head together with tape while looking at her reflection.

“What about your arm?” I ask. Her arm is still laying on the ground.

“You can keep it if you want.” She states with a smile on her face. I don´t say anything to her response or her smile. Instead, I just look at the arm. With the way the fire is illuminating the room, this could easily be a serial killer's wet fantasy. I slide to the other end of the couch in one swift motion. One kick with my foot and the arm is under the couch.

“Rude.” Becca blurs out, startling me.

“I can’t look at it,” I mention honestly.

“Nobody said you had to.” She explains before walking over to me and grabbing the arm from under the couch.

“What do you think this is? A make-wish scenario?” She asks with a raised voice, swinging the arm in front of me.

“You don’t like looking at this? Well, bo-ho bitch.” She remarks before throwing the arm onto my lap.

“Can you not?” I ask with my arms slightly raised so I wouldn´t touch the arm. She answers by giving me a cold look.

“Becs?” My arms are still raised.

“Don’t call me that.” She reacts with sudden anger in her voice.

“Rebecca, can you please get your severed arm away from my lap,” I reply back, surprisingly confident, almost forgetting the situation I´m in. She slowly takes the arm from my lap before giving me a steer look.

“Are we being cocky?” She asks and in a split second the tension is back in my body. With a shaky voice, I say “I guess so-” I get interrupted by a slap across my face.

“Did you just slap me with that arm?” I ask shocked with my hand on my cheek.

“Act like a bitch get hit. What are you gonna do about it? Hit me back?”

“Maybe,” I warn as I stand up.

“Well, I’m waiting.” I take in a deep breath.

“You need to go.” And I let out a deep breath.

“Not until you said sorry”

“You came into my house and tried to kill me...and then you slapped me” She doesn’t answer.

“Across. my. face.” I say with a raised voice.

“It’s what you deserve.”

“Are you trying to make me feel responsible for what happened?”

“You are.” She spits back without hesitation. I´m getting impatient now. I take one step towards her which still leaves distance between us.

“Who do you think you are? What makes you think you can put your own goddam mistakes onto me. You-”

“- I'm not taking-”

“-don´t fucking interrupt me. You´ve been putting the shit you do onto me for so fucking long. Even before you died.”

“Why did we stay friends then?” She asks taking one step towards me. A bigger step than I did.

“Because I didn't know better. I didn’t know that friends aren’t supposed to make me feel horrible about myself, which you did.” My voice starts to shake.

“You tell me that after I died, how brave of you” I get in her face.

“I told you the night you went into that goddam truck and fucking killed yourself” “It was an accident”

“No, it was your fault…. only your fault. I told you not to go but you didn’t listen. You never listen, you never have. Why would you?”

“I hate you” She shouts but I don’t believe her.

“Makes two of us” My voice cracks. Lightning strikes again.

“Are you gonna tell your mom that you dropped out of college?” Her smile is on her face again. She thinks she is in charge.

“Don´t change the subject.”

“Don´t you want to know where I got the info from?” “.... no.” I can feel a headache coming on. A moment of silence. I try to compose myself but that obviously doesn’t work. Lighting strikes again.

“You’re gonna make your mom cry, again”

“Whatever,” I say without thinking about it.

“Yeah...whatever.”

“You’re gonna leave.” I declare with determination.

“I don’t think you get to decide that” I walk past her and to the TV.

“Hey bitch” She appears next to me. “Always running away from your problems.” My blood is boiling. I don’t say anything to that and walk past her again. She thankfully doesn’t stop me. Probably thinks I can’t harm her anyway. I don’t have to look at her to know that she has a grin on her face. I take one of the cables of the TV. “What are you doing?” She asks. The sound of footsteps coming closer fills my ears. I turn around and put the cable around her neck. “You’re not real” I spit in her face.

“Then what am I?” She asks with difficulty. Now it's her turn to grab at my hands and get me to stop strangling her but the alive ones are stronger than the dead.

“You can’t kill what is already dead.” She falls to the ground and I get on top of her. A smile on her face makes me want to punch her. I let go of the cable and punch her face, letting out the anger and feelings that have been inside of me since the day this bitch thought it would be a good idea to drive drunk. Her head slices open into two pieces again and I stop. I feel like puking as she grabs my hand. I get off of her and walk to the painting. I have to jump a few times to get it down but I´m not trying to be careful anymore. I take it off the wall and walk back to Becca on the ground. I push the painting onto her face.

“Get back in there. Go back where you came from.”

“You know where I came from.” I hear her mumble. I punch her with the painting. Tears fall down my face. Leave me alone.

“Stop hurting me. All you ever do is hurt me.” I start bawling. The painting falls out of my hand and I let myself fall to the ground in front of Becca. Becca sits up with the top half of her head missing and the rest covered in blood. I can’t look at her. If someone would have told me that I would end up in a situation where I could not even look at my ex-best friend, without feeling not just absolute disgust but also paralyzing fear, I wouldn't have believed them.

“Are we even now?” Becca asks as blood gushes out of the rest of her head. I look away, still feeling like I can’t move a muscle.

“Look at me, Jenna.” She demands, barely audible. Instead, I look down. In front of her is an ocean of blood. So much blood. I take a look at my hands, mentally preparing for a layer of blood. There is no blood at all. My hands are clean and my heartbeat becomes evener. I look up and instead of seeing a traumatizing murder scene I see Becca. Her whole body leaned back onto the couch, lifeless. The part of her head that was missing is back in its place. Any little space covered in blood on her body is now covered in dark dried blood. Her skin is paler than before. I lean forward and touch her arm with my left hand. Feels somehow more dead than before. I touch her face with my right hand, going over the slit that now looks more like a scar. What have I done, a horrendous smell fills my nose and I have to let go of her arm to put my hand onto my face. The smell of death. I let go of her completely and sit down next to this cold corpse. I killed her. I hug my legs and let the tears fall.

“I killed her” I look to my left at the painting on the floor before I bury my face in my hands. My eyes are burning and sobs escape my mouth.

“Fuck,” I say to myself. “Fuck,” I say again, this time louder. I allow myself to drown in these feelings that are hard to pinpoint. I feel warm arms around me. Without looking up I let myself fall into them as I keep crying like a baby that didn’t get the Ice cream flavor it wanted. I open my eyes and I see hands with fingernails painted red. Mom.

“I killed her, mom.” The arms around me hug me tighter and I feel another hand on my back, caressing me like you would a little child, not a grown up. Dad.

“Everything is ok.” I can hear above me. Everything is ok.

“Just breathe.” I hear from my side. Just breath. I turn my head and there is no Becca. No severed arm. No blood. Instead my dad is smiling at me, obviously to try to calm me down. Dad turns to Mom.

“There is something we should talk about.”

“About Leila dropping out of college?” Mom asks.

“Not just that.” He says.

#short storie #gore #horror #writing #writer #story #blood

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