Work Text:
Afloat
Author: pratz
Disclaimer: Smokebomb Entertainment. Ouaknine, Simpson, and Hall.
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i.
The rain is louder today, but the city is quieter. You sniff: spring has given way to summer. It smells like the rain and oil. The march is louder, too. You hear, too: rattling engines. Machination. Grim giants. Probably a new factory has been built on top your site. Probably people are working, judging from that trots of hard-heeled boots scraping the ground. Those boots, maybe worn, maybe polished. You wonder: maybe their owners have wives waiting at home, children to kiss on the cheeks, lovers to woo. When you were sent under, industrialization has started changing the face of comely Vienna so much, too much into an old lady with new brand of cheap make up powder.
You can’t stand that uncouth striding and tromping. Loud. Too loud.
A star falls from the sky, and the earth splits open in a blast. Debris shoots into the air. Air! You inhale: a breath of old Vienna of the new age. Your hand flies to shield your eyes, almost blind from the sudden direct contact with the bright light. Has it been years? Decades? Centuries? You see: multiple suns in the grey sky, some brighter than the rest then dim then fade. Strange airplanes, all metal and ammo and horror, fly over your head.
A man running for cover catches the sight of you half buried in the ruins of what used to be your site, your Vienna. He grabs your hands and yanks you out of your prison, and for the first time in a long time your skin meets Vienna air instead of blood, dust instead of blood, another human’s skin instead of blood.
Von Bünau will not hold, the man says, frantic, unaware of what you are. Tolbukhin is advancing. Mad men, they both are. They bombed Stephansdom, our holy church! What’s next? The Schwarzenberg? Mad! We are evacuating to Hinterbrühl. Come on. Are you separated from your family? Don’t worry. They’re probably in Hinterbrühl, too. A lot of us are hiding in those caves, waiting—
Lobau Oil Refinery, Vienna. February 7, 1945. Your body does not wait for the man to finish his rambling before twisting his hand behind his back, pulling it out of its socket. A gurgled scream breaks free from the man’s mouth, and the thick vein on his neck calls for you. So you answer.
I’d rather perish here than hiding in a cave, you think to yourself, amidst fresh blood and fire and rubbles. I’d rather perish like this.
-.-.-
ii.
Nobody will notice.
The Schwarzenberg Palace, Vienna. Spring 1875. The single action revolver is heavy in your hand. American manufactured. Colt, you remember. American steel, American lead. Americans call it the gun that won the West and name it the Peacemaker. Its long, thin barrel looks like your sixth finger. You wonder if your hand will remain clutching the revolver once it spits the bullet, if your grip will remain tight after the bullet shatters the roof of your mouth and the back of your skull. Your last goodbye, and soon—soon—no more of this. No more of Maman. Soon, your family.
Please don’t.
You turn around to find that American businessman whose eyes are the bluest, the kindest you have ever seen. Cornelius, she has introduced him to you earlier. He says he’d rather be known by his first name to you. He takes a tentative step, hands raised to show that he means no harm.
One out of ninety-nine people who tried committing it survives, he says. But not without a price to pay. I wouldn’t want to see your face scarred, my lady.
You hold back from snarling at him and tearing his spine out. What makes you think I’m that one instead of the ninety-nine?
Because I know a daughter’s face when I see one, he says, gently covering your hand that holds the revolver. His eyes soften, almost sad, almost wistful, like your father’s, like your father’s a long time ago when he touches your cheek before kissing your forehead. Your hand trembles when Cornelius pries your fingers, one by one, from the grip. Our foolish, beautiful, human hands, he murmurs, should be used to love one another. He takes the revolver from you and tips your chin up. Your cheeks are wet, but he only smiles. Why don’t we go back to the ball? I am sure a lot of guest would find your company enjoyable.
What do you care, you want to shout. Who are you, what do you know, what do you know about me, you know nothing about me, nobody will notice.
Cousin Cornelius!
You both turn to the girl with that fierce call.
How dare you went missing, cousin! And with Carmilla, too! Are you trying to avoid me? Don’t make me come to the Rockefellers for jollies! Imagine what Uncle Billy and Aunt Maria would say about that!
My dear Ell. Come, come. Of course I wasn’t hiding from you. I was accompanying your dearest beloved for a moment of fresh air. He tilts his head, looking at you. My lady?
Later, you find out that Cornelius’ young daughter passes away only a few months before he departs for Europe. Alice, he names her. Later, he says that his daughter destroys him every time she smiles and calls him papa. You wonder if her death destroys him more, but of course you know the answer already.
For now, you can only look at the girl who is looking at you curiously. Bluest eyes, a small mole under her right eye, soft hair, and a much softer smile. For now, you allow yourself a little bit more time.
-.-.-
iii.
Room 307, West Dorm. Silas University. October 2014. You remember coming back from a seminar and go to bed earlier. You have the yellow pillow, but when you open your eyes, your head is on someone’s lap, upon the white fabric of a linen nightdress. When you look up, you find her eyes. You sigh, torn and split.
It’s been a long time, she greets, smiling.
Only because somebody has generously taken her time.
She flicks your temple, scowling. I was mad at you.
I was mad at you, too. You betrayed me.
She runs her fingers through your hair, and you close your eyes. I have loved you for a long time, she says.
I loved you once, you say, looking her in the eye. I can love you again.
She chuckles, and you bask in her voice. Her laughter descends into a hum, and you watch her smile soften, almost sad, almost wistful, in a hundred years of understanding. She bends to kiss your forehead, and you close your eyes again to relish the feel of her lips on your skin.
Wake up soon, silly. She’s waiting.
-.-.-
iv.
Somewhere, in the dark, the crimson sea rises. Your back is wet, and sand sticks to your clothes. The ichor climbs and crawls along your skin, its tang seeping into you. Vienna is long gone. Farewell, the mansion on 1 West 57thStreet, New York. Paris, adieu. Goodbye to all the dancing, laughter, and the bluest eyes. You are an orphan in this small, constricted space you are forced to be: drowning. Nobody knows a city better than her homeless. Nobody knows the sea better than her drowned. You know: you are a drowning orphan.
You imagine your siblings talk:
Have you heard, brother? Maman sent a sister under.
Oh my. Why?
Crime passionnel. Foolish. How foolish. Nobody does that. We love Maman and only Maman above everything. Fool of our sister. L’enfant terrible, that one.
Maman says so to you.
This is your lesson: I love you, Maman, and I will not love anyone else again, and her mouth shall only be a foreign sovereignty, her name an alien language, her sighs and murmurs and whispers a holy war against infidels, and I will not return to the terrain of her empty dreams no matter how much I crave them, and I will not return to the dirge of her perfidy prayers no matter how much my blood sings in my eardrums, no matter how much my flesh yearns to break my skin, out of this stygian bedlam, here, right here, deep under the sea of my cry of I love you, I love you, I love you.
I need air.
-.-.-
v.
“Carm. Hey. Carmilla. Wake up. It’s only a nightmare. Hey.”
Her hands are a gentle pressure on your wrists, anchoring your body to the bed, your senses to her. Your skin tingles from the warmth of her fingertips, her thumbs rubbing the back of your palms. Back again in Room 307, West Dorm. Silas University. October 2014. The crimson tide has ebbed when you open your eyes and meet hers, and you can breathe now. Your mouth opens, and you see your hand rises to cup her cheek. You see your thumb on her cheekbone, and you see how she leans into your hand.
“It’s only a nightmare,” you echo her words for you both.
She raises herself higher to kiss your clammy forehead. “Only a nightmare,” she murmurs, her lips linger there, her voice keeping you tethered.
You say her name, just once, a sweet taste on your tongue, and you feel her smile against your skin.
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