A vanishing soul

My soul is cracking. 

It’s my twentieth birthday, and no one has touched me in years. I’m so touch-deprived. So lost and yearning for the feeling of warm skin. I can feel my heart thud, echoing under my sticky skin and intertwined branches of veins. The smell of dirt and pine trees tickles my nostrils, playing with the hairs on my upper lip. I’ve lived amongst the nonis for years. We escaped politics underground with nothing more than shackles around our ankles, food from witches, and underground tombs for company. My parents gave me up after I began to shake uncontrollably, flinching at everything and nothing. My father was an alcoholic—a typical father in the twenty-first century. He would come home stressed from his witch-dome duties, and my mother would try to calm him down. He would try to shake her off, threatening to beat me if she spoke. 

She spoke. 

I cried. I shook. I fought for my life, but it wasn’t enough. 

I begin to tremble as I remember his cold fingers grazing my body, broken wine glasses cutting into my skin, leaving shiny, open wounds along my plumped hazel skin. His words were worse than his punishments. His eyes were worse than his punishments. His penalties were so consistent that I permanently went numb to the feeling of touch—numb to the skin’s feeling, of pain, of pressure. I’m not alone, though. I think we’re all numb in our ways. 

My scars begin to pry open at the memories. I lick my lips three times, savoring the sweet feeling of split-second pain. I glance up at my body. My hands balled into fists by my side. I haven’t spoken to my father and mother in years. I haven’t left this dome, my room, underground. I haven’t felt the breeze of the night sky. I haven’t spoken to anyone (besides Moaz). I haven’t touched anyone, not even myself. I’m more afraid of what I’ll do to myself than what others will do to me. Medics used to say I had depression, anxiety, and countless other diagnoses—they never knew what they were talking about. They just wanted to send me home, far away from them. They looked at me with their widened eyes. Their hair was nothing like mine. Their hair was blonde and straight. Mine is curly and brown. Not the pretty brown. Mine was a tinted musty kind of brown. The kind of brown my father used to tug at, the kind of brown that my father used to cut through, the kind of brown that my father used to hate. 

My father is white, and my mother is black. He used to call mama words I wouldn’t recognize until I was older, and the kids at school would repeat them. My father hated my skin. He hated it so much he changed the color to blood red anytime he could. He hated it so much he changed the color around my neck to blue and purple. He hated my skin so much that I began to hate it.  

Sometimes I pass the plastered art-filled dome, trembling loud enough to wake up the children underground. We’re all escaping from everything and nothing, but I wouldn’t know. I ignore the gossip under the dome. It’s not like there’s a lot of people to spread words anyways. In total, there are only fifty of us. Fifty survivors of broken families, fifty survivors of government tyrants, fifty survivors of ourselves and our past. I want to say goodbye to my past one final time before I die. I know I’m dying soon. I just don’t know when. I want it to be soon, though—maybe I’ll attempt suicide. Suicide would be better than the prison cells the government has built for those of us who have been broken in ways not even the most skilled of medics can fix. I’m broken, lost, unfixable. But that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a goodbye. 

I clamp my hands over my mouth as I begin to shout near the end of the dome. I stare at the candlelit corner for a moment before I holler, “I’m leaving, Moaz!” 

Moaz scrambled towards the door, flustered. His white skin red enough for me to see through the dark. I think he’s always had a crush on me. Ever since I first came into the dome a few years ago, he’s always told me I have the most beautiful starry turquoise and yellow eyes. He thinks of me like a goddess—a broken, broken goddess. I bat my eyelashes before giving him a forced smile, my skin stretching wide enough for me to feel my dimple. His blonde and silver hair danced in the wind, and he throws me a cocky grin. I blush, but I quickly lower my gaze, fixing my eyes on the cemented floors as I wait for him to reply.

 I don’t know how he still smiles. He’s lost everyone and everything in his life. He can’t touch anyone because of a spell from the witch dome. He can’t move that much since he lost his leg trying to escape the government officials months ago. All that’s left is a broken boy with a broken soul. A cracked, fractured soul. I know he tries his best to help us all. He steals from other domes, gathers hunting material for us to eat, and takes care of the children. But none of it works. My soul is still empty, shallow, and slowly slipping away. 

“Okay, be careful.” He warns, shaking his head with a hand in his hair. 

“I will,” I whisper, quiet enough for my tongue to barely touch the forming spit on the roof of my tongue. 

“Goodbyes don’t have to be sad. They should be healing.” He says, fidgetting with his knuckles just beneath his leather attire. His frame is lean and muscular, and he’s barely any taller than me. We’re both about six foot two, even though I think I’m six foot three. I never tell him that though, I don’t think I deserve to have an opinion or anything more than this. Probably something less. 

“Nothing can heal me, not even a goodbye, and I’m not sad,” I breathe, feeling tears rush down my cheeks. “I’m just scared.” 

“We all are, but as soon as you let them go, as soon as you let your past go, you’ll be free.” He promises, nodding to himself like he’s trying to reassure the both of us. 

“I will be?” I hesitate, stuttering as I feel my golden anklet bracelet skidding loosely against the floorboards. I smile down at it, thinking of the word. I lick my lips nervously, my tongue gliding against the cracks in my skin. Freedom. I’ll be free. Free isn’t a common word down on Earth. We’re all trapped in some sort of prison, internally or externally. Everything costs something. Everything has a certain expense to pay. But this might just be the closest thing to freedom. As soon as I say goodbye, and as soon as my father does too, I am no longer his daughter, and he is no longer obligated to send me to the government for pressurized intellectual healing. 

“Yes, you will be free. You’ll be free like those white doves you love so much.” He teases, pointing at my bare shoulder. I stare at the three doves I inked last month. I loved the tingling sensation of the blade hitting my skin. I only dared to let it touch me since the only thing I like to feel on my skin is pain—that is all I’ve ever felt against my skin. 

“I’ll be okay,” I say, promising both him and myself all at the same time. “I promise to return, and when I do, we will be free. I’ll find a way out of this for all of us. I will.” I reassure him, slowly nodding my head. I know there is no way out for him or the others, but the most I can give them is a gift in lies, wrapped delicately with a ribbon of truth. 

“I know you will, and your soul will be free.” He says. He frowns awkwardly—his fanged teeth biting the bottom of his red lips. I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“Bye,” I say, turning around towards the loophole. I place both feet on top of the circular magnets, pressing the bright green button near the rainbow-tinted frames’ edge. The technology quickly recognizes my emotions, telepathically examining my destination through my mind’s signals. I press my lips into a straight line, tapping my heel lightly against the white circular entrance. I shift my posture, straightening myself as I hear the doors open again. 

Home. My old home. My never home. My broken home. 

The wind tickles my skin, touching me in all the ways I used to dream of when I was able to dream. Now I only have nightmares, except nightmares are supposed to be fake, imaginary, unrealistic—my nightmares are bundles of memories and what-ifs. I stare at the victorian-style home, the triangular roof breathing huffs of ash grey clouds through the chimney. The glass doors surround my home, covering each inch of the structure with a delicate coat of blackened shadowy glass. There isn’t grass, leaves, or flowers—no birds in the air, no doves. I frown—no sign of nature. Nothing is natural anymore. There is only silence. Empty silence. The kind of silence that lets you know that something is wrong—so very, very wrong. I squint my eyes, trying to strain out the veins that coat my eyelids enough to search for any sign of life. 

None. 

A figure stands in front of me, hovering over my body with a thickening shadow. I blink, frightened. I don’t look up, I don’t breathe, and for a moment, I could have sworn I heard the man speak. Then I smell everything. His scent is a minty, herb-mixed scent. It’s nearly comforting, foreign, and refreshing. I stare up, confused as the man tries to lend out a hand in my direction. His long, veiny fingers pointed out in front of me as a gesture of candor. I squeal before I step back, pacing as I try to make out his face. His sharpened jaw is well-defined, and his jet-black hair covers a scar just above his furrowed brows. His lashes are thick, and his eyes shimmer with a glossy hue of deep orange. I take in his everything for a moment before I get the chance to realize he’s in front of me again—all six-foot-four of him. 

I hold in a gasp as he tries to lend his arm out again, sturdy like a plastered tree. “I don’t shake han-hands,” I murmur. To my surprise, he doesn’t look shocked—if anything, he seems comfortable, almost like he understands. 

Almost like he’s reading my mind, he says, “I’m sorry, I understand.” I nod three times before trying to get past him. He holds out a hand and then quickly shoves it into his pocket, shaking his head. 

“I need to say something to my father. Is he in there?” I grumble, losing my impatience. The sun begins to shine, kissing both of my cheeks fragilely. 

“Who is your father?” He asks in a low husky voice. He brushes his hair back before arching a brow. 

I realize I’m staring into his eyes. I shake my head, flustered before I spit out, “Andrew Mechner.” 

“Andrew Mechner is home, yes.” He narrows his eyes at me, taking in every inch of me as his eyes scan my revealed skin. My jumpsuit is tight, and I instantly regret wearing it. I blush as he smirks to himself, mumbling something under his breath. I notice two identical dimples forming as he shakes his head. His eyes look like a path to a forest or an escape to a beautiful valley of luscious mountains. I bite my lip as I shiver, flinching unconsciously. He looks up for a moment, worry filling his eyes. 

“What?” I whimpered, afraid of myself as I spoke. I began to hyperventilate in front of him as the smell of my father’s breezy butterscotch scent twirled in circles in the air. 

“You’re Dezala.” He presses, inching closer to me. I nod quickly, closing my eyes as his breath hits my neck. I need to move away from him. He’s going to touch me. Nobody touches me. 

“Yes. But p-please move,” I beg, waiting for him to move away. I wait and wait and wait, but he just stands there. His breath is comforting my cool skin in an attempted gesture of hidden kindness. 

He ignores me and introduces himself, clearing his throat. “I’m Hawke.” I don’t squirm as he comes closer to me, his shadow printing against the floor behind us. 

“Hawke,” I repeat, loving the way his name feels on my tongue. I catch myself wondering what it would feel like if he was the first person to touch me after all of these years. No. He wouldn’t because nobody else would. “I have to go speak to my—”

“You have to go speak to your father, yes I know.” He rolls his eyes, his muscular arms crossed above his broad frame. I mumble a curse, but he just puts a hand up. I flinch. I trip on thin air, nearly falling back. In less than a second, my world goes blank. He catches me. He holds me. He is touching me. I see black and white, pink and purple, gold and silver. His skin is warm. His skin feels like it’s connecting our veins in some mysterious way. I love it. I love it so much it hurts. 

“No, no, no.” I shake my head. He couldn’t have touched me. I couldn’t have enjoyed it. Why would he touch me? I’m broken—I’m breaking. “I’m shattering?” I whisper to nobody in particular.

His eyes are wide, and he’s staring down at his grasp on my forearm. His fingers graze my skin, careful not to burn my scars. His grasp is demanding but delicate. His scent is intoxicating, but I’m breathing it in. I’m broken, and he’s holding me. Why is he okay with holding me? Why doesn’t he let me go? Why isn’t he hitting me—throwing me where I belong? 

“I need to go,” I say, my skin still quivering. 

He loosens his grasp but shakes his head, “You’re not shattering. You’re not breaking or broken. You were just falling for a little. It’s okay, though. You won’t fall anymore.”

“I won’t?” My voice is hoarse, almost excited.

“You won’t,” he strokes my hair lightly, and I give in, my cheek savoring his touch. I love the feeling of his skin. It burns my heart with passion and greed. It’s nothing like a punishment. It’s torture that this might not be forever. 

“I need to go,” I repeat, still giving into the feeling of his warm hands. His hands trace my lips, my eyebrows, slowly mapping out my face. 

He nods slowly, but he doesn’t let me go. I don’t feel trapped—or in danger. I feel alive. I feel free in his grasp. I don’t want to go, but I’ll tell him what we should both believe. 

“Don’t go. I don’t want you to go.” He sounds hesitant, stuttering over his words as he anxiously brushes his hair back into his scalp. 

“Don’t go?” I question, still whispering as he traces his fingers down my neck. 

“Don’t go, please.” His voice is angered, and his brows quickly furrow.

“I have to say goodbye—I’ll come back for you,” I promise him, stepping backward, but he follows me. 

“You can’t go. You can’t say goodbye. You can’t escape this cage.” He touches me desperately, kissing every part of me with force. 

I step back and try to breathe, rendering his anger. And then it hits me. He’s drunk. “Yo-your not real?” This wasn’t real. This was a play, wasn’t it? A trap. 

“You can’t be free anymore, Dezala.” He warns, taunting me with his alcohol-filled breath. 

“N-no, I’m going to say goodbye—” I try to move from his grasp, but he keeps kissing me, growling with tension. I push him away, but he finds his way back on my skin, ripping through my scars with his nails. 

“No. You won’t. Your freedom ends here, and you will join me. You will return to where you belong. You have hidden for too long.” 

“I-I you can’t. I don’t belong to him!” I try to squirm, but he tightens his grasp on me, pulling me into his chest before throwing me over his shoulder. 

I blink, and as soon as I do, I’m behind bars. I’m as free as a caged dove. 

My soul has shattered.