AIR

The tears blinded, yet she stumbled on. Cold stones and empty, jagged branches tore at soft legs, arms, skirt, blouse. The shawl pulled vainly around her upper body, trying to hide, conceal, forget what happened even as she delved deeper into the woods. Yet as the sun rose, its Eastern blood-red rays gleamed too bright. They too vividly reminded, forcing her to remember the cruel torture of that morning…

His hands creeping upon her shoulders, her neck, brushing back a lock of hair even as she trembled, sickened. When she fought, he fought back. She fought back harder and won, though at a terrible price. Because she won not only the battle, but the war. She killed a man within his own house.

It wasn’t her fault, none of it, she tried to scream inside her mind. Forced marriages were no longer to be allowed by the Swician tribe. Her people were beyond that. But her father may as well have been a brute McKendrian, for that’s all he cared for. Marrying and getting her off his hands. Marrying her to that drunken, chauvinistic monster suspected of killing his last two wives who mysteriously disappeared.

Now he would trouble no one anymore. Still, she was not safe. She would never be safe. When her father found out, he would submit her under his oppressive thumb, tormenting physically, emotionally, mentally—

She stopped short, nearly toppling over the rocky edge into the ravine. Deep below, the river raged, creeping cool, clear, pure white fingers over smooth, white stones. Her eyes crawled from the river up the rocky sides of the chasm. White moon blossoms grew from their crevices at intervals, reaching towards her with small, white, innocent fingers.

She closed her eyes, and the images were there. Her father locking her in a small, dark hole dug just for her. She’d lain for countless days without food or drink, moaning, crying, pleading for his loving arms around her. Until he broke her and she admitted in a mechanically defeated voice:

“I am the worthless reason my mother died. I have no right, no choice. You are right and I am wrong, father, I have only been a burden to you. I will marry Mr. Thomas, as you see best.”

She had to promise it. She could not bear facing the hole ever again. That deep, dark, hopelessly endless abyss stifling the pure, clean air, constricting both lungs and hopeful heart. But now, it was inevitable. Her father would find her. He always did. She would be forced into that black place and somehow knew she would not come out again.

She opened her eyes, unable to bear the darkness anymore. Looking down, another sort of ravine stretched, a long but not dark hole. Not dark at all. Beautiful, purely white, glittering waters. Glistening, white flowers reaching tiny petals like children welcoming in an embrace. She smiled. She loved children. She always wanted children. She always wanted someone to love her, to reach out to her just like those little, flower children did now.

She rocked gently on the edge of the rock, closing her eyes, holding out her arms, the wind sliding through her fur as if she was a blossom woven in a field of wildflowers. Though frigid, its calm, tender fingers seemed to almost hug, caress her, pull her forward. The tiny white blossoms called to her, those sweet little flowers whose voices she could almost hear singing her name:

“Lexi…Elexa Janelle…”

She inched one foot just a little bit closer to that fresh air, that freedom, those voices who adored her, loved her. She took in a deep breath, almost wishing she could drown herself in that precious air.

She stumbled and suddenly snapped her eyes open, staring at the ravine, at the raging, lethal rapids. Seeing them for one moment as the true danger they were, she hesitated. She glanced from swirling, gushing waters to the yet sparkling flowers. Their friendly glitter dimmed a bit.

“ELEXA! ELEXA JANELLE!”

Terror seized as the distant call loomed. Suddenly, as she closed her eyes, his enraged face leered in the darkness. NO! She must keep them open. She could not submerge herself in that blackness anymore.

Her eyes focused upon the rapids then the childish flowers. A tear slid down her cheek. It wouldn’t be such a terrible way to die. It was almost beautiful, poetic even, much more poetic than the death looming closer with her father’s voice. Yet the longer she stood there, the less so it seemed. Because deep within her, she wanted to live. She wanted to live and be whole and be loved and live the simple, pure life she always desired. Which she wanted most—to live freely or to die and avoid the risk of such an impossibility—she was not certain in that moment.    She did not want to die, not like that, not in the hole, suffocated by the tainted air, drowned by the darkness…

“Do it,” a voice eased gently.

She froze. The voice’s presence gripped with an instant iciness like frozen fingers. It touched her shoulders both eerily yet in a strangely comforting way.

“Do what?” she breathed.

“Jump,” not meanly, almost sympathizing, “I won’t blame you. I understand how you feel. I once stood in the same fear you stand in now.”

“Who…who are you?” she asked, uncertain whether to feel fear, excitement, wonder, whether to feel anything at all. The voice’s cool touch almost held a numbing power over those emotions even as she tried to feel them.

“I am a nameless spirit. Nameless because I have forgotten my name. But you…you still have a name, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What is it? What is your name?”

“Elexa. Elexa Janelle.”   

“Elexa Janelle.” The words were like honey on his tongue, silk in her fingers, a gentle flute in her ears. Her name, spoken like…like someone might speak the name of one they cared about…