[Better Than Me - Hinder🎶]
I stare at the crucified meaning of a word. Deep memories bleed from its letters... I see. But what good is sight when you can no longer feel? The dreadful lake flows... Tonight, we are at the mercy of the word.
I trace the arrangement of meaningless letters. Painful affections ripple from their utterance... I feel it. But what good is feeling without living? The longing moon rises, counting the hours... Tonight, I hold them in the palms of the word.
I watch the death of a word that has lost its memory. Tears speak from deep graves... I hear. But what good is hearing if you don't understand? The color of insults burns the day... Tonight, we exist only in the eyes of the word.
This is the graveyard of words that have lost their memory. What good is it to speak? What good is it to cry if he doesn't love you? What good is it to die if he won't wipe your tears? This is the graveyard of forgotten words. And we are there. But this time, they aren't.
*
I woke with a start, my heart hammering against my ribs, escaping the nightmares that always found me.
The room was dim. On the other side of the bed, Pars was rummaging through the drawers, creating a chaotic clatter. My side of the room was pristine; his was a storm. Did he ever sleep?
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and swallowed hard as he moved to the bed. He began laying out knives—various shapes, sizes, and gleams—on the mattress.
"What are you doing with all those?" I asked, shrinking back against the headboard.
He didn't look up. He was methodically polishing the blades, checking their edges with obsessive care before sliding them, one by one, into the hidden compartments of his leather jacket.
"I'm going to kill someone," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. He brushed a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. Suddenly, his eyes locked onto mine. He winked.
I blinked, confused. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"That... wink. What are you implying?" I straightened up, defensive.
"Nothing," he scoffed, his amusement vanishing instantly. He stood up, adjusting the weight of his jacket. He extended a hand toward me, his expression hardening. "Get up. It's time for your first mission."
"What?" I slapped his hand away. "I am not your pet."
I tried to storm past him, but his hand shot out, gripping my shoulder. He spun me around and pulled me into his chest, forcing my head down. His chin rested heavily on the crown of my head.
"I. Said. We're. Going. Right. Now."
The Command washed over me. My mind went cloudy, a thick fog suppressing my will. My subconscious screamed at me to obey. My body moved on its own, betraying me; I pulled away from his chest and nodded in submission. But inside, behind the fog, a small part of me was screaming, clawing to run away.
"Don't do this to me," I whispered, the plea barely audible.
He tilted my chin up with a rough finger, his thumb brushing my cheek. He offered a faint, cruel smile.
"If I don't do this, nothing changes in this godforsaken country. You are a tool on the road to my goal, Alenas. And you will remain one until I get what I want."
He dropped his hand and turned, walking out the door. I followed him like a magnet, helpless against the pull. Freedom wasn't just far away; it was invisible.
*
We met the rest of the team outside. Silence hung heavy in the air. Time and place didn't matter; only the mission did. Pars took the lead, and we followed like ghosts through the garden of the headquarters towards the massive metal exit gates.
The guards saw Pars and hauled the gates open without a word. We stepped out into the dark, deserted streets of Zehera.
The city was a ghost town. The population was sparse, the streets empty. I never understood why, and I doubted I ever would. What was happening to this world?
My spiraling thoughts were cut short when everyone stopped. I frowned, realizing where we were.
The entrance to a massive, tubular tunnel loomed before us like a mouth.
"Go ahead," Pars said, nodding toward the darkness.
I swallowed a lump of fear. "Me?"
"You."
I took a step, then looked back one last time. Pars wasn't even watching me. He was checking his gear, indifferent. He didn't care if I walked into a trap. He wouldn't even bury me if I died. Just a tool.
I turned and walked into the tunnel alone.
Minutes stretched into hours. The walls were gray, cracked veins of concrete sweating in the damp air. My footsteps echoed, a lonely, hoarse rhythm in the silence.
Suddenly, a noise ahead froze me.
Five or six figures emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden behind masks. I stumbled back. They held weapons—large, menacing guns—and they advanced on me in unison.
My survival instinct kicked in. I reached out with my mind, intending to rip the weapons from their hands.
I was too slow.
The figure in the center moved with a speed that shouldn't exist. Before I could even focus my energy, a flash of light erupted. A normal human couldn't move that fast.
Bang.
The sound exploded in the confined space. A burning, tearing sensation ripped through my stomach. The agony was immediate and blinding. I collapsed to the concrete, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The masked figures vanished into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared.
"Fuck!"
Pars's voice roared from behind me. I slumped against the cold tunnel wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Warm blood soaked through my fingers, pooling on my stomach.
Pars slid to his knees beside me. I turned my head, letting my hair fall like a curtain to hide my face. I didn't want him to see the tears.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he yelled, ripping a piece of fabric from his shirt and pressing it hard against my wound. I cried out in pain.
"Did you really just get taken down by a bunch of amateurs?" He was furious, his voice echoing off the walls. "You are testing my patience, Reverie! Focus!"
His anger cut deeper than the bullet. You're breaking my heart, I thought, the darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. Don't... I can't take it.
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. I thought he had left me there to rot.
I turned my head slightly, the hair falling away from my face.
Pars was still there. His green eyes widened in shock as he saw the tears streaming down my cheeks. His anger faltered. He reached out, cupping my face with both hands, his thumbs wiping at the wetness.
"Don't cry," he commanded.
But the Command didn't work on pain. It didn't work on sorrow.
"I said, don't cry!"
I sobbed harder, my body shaking. I felt cold. I felt like I was dying. And for the first time, he couldn't control me.