Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 4 - The Quell [HOLIDAY]

THE FOURTH ANNUAL WRITER GAMES*: CANON - TASK FOUR

When Moire wakes, his tongue is dry and his lips taste faintly of bile.

He doesn't know where he is. Doesn't want to find out, really, hasn't even opened his eyes yet. Instead, he stews, thinking over plenty, straining to remember: a route, a plan, a dream. Arms stretch and a shoulder pops; his fingers brush plastic, and he finally cracks open one eyelid to see the faintest bit of grey light filtering through the tarp. It's brighter elsewhere, but he likes it here, where it's sheltered and he doesn't have to squint against an overcast sky just yet. I must've hooked it up before passing out. When his eyes focus more, he can see dots through the tarp, like raindrops that haven't run off yet. It was raining.

It comes back to him, then, the running, the flee from Maur and the fire and the danger through the rain. He'd ran until the smell of smoke and sulphur whisked itself away; he'd ran until the rain slowed; he'd ran until he felt safe. He remembers hearing a cannon and feeling sick and keeling over, of dropping to two weak knees and retching his stomach contents despite knowing, knowing that he needed to keep everything that was inside, well, inside. No, not right. It was bile. He didn't have anything inside to begin with. Regardless, it'd burned.

He wets his tongue as best he can to lick his lips again, and then he retracts it, closes his eyes, one arm slipped beneath his head. That explains the taste then.

A sigh passes out of his throat of its own accord and he pulls his knees up so they're bent but he's still laying against a warm, ashen earth; bits and pieces of thin ash flutter into the air and settle again when he does this, but that's fine. What isn't fine is that the ground is still moist, and he dreads getting up, dreads the feeling of everything sticking to him, so he simply stays there, thinking vaguely of things that may or may not be relevant.

He'd dreamt last night. Or was it this morning? He doesn't know. Regardless, it's a mess of events he strains to recall and put in order, even though it's not a dream he truly wants to remember. It's a dream about his family. About him.

They'd been in his house except it wasn't his house, but part of him knew it was his house even though it wasn't. The walls wavered, shimmering with beige and black, and in the middle of the room there sat a table, where one might typically eat dinner. His family'd been there - mom, dad, Cade, Scrim and his fiance, Carnadine. God, he hates Carnadine. But everyone's faces had shared the same expression as she, the same pursed lips, the same scrutinizing little eyes staring down their noses. And he'd been in the center of it all. They weren't always looking at him like that; it was only when he coughed, when he grabbed their attention and they all snapped their necks to look at him.

But when they looked at him, he was she.

His face had been more slender and his build had been softer and he'd been full and lush and his hair was long and she felt beautiful, really, for the first time in a long time, but the faces she received were not ones of awe or pride. They were contorted; on the face of her mother and Cade, disappointment, and on the face of her father and Scrim, disgust, and this ruined the feeling and she cried a tear here and a tear there until they were everywhere and she'd pushed herself from the table and ran into the bathroom, the eyes still on her as she fled the stares and the failure and the hate. They hated her for this.

She'd grabbed the scissors and gone to the bathroom sink, grabbed up a piece of hair and looked in the mirror. But when she saw herself, she was happy with what she saw, and it just didn't make sense because this was calm and there wasn't any pain or confusion and all was right, nothing wrong. But then Moire had to come back, Moire just had to come back and bring his shame with him and his face was strong again and his hair was short and his chest was flat and his voice was deep when he grunted and then came the pain, a throbbing feeling at the core of who he was, but who was he if not a disgrace? Who was he if not someone who hated what he saw and didn't know why? He'd gripped the sink tight, knuckles stark. He'd stared at himself. And though he denied it often, he couldn't help but think, this isn't who I am.