Saviour With Eyes Of Jade

Wren hated the walls the most.

As she lay, strapped down to her accursed prison of a bed, all she could think about was fire licking up those walls and bringing them down around her ears. In a flash of orange and red, down would go the bland plaster, down would burn the insufferable dry wall. And then the flames would waltz to the edge of her bed... Walking right through her... Devouring her. It would scour off the dankness that clung to her in this place in one cleansing burn. Then she would burst from the ashes- free to run, free... to fly...

But alas, in one blink, the vision was gone. The bonds were still there, and so were the walls. Wren felt angry tears invade her eyes, burning her retinas. What gave them, those righteous none believers in the white lab coats, the justification of imprisoning her like this? These straps brought a string of memories reeling back into her skull, settling into a continuous loop. Memories that reminded her of the reason she had escaped from this cruel world.

”Stay away from her, Betsy. She’s a very sick little girl. Her brain’s not right.”

“I’m sorry, but we just cannot accept your daughter into our school. Her history is just too… Well, you know how it is. We have a reputation to uphold. Having someone with this kind of record would not benefit our community.”

“Why did you start the fire? What could you have possibly thought that would achieve?”

“She’s the class crazy, I heard. She’s a full-on pyromaniac or something. See, she’s even playing with a lighter now!”

“Hey, girlie! What’s with the matches? Oooo! Too hot to handle, right? Ha!”

Her fists clenched tightly, her bony fingers twisting into the flimsy sheet covering the mattress. Those people were ignorant fools. They knew nothing about her- nothing of her past. Fire was her only true friend before she met Billie. Sure, it could hurt her, but in those days there was rarely anything or anyone that didn’t. Besides, fire offered protection and warmth.

Which was the polar opposite of what her stepmother gave her.

Wren’s hands shook. She tossed her head from side to side, tousling her red hair. No, no, no. That was something she promised herself that she would never dwell on again, not after she made her escape. Once she had her Lord… There was no need to dwell on anything else. But her Lord was gone, locked up in chains now. Gone away to be crucified. Did that mean he could no longer protect her thoughts? It certainly meant no more numbing wine. Yes, Wren, with her sensitive taste buds, had picked up the foreign substances under the alcohol straight away. But she ignored them, trusting Billie so immensely that she didn’t care about being drugged.

They helped, anyway. They helped her to forget…

The door creaked open. Wren’s head turned immediately, her distrusting hazel eyes seeking out the person that dared to approach her in this time of uncertainty. Perhaps it was another doctor. How foolish of them. She thought they would’ve learnt, after she’d nearly bitten the finger off of a nurse that got a little too close.

But no. There in the doorway were two out of the many ranks of the morons in white coats. But behind them was someone new. Someone Wren hadn’t expected. She hissed, trying to rear up and lunge at the figures in the doorway. One of those demonic men in blue- a cop. The ones that had dared to break into their perfect world, wrenching the group apart and knocking them to ground. They were the ones to blame for all this.

They were the ones that would burn and turn to ash!

“Hi Cheryl,” one of the men in white said brightly, a smile that reeked of insecurities plastered over his bland face. Wren spat at him from the confines of her bed, feeling bitter disappointment as the saliva barely made it over the edge of the bed. How dare he use that old name, the one she was cursed with at birth! No one used that name to refer to her, not unless they intended to harm. No one.

“She doesn’t like us referring to her by that name,” the man in white informed the cop with fake confidence, acting like he’d known Wren since birth. “But it’s the only one on the records- and, bless her, I don’t think her name is any of the things she says to us!”

“So she does talk?” the blue man inquired, looking down with a blank expression of curiosity at Wren. The other man in white chuckled.

“Oh yes. But it’s mostly stuff you’d be thrown out of church for saying. None of it ever really makes sense- we’re lucky to get the odd clear sentence out of her. Aren’t we, my precious?”

Wren realised that he was finally referring to her, instead of prattling on like she herself was not there. Idiot, she thought angrily, to act like he was all knowing. No one knew all about Wren. The bits they did know were misunderstood garbage. Only Billie, her Lord, knew the real truth. And he wasn’t here to tell them.

He was locked up in the pigpen, being primed for the slaughter.

“Fuck you, you sniping turd of a whorish she-pig!” she shrieked suddenly, spittle flecking as she threw herself against the bed straps. “You cum-devouring dick fish!”

“See what I mean?” one of the men in white sighed (which, she wasn’t sure. They all looked the same). The other quickly crossed to the side of her bed, pushing down on her arms until she stopped struggling, staring up at him with pure hatred.

“That’s it, Cheryl,” he cooed, like she was some sort of giant baby. “Calm down. It’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you here-“

“Lying anus limpet!”

“-This guy just wants to ask you some things. That’s all,” he continued, ignoring her interruption. “We’ll be able to let you out of bed. You’ll like that, won’t you? And then we’ll let you walk around the room a little, and you can answer some little questions. Okay?”

Wren immediately cut off her anger, tightly clamping her jaw shut so no more obscenities burst out. However much she loathed the pig-man and the two white-coated imbeciles, she disliked being confined to this bed more. And she knew from experience that if she continued to make a fuss, they’d knock her out with that infernal needle.

“Good girl,” the man said approvingly, leaning over her to start undoing the straps. “See? Not so bad, is it? Now, you’ve got to be calm when we let you get up, okay? Otherwise it’s back to the bed. Do you understand, Cheryl?”

Stop calling me that damned name, Wren thought, waiting breathlessly for the straps to fall away. Maybe the man was deliberately fumbling, because it seemed to take an eternity for them to come off. Finally, the last one was tossed aside, and the man in white helped her to sit up. A small wave of dizziness went through her head as she sat upright for the first time in hours. She ignored it, pushing herself off the side of the bed and staggering towards the window. Her fingers locked around the safety rails as she stared at the world outside. So much concrete… Her heart yearned for the terracotta tiles of the house, and the ocean of green that surrounded it…

If only these scum-sucking bottom-feeders hadn’t put these bars up. Then she could have leapt through the window, flying into freedom with not one backwards glance…

Behind her, the cop cleared his throat. She didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t bother to turn. Her fingers remained wrapped around the bars. He didn’t deserve her attention. Not when the bright light of the sun called so irresistibly…

“I’m just going to set up this tape recorder here, so we can record this conversation. Okay?” the cop muttered, the sound of something heavy being set upon the one table in the room accompanying his words. There was a click of a button, and then he proceeded to rattle off a number of times and dates. Wren didn’t pay attention. It meant naught to her. Absolutely naught…

“How long had you been living with the cult before the arrests?”

Cult? Cult! Wren’s blood boiled in indignation. How dare they, the scum-sucking toad bastards! Typical, of the outsiders to refer to them as something as demeaning as a cult. They weren’t enlightened enough to understand- they didn’t realise how Billie preached the truth, and knew of the true path of the Heavens. The stairway was made of chords and notes, not holy water and wafers of skin!

And they still dared to call them a cult!

“What is she saying?” the cop asked the men in white, who were stationed near the door.

“She’s muttering. She always mutters- either that, or shrieks. Poor girl, she isn’t quite up to talking coherently yet- and who could blame her, after all she’s been through?”

Again, they were talking like they knew her as a friend, and not as their prisoner. And the only ordeals she’d been through were to do with the outside world. They were the ones that ridiculed, that hurt. They were the ones with that stupid expression- ”sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me”. Them, with their lies and false smiles. Billie told the truth. He didn’t call names, or hide things. No. He was not like them. He was the saviour, the one that stopped all pain.

But…

There were times. Those… bloody times. Wren’s hands tightened around the bars as images and sounds whirled around in front of her.

A knife, draped in crimson… The writing on the walls… The tiny, half-formed corpses… The scream of a child…

No. No! They were trying to trick her in this place, trick her into thinking lies about her saviour. Trying to take her faith away, they were, trying to break her! Billie was the light, the truth- the melody. He did not keep secrets. He did not hurt.

Well… Not unless it was necessary. There were exceptions. And that was fine. That girl, that stupid or whatever her name was. She had to go. She wanted to betray them all and drag them back, like fish from their water. She needed to be silenced. There was badness that secreted from her, threatening to taint their close group with lies. There must have been. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had to die.

But what of the child?

Child? Wren started as this piece of information was regurgitated from the depths of her mind, the place she tried never to visit. There was a child?

Impossible. There couldn’t have been. She would have remembered, would remember seeing…

Flash of blue. High, crystalline laughter. Small hands-

What did all these puzzle pieces mean? There couldn’t have been a child. Surely she would have known. Or had she known? The blue flash replayed again in her mind. What did the blue belong to? And who owned that uncontrollable laughter?

A child?

_______________________________________________________________________

There was a bump. A big, mysterious bump. It curved out like a melon, firm to the touch. It was surrounded by loose, flowing material. But it was made of flesh. Stretched, strained flesh.

It left a huge shadow in the firelight, like the silhouette of a proud, steady mountain. But this mountain of flesh was not as steady. It jiggled every time its owner laughed. Its owner laughed every time Billie whispered sentiments into her ear, running a hand over the big, round mountain.

“The child’s dancing. Just feel!” he exclaimed, grabbing Wren’s hanging hand and pressing it to the material. Was it her own belly she was touching? It could not be so, because she did not laugh like that. Not with all those tremors and quakes. She couldn’t remember how she laughed. It was not something she did often.

Not after the reign of the Ice Queen.

Underneath her hand, she felt the sharp kick delivered under the flesh. She recoiled slightly, surprised by this phenomena. Such energy, such life- it was almost like the little alien inside that stronghold of skin already knew what the outside world held, and was already reacting to it. Maybe it had its tiny ear pressed to the wall, trying to pick out the tune of the folky guitar Tre was wielding. Maybe its tiny toes danced to the strumming chords.

Her hand burned. She lifted it away from the bulging belly, hiding it in her lap.

And maybe, she was being a fanciful idiot…

Always in the clouds, never seeing what was truly there. That’s what the Ice Queen told her, at least. It was the reason why her numbers and letters never settled in the right place- she always had her heads in the clouds. Chasing sprites, riding dragons, singing with her favourite creature, the beautiful, golden phoenix- all nonsense, stopping her from learning. Fantasy had no place in this world. Everything had to be cold, hard fact. That was the basis of the Ice Queen gospel.

An arm draped around her shoulders. She didn’t move her head, instead peering out of the corner of her eye. It was him. Honeyed breath tickled her ears as he whispered, his jade eyes reflecting the flames she huddled next to.

“Come on, Wren, you fiery angel. Do your flame dance for us…”

Who was she to refuse? To step out and be a Judas? Nothing, nothing was refused for their Lord. His pretty green eyes- they demanded everything, your heart, your mind- your very soul. He alone decided who made it to paradise out of this hellish world.

If he wanted her to dance her dance of flame, she would.

Curling her legs under her, she sprang to her feet, her head snapping back so she faced the stars. Reflected in her eyes was the milky way as she side-stepped closer to the edge of the fire. The heat enveloped her like a heavy blanket. She breathed in, feeling her lungs protest against the scorching air. It was almost like her insides were already blackening, withering into unrecognisable cones of ash. Almost but not quite like the fire was consuming her.

But it wouldn’t. The fire would never kill her.

Sure, it could wound. Like a dog, it could turn on her, administering stinging bites. But she had been in so many fires. So many times had they told her she was lucky to be alive- that it was amazing that her burns were not scarring, and that she was even alive at all. No one could explain why the fire always spared her. Wren knew, though. The fire spared her because it knew she loved and respected it, rather then fear it. If she didn’t fear it, it couldn’t harm her.

And thus was born her dance.

In the corner of her eye, she could see the glowing red embers only a step away from her. A tongue of flame flicked up, almost mocking her. Daring her to take the step. To plunge her foot into the heat. She shook her head calmly, her stare fixated on the distant suns.

Not yet.

She had to retreat into herself- find her centre. Then came that trip down the white corridor in her mind, passing all these strange doors to find the one she seeks. That door of molten lava and gold, only unlocked by the key of ruby in her pocket. After that, she could go into her volcanic cave to find her spirit animal.

Her golden fire-bird.

Her eyes snapped close. From her throat came a high-pitched warble, her arms raising in the imitation of a preying hawk. In her mind, she was no longer Wren. She was the Phoenix, ready to die to live again.

In vita ignis.

One foot dove into the coals, without a flinch.

In vita ignis

She pirouetted in the moonlight, her silky hair flying out behind her as the sparks leapt.

In vita ignis

The flames formed a circle around their dancer. They leapt around her. Play with us Wren come on dance dance little fire bird dance fly leap dance-

In vita ignis

Holes of black appeared in her clothes as the fire-tongues licked. Oh here goes my dress up in smoke ashes to ashes dust to dust die dress die wither and die dress.

In vita ignis

Down to the skin, she refused to stop, her movements feverish. What is that smell is it me burning hair burning hair what is happening where did my locks go what is that smell what is that smell?

In vita ignis

Her eyes burst open, her cracked lips opening in a piercing shriek.

“IN VITA IGNIS!”

That was when she stopped. Her feet, bloodied and blistered, gave out from underneath her. Slowly she sank towards the ground, her vision tainted with blackness and smoke. Arms shot out to catch her- to drag her away from the fire. She felt water’s kiss on her burning skin. She was drenched, soaked to the bone. A garble of voices assaulted her ears. Only one voice was coherent, one voice distinguishable.

“Well done, fire angel. Well done, my precious bird…”

Blackness enveloped her and all was still.

_______________________________________________________________________

Wren gasped, her hold on the bars now so tight it hurt. Her small build was racked with sobs as she felt her demons invade her mind. So much burning… So much hurt. That was the night the fire had nearly taken her. It was her fault- she was cocky, didn’t show it the proper respect. She would not make that mistake again.

A hand fell on her shoulder. Wren’s head spun around, for a moment her eyes tricking her and making her think he was the one touching her. But it wasn’t. It was a white-coat. A stinking, snivelling outsider white-coat.

“Okay, Cheryl. The officers are going to leave now. You were a very good girl and I’m sure this will help-“

Filthy white-coat! Besmircher! How dare he- How dare he-

Blood.

It was on her hand, her face- splattered all over his lovely white coat. It dripped down his lips, down, down his chin and soaked his collar. All those little rivers and splotches. She looked down at her knuckles that were beginning to throb. Had she done that?

“Cheryl!” the white-coat gasped through the stream of blood, one hand clamped to his nose. “Just settle down. Otherwise we’ll have to page Dr Weaver, and she’ll want to sedate you-“

“Fuck your sedation, lying sheep-fiddlers! Fuck it! FUCK IT!” Wren shrieked, hissing and spitting as she clawed for the man’s piglet face.

The officers packed up their tape recorder hurriedly, avoiding the situation at hand. They had all they needed, all they could extract from this mess of a human being. Thank God for her muttering.

Thank God for her muttering.