Chapter Text
You had been so careful, for so long.
When Mother had died and your father had devolved, you listened. The rules were simple:
Stay inside, always.
Speak to no one, ever.
Be invisible.
At first, when you were younger and desperate to escape the grief of losing her, it was almost a welcome distraction. Routines changed and new habits were formed, until slowly, you disappeared, turning you into nothing more than a spirit that haunted the walls of the house. When the men would come knocking, you were nowhere to be found, wrapped tightly in blankets or your fathers clothes, ear pressed to the thin wall of the alcove that separated you from being real. You were forbidden from straying too close to the windows, and the one time father caught you wandering too close to the grimy pane was the last time that the window was uncovered.
At first, it was a game- no matter how many times Father pleaded with you to understand that it was not a game, and that if they found you, they would take you. He never told you where you would go.
Eventually, you grew to need new clothes, and it was then that your father reluctantly solicited the help of The Woman. Father said it was too dangerous for you to know her name or meet her, but you could smell the faint traces of her rosy scent on the clothes that she smuggled into the house, hand-me-downs from the children she had. How strange, you thought, that there were other children somewhere out there, with clothes and a mother and a name that more than one person knew.
When you had your 11th birthday, and then your 12th and 13th, with nothing but an orange to commemorate the day despite years of begging for something new- anything to change the sludgey deluge of days that you swam in and out of, you started to sneak out of the cubby in the kitchen wall. Creeping quietly so as not to wake your warden, you would sit and press your ear to the front door, hungry to hear even the slightest of murmurs of conversation from Outside. You would sit for hours, until the sting of your eyes and the sagging of your shoulders forced you to retire to your hiding place for fear of falling asleep against the door. Inside, you would stare at the one picture you had of Mother, strung up against the wall in your little nest of Fathers clothes. A handful of drawings decorated the narrow walls, the only evidence at all in the whole wide world that you were even there. They were hardly any good- paper and pencil were too much of a rarity, too great of an expense for you to be able to afford to practice, but they were yours. Curling up to sleep, and sleep some more until a knock on the wall from Father called you to eat, you would drift off thinking of the murmurs from out there, making up stories of the people whos faces you could almost picture.
When you turned 17, Father got sick. It started with a cough that never really went away, lungs making a watery sound upon each exhale. He started to slow, body moving across the kitchen unsteadily to bring you meals. You insisted he take yours- there was never enough, but he surely needed the extra more than you did. It didn't help, and as the season changed, you realized with sudden clarity that nothing was going to take it away. Your father was dying just like Mother had.
When he came home on the eve of your 18th birthday with an orange in hand, your delight over the little flower he surprised you with was tamped out immediately by the unsteady sway of his body. Father had always said you were exceedingly small, but in that moment, you thought he looked frailer and smaller than you ever had. When he crawled into bed that night, you knew he would not ever get back up. He insisted that he would rise to break fast with you the next morning, telling you to get back into your nook for the night. You did so reluctantly, not wanting to cause him anguish or alarm with defiance. When you snuck out later that night, you placed a hand on his forehead with a heavy heart and wept silently as you watched the fever spread through his body, wet cough still rattling his body even as he slumbered.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, distant alarm bells rang, reminding you that without this man, you would not eat , but the chiming was drowned out by your grief. The one person in the world who cared for you was dying, and all you could do was watch.
A week later, when you rose from his bedside bleary eyed, you saw his empty gaze staring at the ceiling, eyes opened for the first time in a week, and the last time altogether as death crept into his lifeless body.
You covered his body with a blanket, distantly aware of little sobs wracking your body as you vacillated in and out of shock. It would be a few days later before the curt knocking on the door would startle you out of your misery. Terror spread through your body with gumption, icy tendrils of dread wrapping around your heart and squeezing, organ thudding uselessly against your heaving ribs.
You waited with baited, shallow breaths, until the murmur of a woman's voice carried through the thin door. "Sir? Are you in, Sir?"
Recognition dawned on you before suspicion and wariness accompanied it; The Woman was here to see your father. You stood, stock still, instincts warring as you fought the tidal wave of adrenaline urging you to bolt for your alcove- but the stench of your fathers bloated, decaying body spurred you into action first. Left foot, right foot, left again, all the way to the door. The knock sounded again, this time a little bit more urgently- and you lifted your hand to the door with trembling fingers. First the latch, and then, you turned the knob slowly, wide, red eyes peering through the gap in awe and panic as you took in the face of another human for the first time in years.
"Oh my god- what are you thinking girl?!" She hissed, stupefied as she pushed passed your stunned form and slipped in through the ajar door, closing it tightly behind her. Latching it hastily, The Woman spun to you with a rippling movement not unlike how you imagined the panthers and tigers your dad had told you about would move.
"Where is your father, girl?" The Woman's voice was soft and shrill, coils of gray hair spilling out from the style it was bound back into- so much more intricate than the three strand plait your long hair had been in for as long as you could remember. Her eyes were a soft brown you, you noted belatedly, completely unresponsive to her manic questioning, heartbeat thundering as your eyes traced her face. Ruddy cheeks, thin lips, frowning at you, you realized dazedly.
Her eyes darted around the room then, eventually landing on the covered mass in the far corner, resting atop fathers bedroll.
"My god, is your father dead, child?"
You nodded to her then, putrid scent registering once more. "Very well then. I will do what I can and remove the body, but no more. You understand what will happen to you now, right girl? That they will take you?"
You nodded again, unsure what you were really agreeing to, a thousand unanswered questions swimming in your head and coagulating together in your mind until your head felt heavy and gummy and dumb.
"Good luck to you, girl. Get back in the wall until the body is gone and the house is quiet again." Her voice was stern and heady with frustration, and you scurried back into your nest as you had been bid. You slid the wall closed behind you, and waited with your ear pressed to the partition.
You listened as the woman took a deep breath and then exited the house, and a short time later the door opened again, voices carrying in to the hovel.
"He's over there, dear. In the corner. I covered the body, couldn't hardly stand to look at 'im any longer." The Woman's voice carried through the air thinly, followed by shuffling footsteps and the grumbling murmur of a man. "Did you report him dead yet to the guards, Annie?"
"No.. I hate 'em poking around here. Reckon they'll figure out soon enough when they make their reaping rounds."
The man only grunted in response before supplying, "Grab his feet then. Can't think of much worse than staying in this house another damn minute. I'll take the body to burn."
And all of the sudden, you were alone, the door shutting behind them with a quiet 'click'.
Time passed strange after that. There was never much for extra food in the house, and you had long since ran out. The Woman- Annie, you thought belatedly, was not coming back. The men your father always feared would come for you, and you would probably die too, you realized distantly. Did it really matter then, if they came for you or not? The orange sat on the table, growing softer and softer as the ripening scent toed the line of souring. Your stomach growled angrily, but the pain hardly registered underneath your growing apathy and hopelessness. A last meal then, you reasoned with yourself. You would enjoy the delicious fruit and the last gift from the one who loved you, knew you , and then you would crawl into the wall and finally let yourself die.
You broke apart the sanguine peel tepidly, body slow with exhaustion and resignation. When you lifted the first bite to your lips and bit in to the citrusy flesh, a riotous, mutinous little thought spread through your head like a disease.
What if you just went outside? Wouldn't there be food, and other people like Annie? Surely, it cannot be all bad.
You continued to eat away at the fruit until only the hollow, curling peel remained, standing stock still in the little house you had spent your whole life waiting to die in, stomach aching and urging you to just go outside- it can't be so bad, there are other people out there, just like you, and surely they would have food.
Your eyes swung to the threshold of the kitchen, body turning and feet readying to carry you out there. You just needed to find something to eat- you wouldn't be any trouble at all. Maybe you could find the rosy scent of Annie and-
A knock sounded on the door, angry, insistent. You turned towards it in a daze, body moving like a spectral being as your thoughts coalesced into a low thrum urging you towards food, towards help.
You took one step before a voice boomed out, startling you out of your reverie like ice water had been poured on you.
“Open up! It’s inspection time.”
The men were here, and they were outside the door calling for your father- a man who could not answer.
You bolted back into the alcove with a start, shaking hands sliding the door into place behind you. When Father was alive, this part of the routine had been tense, and short lived. The knock would sound, father already ensuring you were locked up tight with his freshly worn clothes swaddling you before he would make for the door. You would hear his steps retreat from the kitchen, and press your ear to the wall to make out the faint sounds of The Men inquiring with your father at the front door, and then it was over. Now, you descended into nightmare.
“Alright then, we’re coming in!” The voice called out, sounding more irate now, and then the sound of the front door crumbling followed.
Time moved slowly, every breath you took making you feel fainter and fainter, until you heard his steps descending, louder and heavier than any that had ever been in the house before. The wooden boards creaked and heaved, until you were certain the visitor was right outside your hiding place. And then, for the first time in your life, something strange happened. Cutting through the vestiges of Fathers scent, the scent of home, was something new. Your eyes widened in alarm and wonder as the scent of things you couldn’t name curled around you, seeping in through the seams of the wall panel.
And in the span of a warbling breath, it happened. In the same moment you stole a lungful of air in through the moth bitten wool of your fathers coat, you remembered, and you knew it was over. Even through the crumbling fabric, you could taste his spiking scent, filling with anger and arousal.
You had forgotten the orange peel on the floor.
In the end, your fathers last gift to you was only a scrap of evidence that you were here. You heard him start to speak, and then all hell broke loose.