Our Dark Lies

Olyxe “Ash” Heregale is not to be messed with. She lives for violence, laughs in the face of danger. She’s driven by a rage so bright and fierce, it’s not wonder she does so many stupid things.

Freeing the prisoners of Isolation, a place haunted by living and dead alike, perhaps the most stupid of all.

With a handful of people like her, Cursed and misfits, she will either change Haven forever or bring the demise of all her kind.

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Author's note

I don’t really know what genre this fits in. It’s a bit sci-fi, with a good dose of dystopia and apocalyptic, and intermingled fantasy and supernatural. Also, a healthy amount of violence and strong women beating up bad people.
AA

16. Remembering

Chapter XV

~ Remembering ~

“His eyes. By now they were seared into my mind.”

 

 

I was almost to the safety of home when we collided. My legs aches and throbbed from the long run, and hunger gnawed deeply in my stomach. The familiarly sloped walls were a hairsbreadth away, so close I could practically reach out and touch the miserably dull clay. 

He shoved me away with fury immediately after the accidental contact, flicking his green eyes over me. They dripped over my skin like toxic acid, burning away my flesh until I was nothing left but a skeleton under his glare. He smirked, baring his teeth like gleaming fangs. 

“You ought to learn to watch where you’re going,” he spits, his acid gaze studying where my breasts lay beneath my shirt. 

“And you better learn that my eyes are up here, you lewd idiot,” I say, bristling with barely contained fury. His smirk twists into an angry glower. I fume in anger. He slowly lets his eyes rove up and down every inch of my body, taking special time when it comes to the curve of my hips and once again, my breasts. My fingers twitch into fists, begging for me to take out some of the rage currently winding its way through my veins. 

“I don’t appreciate being talked to that way.” He folds his arms, furrowing his brows. 

“Deal with it,” I huff. “If you’d please excuse me, get out of my way so I can get home. You can consider yourself lucky, normally I wouldn’t walk away.” 

“Who said you were going anywhere,” he demands. A pain slashed through my mind only comparable to a thousand fiery knives. His green eyes brighten even farther, until they rival the lights overhead. “You will stay where you are until I’m done with you.” 

“I do whatever I please.” The pain makes speaking hard, each word taking considerable effort to enunciate clearly.

“Not when I tell you to do otherwise.” The pain lessens, and I exhale in relief, not having realized I’d been holding me breath. I relax, only to be blinded once again, moments later. “Now tell me, do you live around here?” 

“Right there,” I gesture towards my house. The words forced their way out of my mouth, burning their way up my throat and scorching my lips as they leave. 

“Alright,” he declares, a devious smirk creeping across his face that fills me with dread. His eyes grow brighter, brimming with delight towards whatever scheme has taken root in the dark depths of his mind. 

“Miss? Are you alright?” Patrolman Denrick watches me with concern. The other Patrollers are in the process of dragging Enise through the doors, glancing back occasionally. They wear confused frowns. “We’re here. Do you need medical attention? You might’ve lost a fair amount of blood.” 

“N-no, I’m alright.” I frown, rubbing the side of my skull. A phantom of the pain from my memories makes my head throb. 

“If you’re experiencing any discomfort in the least, please let one of us know and we will get you proper medical care as quickly as possible.” He tentatively rests a hand on my shoulder, gently but sternly prompting me inside. I gulp when the doors shut behind us. The inside of the Law Office is filled to the brim with scowling faces, in various stages of Patroller dress. A handful are in full uniform. The entrance appears to double as a rest area, the majority lounging around and chatting pleasantly. Only a couple heads glance up at our party as we venture deeper into the guts of the building. 

I’m escorted through a second doorway, the easygoing atmosphere quickly dissipating. There’s a long hallway, dead-ending in a door marked with a sign reading exit in case of emergencies in flaking yellow paint. 

The corridor is dotted on either side by steel doors. The majority of them have a green sign hanging on the door, but the scattered few have a red. We pause at the first door to our left. Up close, I can tell the sign has the word vacant scrawled across in small print. 

Using an old and rusted key Patrolman Denrik unlocks the door. One of the Patrollers who’d been ushering Enise yanks it open, forcefully shoving the red-eyed man inside. I follow in after, wearing a grim scowl. The room is dark, lit up only by a handful of lights embedded in the ceiling. Within a few heartbeats of our entrance the lights brighten, casting the room in an ethereal turquoise glow. 

There’s a desk, set up with three chairs facing it. Patrolman Denrik takes a seat at the desk, his two cohorts standing behind him like brooding, imposing shadows. 

He gestured for Enise and I to take a seat. Reluctantly, I sink down into a chair. Enise takes the seat next to mine, settling his unnerving gaze on the Patrollers. None of them appear overly affected by the glare. 

“Mister...” he trails off, glancing down at his sheets and furrowing his brows. 

“Vizzoin. But please, call me Enise.” 

“Alright,” Denrik sighs, rubbing his temples. He deposited his bulky helmet shortly after we’d entered and has a much younger air in its absence. “Enise, what happened for you to come in possession of a blade?” 

“Contact my son.” 

“That is not an answer to my question.” He leans forward, suddenly becoming less friendly and more threatening. His blue eyes lose their mundaneness, becoming fierce and piercing with frigid intensity. When he speaks again, his voice is low and humming with something unidentifiable. “I’ll ask you again, how did you come into possession of a blade?”

“And I will tell you again, contact my son.” Enise leans forward as well. “I won’t talk until my son his here. Ridser Vizzoin. So take one of those ungodly talking machines and send a message to him, telling him to come, so there will be someone to take Olyxe away once we’re finished here. We can’t have a young woman wandering around Haven all on our lonesome, now can we?” 

“I’m sorry, Enise, but whatever hidden agenda you have is pretty much useless. You will explain to us the circumstances of your fight with Olyxe, and how you came upon the knife, so that we may determine your sentence.” Denrik sets his hands down lightly on the table, attempting to calm down the volatile Enise. 

“Did you not hear me,” Enise snarls, leaning in so that Denrik has a full view of his crimson irises. “I want you to get in contact with my son, or I will take one of your talk-boxes and do it myself!” 

“I regret to inform you, but that isn’t the way it works. We are unable to come in contact with this son of yours unless he himself has a ‘talk-box,’ as you call it.” 

Enise comes up with no sharp response to this, but I can feel the hatred rolling off of him in waves. Rage sparks within my own blood, but not towards the Patrollers. No, towards him and his stupid inability to follow orders. It’s been made clear several times over that Enise is a proud man, refusing to bow his head to anyone. 

Denrik also appears to have discovered this, as he sighs massively. The other two Patrollers shift anxiously, clearly not expecting to have this much trouble. 

“I was walking when Enise found me,” I begin, drawing all four sets of eyes two me. “I tried to fend him off, but then he pulled a knife on me. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept struggling and ended up getting sliced.” 

“Is that true, Enise?” Denrik faces the red-eyed monster of a man. 

“Yes,” Enise answers, shaking his head in agreement. My brows crease and my mouth twists itself into a frown. I had not been expecting a man like Enise to agree with me so easily. Nonetheless, he makes no other comments about our fight. 

“Well, if that’s settled, all we have left to discuss is how you came across your weapon. Tillo, please bring Olyxe to the medical room to be looked over.” 

At Denrik’s command, the shorter of the two remaining Patrollers steps forward. He glides silently to my chair, waiting for me to tentatively take to my feet. When I do, he promptly sweeps us out of the room and down the hall. 

“Go in here and wait for the medical examiner to come,” Tillo instructs. He all but shoves me into a small room at the end of the hallway, before slamming the door shut. I have no choice but to take a seat in the chair, hating how the harsh metal frame scrapes against my bones as I settle in. 

His eyes. By now they were seared into my mind. They voyage from the pile of ashes on the ground where he’d tried to press the knife against the cheek. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to maim that pretty face of yours,” he declares, frowning sourly at the ashes. He reaches down and runs his finger through the small dune, examining the black soot stain it leaves behind. “Tell me, is there any weapons within the limits of this city which can harm you?”

“My own knives. Made from the same material as my clothes, they are resilient to my touch.” I glance at my house, fighting against the blaze of pain and its twisted compulsion. Different from Tenjey’s. He isn’t simply willing people to do as he says, he is forcing his way within the boundaries of a mind and wreaking havoc. “They’re in my house.”

“Then go get them,” his words slice open my skull, stabbing through my head and causing explosions of light and colour behind my eyes. How can his Curse effect me, but not Tenjey’s?

A puppet on his string, I retrieve three blades from within the walls of my house. A small blade I use for trimming hair and two knives which glitter, wickedly sharp. In his orders, he’d mentioned nothing about returning the weapons to him or even revealing them. I shove the knives into hidden sheathes at my hips, slipping the thin blade out of sight. When I leave the safety of my walls, I’m met with a scowl. 

“You have no weapons. Why?” No pain. I am thankful for the brief lapse in his judgement. 

“There’s none there. I only had two knives, I forgot I’d lost them in a fight a couple weeks ago,” I lie. For a heartbeat and a half, I believe he will attempt to coerce me to tell the truth. However, he has no reason to believe my statement to be false and so he nods, clearly beginning to tire of me. 

I’m jerked back to reality by footsteps. A door creaks open and eases shut, an elderly woman with short, greying hair stepping into my line of sight. She studies me with her stormy grey eyes, weathered by time and heavy with immeasurable years of experience. 

The woman consults a pice of paper in her hand. When she glances back up at me, her eyes are puzzled. 

“Olyxe Heregale?” She glances back down at the paper. “This sheet which is supposed to have all your information on it is remarkably blank. Would you mind telling me why you’re here?” 

“I got cut up in a knife fight, but I’m fine.” I stare at the floor, ashamed to have such a kind women see my disgraceful eyes. 

“Obviously you are not, or else you would be here.” She retrieves a ball of soft fabric from a canister placed on a desk near the far wall. After being sure the fabric is clean, she removes a container from a drawer in her desk and dunks the ball in its contents, a clear liquid which burns my nose with its chemical scent. “I am Lasifa, by the way. Lasifa Lenrove.” 

Lasifa glides across the room, tentatively pressing the ball of fabric to the cut on my neck. It disintegrated at the slightest touch, leaving her fingers hovering a few inches away from my skin, trembling. Her eyes lock with mine, aghast with terror. 

“What are you?” She snatches her hand abruptly away, wiping the cinders off in her shirt. Her nose scrunches up, face twisting with disgust. I wait for it, for the stream of angry cussing and vile statements to assault my ears. It doesn’t come. Instead, Lasifa simply exits the room, pulling the door shut behind her. It locks with a sharp click. The realization that I’m trapped hits me almost immediately, and I swallow the panic trying to claw its way up my throat. It won’t be long before she returns, and I’m let out, free to go where I please. 

Despite trying to use rationalization to calm myself, every time I glance at the door I see the steel bars of my cell in Isolation. I remember being too weak and defeated to fight back. The memories are sickening. 

I shove them away. My walls are up and strong as ever, but I’ve come to learn it doesn’t take much for them to crack and come tumbling down. I squeeze my eyes shut. The memories are painful, emotionally and physically. I can remember the exact sensation of each lash of the whip or slash of the knife. 

My breathing has grown shallow, and I can no longer fend off the onslaught. The memories come crashing over me, and I can do nothing to fight against being dragged under.

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