Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and eighty-one… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and eighty-two… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and eighty-three…
A week of waiting in darkness and she was still counting. A week of silence, nothing short of even a single drop of water in the basement or even a voice to pester her. Just the silence, the hushed and eerie silence looming over her neck.
Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and eighty-eight… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and eighty-nine… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety…
She counted with two fingers less than the usual ten on a normal person's hand, maybe she'll become some counting champion in a petty tournament. Maybe she'll be rewarded for having the most patience from having to sit in some dusty basement of that Aiseirigh. Perhaps the reward would be seeing that nice sun again, letting it graze through her pale and stained skin.
Her eyes would sting, she'd be able to experience that with actual eyes. Watery eyes, staring at the sun, maybe she'll go blind. These eyes hurt anyway, so that's fine. It belonged to that accursed fiend, so who cares if they dry up and shrivel?
Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-five… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-six… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-seven...
She was still counting, each finger folding before straightening again to continue the ceaseless cycle. Numbers that go down will end to zero no matter how long it may be, numbers that go up can go on for infinity. What's to say that they didn't just throw her away like some unwanted rubbish and forgot about her? Some half-bodied rotten doll like her, her presence can just so easily slip by their minds.
Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-eight… Six hundred sixty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-nine…
Her hands fell upon her shredded attire, foul and undesired. The doll, upon existing, never had much of anything. She had a lovely ashen black dress, a colourful and bright red coat and a desire to explore the world she'd been born into. All of them, torn and ripped, crumbled to dust.
A princess locked away in a castle somewhere always had that small window where the sun breaks through the darkness, albeit they lie behind steel bars and impenetrable walls but hope still lies somewhere. She has hopes of a gallant knight slaying the evil dragon, she had hopes of the family working tirelessly to bring her back. Life before, and the will to return to warmth.
Atsile can't feel warmth, nor a life beyond this suffocating cage and basement. There were no windows, there were no people to rescue her. There were no knights, there was no father and mother. She came to be in the world, to nothing and she'll die off somewhere, like nothing.
Oh, what was she saying? She can't die, she's a Tekhanure. Wandering souls who perpetually reincarnate into things, giving life to menial objects. Destroyed? They revive and live again. And again, and again, and again and again and again-- it's endless. The cycle, it's endless.
Atsile gripped the steel bars tightly, pressing her head backwards. Animals can live mindlessly for food, water and a mate. Humans get the time to develop reasons in life before they get worn out. Atsile only had lived for several months on this world and she was already tired of it.
It was tempting to just smash her head against the cage again, to split her skull open and pry out whatever it is that grew inside it. It was that irking pulsing that started these hideous memories, memories that make her feel terrible and empty. What if she pulled all of her brains out then? Would she forget? Would her faith in the world be restored?
Would that window called hope appear?
Then, her head was in despair. It'll be like breaking the walls here. Just like breaking her stomach to split away. She needs to break herself again to save herself again. Yes, that's it. The answer.
"Atsile."
Before Atsile could do a hefty swing to her, the ceiling dispersed to a barren scarlet sky. The man had returned though his piercing shoes were nowhere to be found. Maybe if she opened her eyes, then she'll see that dastardly sympathetic look in his eyes again.
"Atsile." He said again, firmer and adamant. No reaction still, the doll was still but her ears aren't covered.
The four-eyed man extended his right hand before he whirl it. Atsile's hands pry away from her fist, her wrist tied again to thin air. Her eyes were pinkish, red and dry with wet lines going down her porcelain face.
The puppet looked at her puppeteer in disdain.
"What do you want?" A simple question yet vitriol pertained within them. As usual, the man lowers his hat to his neck-tie.
"Your window of hope." He twirled his fingers again and the strings detached themselves. Atsile didn't bother to catch herself and allowed herself to kiss the dry earth headfirst.
There was a fire buried in the ocean.
"Hope? You? Don't make me laugh." Her fingers dug into the soil as she rose from it. "You're the one who did this to me, you sycophant."
The black devil walked forward, delicate and precise between each crack of the dirt. "Then let's consider this as relinquishing our relationship."
The cold ocean boiled.
"You think I believe you after all of this? You really damn think?"
He crouched down to her height, his hat still in his hand before he produced something out of it. A lovely ashen black dress emerged, guided by his long hands as it draped over the dead soil and placed in front of the doll.
Then, the evaporating waters ceased as the fire shrunk.
The doll shook. "The hell's this?"
"The dress I sewed for you."
"What?" Flabbergasted, her eyes widened.
The bright and colourful red coat also manifests through the black hat, it overlayed the dress nicely under the scarlet firmament.
"That feline corpse you found earlier during your birth." He leaned forward as if to whisper egregious into her ear, there was but a subtle smile. "That was me."
There was a resounding smack. Atsile slapped the devil with the back of her right hand.
"Don't lie." She hissed. "Don't you dare. Someone like you? Don't even."
"My child--"
"Shut up. Just shut up. You…"
The fire was nothing but dying embers now. If it was the truth or not, she was alone, and he was there. Beggars can't be choosers, she'll believe in whatever at this point. She was just pathetic.
"Atsile, you are alive now, and I am here." His voice sounded different. That petty sympathy sounded different. Empathy, was it? Yes, that warm thing. Warmth, the warmth that she craves. If the warmth comes from the darkness, then that's fine. A child would embrace a doll to fend off the cold nights.
And so, the father outstretched both of his arms to ask a simple request. "Come, give your father a hug."
And the embers died off too. Nothing but darkness remained in the abyss as the doll embraced the devil. Long forgotten of old pains as he strokes her wretched hair.
The black devil lulled her into a gentle lullaby as she cried and wailed. Underneath the broken red sky, above the splintering earth.
A father and daughter never meant to be.
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