Amara awoke to a sharp pain, like a hot iron rod barreling through her calf. The smell of blood, pungent and metallic. Her eyes shot open as a memory burst into her mind—her mother embraced her frail body. Blood spilled onto the kitchen floor.
She ignored the images flooding her mind.
The ceiling, plastered with carvings—swirling and pulsating—radiated a deep red glow. Violet steam seeped from the markings and danced like the aurora. Looking at similar carvings covering the walls, Amara's head throbbed.
She parted her lips, "Where–", but a flash of searing heat from her throat commanded them shut.
She looked down, searching for the source of the pain traveling up her leg, only to find her limbs bound to a cold stone slab adorned with markings identical to the ceiling and walls.
The pain let up for a moment.
"Put her back under," a familiar voice commanded, "the runes must be perfect."
Pressure swelled somewhere in her upper thigh, and her vision blurred.
***
She awoke next, not from the dull ache that now permeated her entire being, but from the chanting that filled the room. It churned like a rumbling storm.
She couldn't make out a single word; it was like an entire sentence spoken at once. Whispered in one ear and out the other.
Entire conversations screamed and cried.
Laughter. Cheering.
A secret to take to the grave.
She couldn't understand—but she could see.
The carvings swam off the walls and congealed into a single, recognizable word hovering above Amara's helpless body. Its blood-red hue reflected in her eyes.
SACRIFICE
A maelstrom of thoughts raged through her mind. What is this? A memory shone through the chaos. Why is this happening to me? She remembered the night of her thirteenth birthday. Who are these people? Flashes of blood. A soft giggle. A knife in her hand. Laughter.
She whimpered. Another flash of pain. She wanted to get out of her head. She had to stop thinking—give her pain, give her death. Anything to make it stop.
She croaked out, "No…" Pain, like a knife in her throat. Like hot wax—hot oil flooding her veins. "Stop!"
It burned.
SACRIFICE
The word burned brighter. It relished in her suffering.
The room was quiet. Maybe the chanting had stopped. Maybe the sound of the blood rushing to her head had drowned it out. Maybe the laughter and mocking weren't only in her head.
"Something's wrong." Someone said, but to Amara, it was another strike of thunder in the tempest of sound that now assaulted her mind.
Wails and cries spewed from her mouth as an inferno ravaged her insides and raged to get out. The pain bubbled through the surface of her skin, leaked from her eyes, and oozed from her nose—ready to burst.
She squealed as robed figures approached her. She burned as they surrounded her.
"Get out of my head!" She thrashed against her bindings until her wrists and ankles bled.
"Hold her down—dammit get the sedative!"
It was like all she had ever known was fire, and all she had ever been was fuel. "Get out!"
SACRIFICE
The word burst into flames. The robes paid it no mind.
"Please!"
My pleasure
Amara's world erupted into a sea of crimson.
***
Amara awoke to the echoes of madness. Shrill laughter rang in her head.
The smell of metal—suffocating. All-consuming.
Warmth, not painful but comfortable, like a heated blanket, enveloped her body.
Her eyes fluttered open and, after adjusting to the dim scarlet light of the room, dread coiled in her stomach. Finding herself able to move—albeit with great effort—she grunted and pushed herself up; liquid splattered between her fingers and the dread tightened.
The red liquid flowed down her sore body and dripped from her hair. She forced chunks back down her throat and turned away.
A thought that she had locked away in the back of her mind broke free. The blood had to have come from somewhere; it had to have come from someone. And there, splayed open, pinned to the wall by an unknown force—a man. A large black hood obscured his face, but below that, a black robe in tatters. The man's heart thumped and his lungs expanded and his guts spilled onto the floor.
Amara reeled back; her left hand hit something soft, not at all like the smooth, wet concrete ground that should have been there.
She flinched and brought her hand to her chest. She felt her heartbeat. Faster and faster. Her breathing quickened until it felt like she couldn't breathe anymore. Her heart raced like an engine firing on all cylinders. Something ran down her face and spilled into the blood pooling on the floor. A cry escaped her lips, but a pang of white-hot pain forced it back down.
This had to be a dream. She hunched over, trying and failing to slow her labored breathing. Or another hallucination. Her tears fell silently in the blood-soaked room. It couldn't be real.
***
"Amara." A voice called.
The sound pulled Amara out of her panic, hope battling with the dread that it was a figment of her shattered mind. "Who–" she flinched and rubbed her neck. She squinted, looking around the room—the first time she'd gotten a real, good look at it—and only one word came to mind. Devastation.
Bodies. Bodies. Bodies. Some lay motionless on the floor, others stuck to the walls—it was as if they had hit the wall with such force their bodies exploded on impact, binding their remains to it. They all wore the same black robe that covered up the worst of the carnage. Amara's heart skipped a beat, her entire body stiffened. She closed her eyes and concentrated on controlling her breathing—like her mother taught her.
After a while, she stood up, careful not to slip in the blood, and staggered—only now realizing how drained she had been. Opening her eyes, she noticed a slight purple haze hanging in the air.
Amara almost called out to the voice. Instead, she looked around—making an effort to avoid making direct eye contact with the bodies.
The stone slab she had been tied to before was right behind her. The remains of whatever kept her bound nowhere in sight.
She directed her gaze higher, behind the stone, and squinted. There, on the other side of the room, a person—one not painted onto the walls or resting in a pool of blood.
Amara could only make out the shape of their body and a blur of their face, but she knew who it was. She would recognize that cold, dark skin and hair, curly and gray, like a storm cloud anywhere.
Flashes of a knife in her hand, red and blue lights flashing through the kitchen window. Amara's heart thundered. Laughter rang in her head.
How could she ever forget the look of the one she'd killed?
How could she ever forget the face of her mother?
"Mom?" she winced, tightening the grip on her neck. Confusion surged within her, a storm of disbelief and terror as she grappled with the impossibility—it had to be a hallucination, a trick of the light, a conjuration to ease her fractured mind. "How?"
The figure, her mother, stood motionless—staring at the girl. This was a moment she had always dreamed of. She had thought about what she might say or do if she ever saw her mother again, but now, the moment had come. And Amara was lost.
She took a few careful steps around the stone slab, closer to her mother.
The figure twitched in response, raising its hand. Amara stopped and blinked a few times. She could see something dangling: a bag? She heard a rattle, like charms jingling against each other, and hanging from the side of the bag, Amara could make them out: the charms her mother had gifted her before she died.
"W–why?" More memories poured into her mind. A blue notebook. How could she have her bag? Empty pages. How could she have anything?
She should be dead.
The room itself seemed to grow smaller, and Amara's vision distorted. A sound like the death throes of a beast filled the room. Behind the figure, a swirling red circle appeared from nothing. The circle grew, in seconds, to match the height of the figure.
"Amara." Her mother reached into the bag and pulled out a rectangular object; she took a step back and her leg merged with the red disc.
Amara's eyes widened, "No, wait!" The pain still assaulted her, but she didn't have time to think about that. She had made her way past the stone slab, and only a few steps separated her from her mother.
"Find me." She turned and walked away, disappearing through the portal.
"No!" Amara lunged after her. A wave of dread rolled through her body, and darkness enveloped the world.