Sleep

Heavy.
Sluggish.
The feeling of something, someone pressing down on me, stealing my breath.

I can feel my pulse race, acting up, becoming faster, faster and faster – a steady but frantic „do dom, do dom.“ It resounds, loudly, a beating in my head; the feeling of being filled up with heavy concrete, with sand, with snow. Resonances of my heart.
The feeling of slowly fading from existance – of losing the feel of what is real. What is possible. The feeling of become something that doesn’t need to be; like a stone, you know? Something that is just there, without any emotions, or thoughts, or even life in it. It just becomes older. Older and older. Holding memories in it – an age, of thousand years, even more. Something that sends shivers down your spine when you hold it in your hands.

„Did you know stones are more than a thousand years old?“
- Her frail voice cuts off my trail of thought, sends me spinning back into this cruel reality. I remember who I am, who she is; where we are. I’m supposed to go on a walk with her, aren’t I? This girl – a weak smile, hair that has been braided flimsily.
„They hold life in them that’s even older than you or Domino. They are alive, you know, you know? – Even more alive than you are or Domino will ever be.“
She holds the tiny bit of stone up, shoving it into my face, forcing me to look at it. See it clearly. It shimmers a bit in the autumn sun, reminding me of a broken shard of glass, some piece of razor stuck in my arm-
„But isn’t that a lie?“
„Huh?“
- no time to think about that now. Got to concentrate on that young girl, confined in a wheelchair. Got to play with her hair – light-brown in colour, getting lighter everyday. The sickness is getting the better of her. One day, she will trail off, just like my thoughts, and she will become another piece of stone, another razor jammed in my arm-
„That stone. It’s not alive. It got life of others in it, but it isn’t alive. It doesn’t exist.“
She becomes quiet. What races through her mind? What does she feel? Her soft face scrunches up, making me smile. She always looks like that when she’s thinking about something deep, doesn’t she? – Like a warning, a reminder to not disturb her.
„It does exist,“ she says after a while, playing with the gray thing in her hands. Scratching on it’s surface, making markings with her brittle nails; searching for words, amidst these dying trees. „It does exist. Because we see it, we feel it – because of the fact that it can take the warmth of the sun in it, it exists. It’s real. It’s very real.“
I continue to push, to escort her through a forest of dying words. Continue to ignore her, that naïve, nimble but awkward little girl with that awkward braided hair… That young girl in the wheel chair with no care in the world, with no feelings for what is real, except for the world around her, except for the forest that is going to leave soon – that is going to wither, just like she is going to wither.
That young girl that is smiling at the young woman with the eyes of a devil, with no feeling, no emotions in her bone, with no heart or even soul… That young girl that is smiling at me, making me feel even more awkward than I felt ever before. I can’t help but helplessly smile back, to gently tousle her hair, as if petting a young kitten.

* * *

We continued to stroll around for a while, gazing here and there, here and there; the whole time she swooned about how the stones were alive, how everything was alive, how even the dead bird we found under an oak tree was still alive. In a way I could understand why she acted that way, why she put on a cheerful façade; still, in the deepest corners of my heart, of my cold stone heart, I,… could not feel anything except disgust. It disgusted me to no ends, brought forth in me an urge to hurt her, to smash that little face of hers so hard… But that, in turn, would make me disgusting too. So I continued to smile, to nod, to push her wheelchair around in the tall grass.
At the turn of the day we went back to the old castle, to the „Headquarters of Hell“, as Snow loved to put it. It was one of those ruins with the outermost walls crumbled down to nothing more but ashes and dust. We erected a few fences here and there; chickenwire, barbwire and all. Bill used to joke around, commenting on how it looks like a farm with all that green wire hanging around – but she stopped once the little girl was delivered to us. The granite walls were crumbling, with cracks and missing stones; the towers and turrets were nothing more but broken match sticks reaching into the evergray sky. It was a real nasty sight to look at, to be honest, but she… She complimented it everytime we returned to our „home“, entranced by the ivy that climbed it’s way over the broken walls, resembling a ladder to heaven. Even when I brought her to bed, pulled the sheets over her weak body, she couldn’t stop talking about the castle – about the stones.
„They are all alive. I’m telling you, Hell – they are alive. Alive as alive can get.“
Her smile was so blinding. As blinding as the wintersun – or the autumn sky. So weak. So faint. But you could see the glimmer there. You could see the hope there. Just like the tip of my cigarette, that’s glimmering right now, keeping me from my sleep that my body needs. Keeping me from the realm of a coma-like state that should kill my thoughts – but I don’t want to go to sleep. Not yet. Not in this moment. Not while I’m holding this stone between my fingers, feeling the rough surface.

She told me, again and again, that it’s alive.

I know that she is going to wither soon – a flower with no petals, merely a weak peduncle that can’t even take in water. Her life is fated to perish soon enough, and she is anticipating it, just how everyone in the Demolition Squad is. Me, Snow, Aurelius, Domino – Bill, Rufus, Andrei. The other clans in this district, waiting for Tiger Lily to wilt. The young lady that managed to kill a country, just to revert to a child, to forget all the crimes she committed.
The same young lady that is now claiming to see life in a stone.
„It can’t even talk.“
Has no mouth. No eyes. Has no nerves, no sensory organs, not even a nervous system or a brain. It’s just… a stone. It can break and hit and kill and lie in the cold, cold riverstream, waiting to be formed to some oddly shaped memento. It can take up the sun in it, yes. But it is not alive. It cannot be alive. It just can’t be alive.
„What you doing up so late, Hell?“ – Smoky, husky voice. The smell of „Black Devils“, her favorite brand. The smell of that strange aftershave she started applying a few years ago. Snow. Just the right moment, the right second. Just when I don’t need her.
„I could ask you, snowcrotch.“
„Hey, hey. Watch the language.“
Smoking. Smell of aftershave. The stone between my fingertips that gets passed back and forth, back and forth; she glances at it, smoothes the lines the girl made, before I take it back and start grinding the surface against the rough stone wall. Grind, grind, grind.
„You can’t make a stone cry that way, you know?“
„Do I? I don’t know. I just want it to disappear. It makes me angry looking at this thing.“
Grind, grind, grind.
„Disappear? Why? It never did a thing to you. It’s not even alive.“
„I know. I know, damn it! That’s why it’s making me mad!“
Grind, grind, grind.
„Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,“ her faltering voice, mimicking a priest or some other high-class hypocrite that would say things as ignorant as that. Or is she just mocking me? I look up, blow a few strands of my blonde hair from my face, pierce her up with a single glance. She just looks back at me, grinning, amused at my behaviour.
„What is it with you?“
„Just grinding you. It makes me angry too look at you, you know?“
„What?“ I pick up the tiny stone, throw it towards her – just to watch how she catches it, letting it disappear in her breast pocket. She stole it away from me. Great.
„Stones never did anything to you. They have no eyes. No mouth. They have no nervous system and no brain,“ she continues, averting her gray eyes from me. Looking out of the window, or at least the remains of it – trying to see a world amidst the shards and cobwebs, trying to see life in a world that was never ment to be.
„They can’t even feel the warmth of the sun, for God’s sake.“

I finish my cig, stub it out, throw the butt towards her – but she avoids it with a single side step, pretending not to notice my behaviour. I can see the grin on her face, as clear as day, and I can see her thoughts that are starting to stream now. I can see her plans. Can see what she wants to do. And it pisses me off, so I just go away, back into my bed, back to my place next to Tiger Lily, waiting for the night to pass.

* * *
„Hell?“
It’s a nice day. The turn of autumn. The trees are all dead and the sun was a lie you never quite believed. I pull my coat closer, readjust my scarf, enwrap my arms around my meagre body and hope for warmth to come. The last cig has been stolen and smoked by my sister, Bill, and the next delivery won’t come for another week or so. Got to live on the edge of the seat. Try to smooth out the rough edges with coffee. Anything, just so I won’t look in those dead eyes of that little girl. A smile is planted on her face.
„Hell~? Where are you~?“
„I’m here, sweetie,“ I say, tousling her snow-white hair. She feels cold. „I’m right here.“
Her hands search, find a hold of my hand; she places her dainty fingers on my palm, stroking, feeling the rough surface of my hand. Just like a stone. A dead stone.
„You are so warm, Hell,“ she whispers, smiling. Even her smile seems dead. „So warm…“
For a few minutes we linger in that spot, me watching her, her feeling my warmth, and my warmth – well, keeping me warm from that damn icy coldness that’s been inching into this country for a few days. We then continue our stroll, but not in the woods as we used to; we walk in the spot where the sun hits the earth the most, so she can feel warmth, can feel the life that’s sickering from her. Even if she’s smiling, she’s…

„Hell?“
„Yeah?“
A stone between her fingers.
„I’m dying soon, am I not?“

I stop. Look down at her. That fragile figure that’s about to break. That smile that’s unwavering but dying. Those eyes that can’t see. Those fingers that can only feel brisk emotions. She’s dying, isn’t she? – Yeah, she is. She is. She’ll be gone from this world really soon and she’ll forget all about it.
„Maybe…“ – Take a deep breath, deep breath, feel the cold air rush into your lungs. – „… Yes. Actually, yes, you are going to die soon. Pretty soon. It’s just a matter of time before your internal organs have a major breakdown. Your body is already disintegrating, like a broken clock, you know? It’s just a matter of time before that clock stops ticking.
Before you stop living.“
Silence. No sound at all. Just a nightingale, I think, or some other bird that loves to die in winter. Its bittersweet melody fills the dead forest, fills her head – fills my head with broken promises of yesterday. Not even our breathing can be heard. And my words? They are forgotten. She just continues smiling. Brushing the dirt off from the stone, humming an unknown melody from an unknown country in a forgotten world. She knows that she’s going to die. She knows that she’s going to go cold. Her body will decompose, become a part of the world – become another stone that can’t do anything but take the warmth of the sun in it.

„We have to celebrate Christmas, don’t you think, Hell?“
„Yeah. Celebrate Christmas.“
„With lots and lots of decorations. I think Domino would like that!“
„Yeah. He’d like that. A lot. And Aurelius, too.“ – I‘m lying.
„Bring life into the castle. Even if I can’t see properly, I know that it still looks so beautiful, but so, so…“ – Dead. – „…cold!“

Why the hell does she keep on smiling like that?

. . .

The nightingale stopped singing, just when the sun started setting on us. It left me behind with a stale taste in my mouth. She stopped talking, too; her voice faded away a few hours ago, mimicking a cicada, whispering things I could not understand. The stone slipped away from her fingers and, for a second, I thought that she finally faded away. But when I stepped in front of the wheelchair, when I knelt down to her hunching body, she suddenly grasped for my hands and gave them a soft squeeze. Still alive.
She didn’t react to any of my words. Not even to her name, „Tiger Lily.“ I pinched her a few times, waiting to see if she would react to the pain, but… she kept silent. Her mouth was shut. Her eyes were dead. Maybe she could still hear, and maybe some parts of her brain were still intact – but other than that, she was as good as wasted.
Didn’t give it any second thought, though. I just put her back into an erect position, making her sit up straight. The stone was placed back into her palm, but she was too weak to hold it, so I let it slip into my breast pocket. Then I brushed her hair out of her face – cupped it between my hands, rubbing it softly. Her skin was soft, so soft, like porcelain; but it was cold. So cold, you could have believed that she never witnessed the warmth of life.
I still wanted her to feel. To hear. Wanted her to know that she was still there, alive, and not in some coma-like state. I wanted her to know that somehow, she was still alive. Maybe it was regret – or some other crazy idea, the thought that „everything would become okay“ if I play the worried big sister.
But I know that nothing will become okay. I know nothing will become okay anymore. That’s why my thoughts collide, that’s why I’m talking non-sense; that’s why I wanted to forget that little grasp of hers, wanted to forget the fact she smiled at me, that she smiles, that…

The tip of my cigarette glimmers in the dark. Aurelius gave me a share of his pack, five or six. Got to stretch them out to eight days, so I won’t be angry the whole time. So I’ve got something to do while this little girl is breathing in, breathing out; existing, living, but… not really there. Or is she? Her eyes are closed, she’s breathing, breathing… but she doesn’t react, never reacts, never. Not even when I sang her favorite song did she twitch.
So I guess this is it, right? She’s wasted. Gone. Nothing more but a broken rose that is waiting to perish. The bed covers are cold, as cold as her body is; I sometimes get the impression that she is about to fade away, that she is nothing more but mist. Gray, thick mist, getting thinner by the second… – But I am smoking, after all, so my mind is starting to play tricks on me…
„Hell, she’s got visit.“ – Deep, husky voice, intermingling with high, soft voices. I avert my eyes from her body, searching the doorway. Young girls – they resemble porcelain dolls. Her daughers. Her experiments. Those girls with the dead, empty eyes – the colour of tiny violets, yet to bloom but perishing already. They started squirming around once they reached her bed, each to one side. Twins; Aurora and Hotaru. They look nothing like her.
„Mama?“ one asks, touching her cold, icy cold hand lightly. The other one repeats, stuttering. But no answer. Tiger Lily continues to lie, to fade, to resemble a white stone.
„… Your mam’s dead, little one,“ I whisper coldly, taking a deep draw from my cigarette. I can feel the smoke fill my head. Can feel the drug cloud my feelings. No need for emotions, for thoughts; no need to tell the truth. Just say. Just whisper.
„Mama is dead?“
„As dead as dead can get.“
Snow stares at me. Her gazes are like knives. They dig into my sides, deep into my sides, letting me feel pain – letting me feel disgust. So I am disgusting after all, ain’t I? But I can’t stop. I smile, broadly, looking at each of them – gently tousling the hair of Hotaru, the weaker of them both. She looks up to me, tilting her head sligthly; doesn’t understand. But it’s okay.
„There’s no use in kissin‘ or huggin’er. She’s dead. See? Doesn’t even twitch when I pinch ‘er,“ my voice explains slowly, though my thoughts say something else. The twins look at each other, a pained expression in their eyes – or it is a confused one? I can’t decide, the two emotions are too alike; share too many similarities in order to be kept apart. „She’s dead.“
„You sure, Ma’am?“ one asks, looking up to me – to that woman with the bleached hair, the raccoon eyes, the lipstick-smeared face and the cig in one hand. Do I look like someone who says the truth? Am I someone who can afford to lie?
„Nothing in this world is for certain, little one,“ I reply, quieter than a while ago. Silence enshrouds us all. Nothing but her weak breathing, her weak, weak pulse. On second glance, that little, twisted family does look alike. But it’s no use thinking that, right? So I look out, the window, try to see life beneath it all. The night sky is deep, embedded with specks of dust, shining, glimmering; things they used to call „stars“. The children of today think of them as dying lightbulbs. In some way, I think so too. Like all of us. Dying lightbulbs. No electricity. No warmth.

Just like her.

And then, maybe because we are that strange, maybe because this world is so strange, so twisted, so incredibly weird and broken – just in that moment I begin to cry, shaking, trembling, digging my fingernails deep into my rough skin. Pain, let me feel pain! Let me feel naked emotions, anything, just to avoid this remorse, this – this pang of guilt, this fleeting sensation of care and…! Anything, anything, please, anything –
anything to stop the children from crying even more, from shaking, from trembling. Make them stop. Make them stop. I should have told them the truth, I should have lied, I should have just – just pretended to be someone who is nice, who caring, who knows what it means to hurt and to take up the warmth of the sun in one and to be cold, as cold as st-
„Hey.“
Tiny. Round. She kneels down to the elder one, looks her straight into the eye, into those dead eyes that can’t say a thing. Those eyes that are so washed out… with tears so small, so unimportant. But Aura stays strong, see? She sniffles, looks Snow straight into the eyes.
„This belonged to your mother once. She kept it with her the whole time. Played with it every single day of the year. Never went anywhere without it. Take care of it, alright?“ – Shoves the stone into the little hands of the girl, tousles her long, black hair. Aurora continues to cry, pressing the stone to her chest, sniffling. But it doesn’t seem to hurt as it did a while ago. Hotaru can’t believe what she hears, a lie that is the truth. Looks at her mother, in disbelief, tugs at her hand, at her shoulders; wants to make her wake up.
But she doesn’t. She will never wake up again. And Hotaru just can’t believe it. Just as I can’t, no matter how hard I clench my fists, no matter how hard I try to crush the tiny stone in my palm. It just stays hard, firm. Just stays a stone that takes my warmth in it.

Stones stay stones. Always. Forever. They never change. No matter how hard you smash them, no matter into how many pieces you break them, they stay stones. Hard. Rough. Cold and maybe even without any feelings. They sleep, forever; no one disturbing their peace. Their breath is eternal, their thoughts dim and silent. They don’t need to be, but they are – an existence with no reason. Romantic, isn’t it? Even if it is a bit sad. Because there will always be non-believers, people who just can’t accept it – people who just always close their eyes.
Like I do. I’ve seen it, seen it all; seen the truth. But even now, in this very moment, I can’t accept that she’s turned to something like a stone. I can’t believe that all that is left of her is lying in our palms. It can’t be, right? – There must be a way to return her smile.
But there is not. There isn’t.
* * *
It’s a nice day. I pull my coat closer, breath into my hands, rub them briskly; try to warm myself, even if just for a bit. The sun stopped shining a few days ago – it mimicks a yellow disc in the gray sky, reminding us of what we are missing out right now. But it’s alright. I’m holding the stone in my fist right now, drinking up it’s warmth – her warmth. At least the little left of what is in it.
„Peaceful here,“ the young, russian man – Andrei – observes, turning the bullet in his fingers. His coat is opened, giving one a free view on his thick pullover, stained with what looks blood. Blood of his wife – blood of the past.
„It’s a graveyard, after all. Even though it surprises me that they still have places like these…“
„… Really pretty here.“
We – the Demolition Squad – linger around in the place, stare at the granite statues of angels. They all look so earnest, so sombre. No smiles on their faces. Not even life in their eyes. Beautiful to look at, but you can notice that they are just dust. Nothing more, nothing less. Snow touches her tomb stone, rubbing over the letters briskly – rubbing away the frost that found its way into the letters, obscuring her name completely. I can’t stand to look at it, so I turn away – stare off, into the distance, into the sky that promises me eternity.
We stay there for a little while, paying our respects, telling her last words of good-byes. She stayed with us for a year, after all, so we all kind of grew attached to her. Like a pet, or a farm animal that’s fated to be slain. Bill told me that I shouldn’t get to near to that girl. But how’s that possible if I’m the one who’s looking after her?
„Your turn, Hell.“
I turn around, look at Snow – nod once, briskly, but finish my cig first. Oddly, my hands are trembling, even if there is no reason for me to be nervous… or anxious. Out of us all, I knew her the best; so, why feel odd around her? I kneel down, stare at her name, stare at it hard – try to see a resemblance, something that I can associate with her. But there is nothing. Nothing that can assure me that its her body that is lying underneath. There is nothing that can assure me that she is listening.

They all return to the castle, perhaps plan their next step, now that they were granted more territory from the „government.“ Taking care of her did have its rewards. But I, I stay – together with Snow. We sit on a bench, not far from her grave, staring off into the endless sky that’s about to turn dark again. It’s colder, now.
„…You cried,“ she whispers, tousling her own hair – white, just like her skin is. I stare at her, trying to see a hint if she’s trying to mock me, but… she isn’t. So I nod, briskly.
„Yeah. Guess I did.“
„She ment that much to you, hm? Even though it was another personality that shimmered through – not the Tiger Lily we all detest.“
„… Yeah, guess she did… Guess she ment that much to me that I broke down crying, haha.“
I exhale, watching as white puffs of breath rise into the atmosphere, resembling tiny clouds. „She’s a child. Nothing more but a girl who’s body happened to serve as a vessel of some lunatic maniac. She didn’t really get to choose, you know? – Guess… I kind of related to her.“
A tiny laugh. She lights her cigarette, offering me her fire, but I refuse. We all smoke in the Demolition Squad, yeah – but I think I’ll stop. I’ve got another drug now. No need for nicotine. No need for smoke that’s filling up my head. No use for that, now.
„I remember… It’s because you are „kind of like that“, right? With your history as a mental patient. What was it? Schizophrenic identity disorder?“
„Borderline syndrome,“ I correct. „Though the doctors thought I’m a schizo, too.“
My grasp around her stone tightens. It’s warm. Extremely warm. It feels as if it has life in it; her life. I force myself to a tiny smile – the first one since weeks. Feels strange.
„…You would have been able to help her, Snow. You had the ability to. You knew what her sickness was. What could’ve helped her. Then… why didn’t you?“

Silence.

Nothing more but a nightingale, or some other bird that’s trying to fill in the emptiness. Some bird that likes to die in winter. I bet it’s got white, fluffy feathers – just as white as her hair, her skin was. Just as pure as her smile.
„They would have used her again. Her body is the perfect vessel. It fulfills every demand of Tiger Lily, even when it comes to the looks – you think that woman would have given up the girl easily?“ she turns towards me, cig pointed directly at me. It glimmers dimly, before going out – before being enshrouded in light flakes of snow. „They would have used her until her body disintegrated naturally – then using it for other purposes, for experiments. They would have made a living dead out of her.“
It started to snow. Her words got my heart so cold, it started to snow.
„Just… cherish the memories, Hell. Cherish them. They are all that are left now.“
„That, and her warmth,“ I whisper, closing my eyes, feeling the cold, cold snow flakes melt on my face. We stay there for another hour or two, talking about all kinds of stuff; forcing ourselves to laugh, to face the other way. To go on with our lives. Cig for cig, snowflake for snowflake. It’s dark when we return to the castle, settle for the night. I know that we won’t return to that place – to her grave, where her body is decomposing now. But it’s alright. She’s given her life to me. Her smile. Her memories, her warmth –

and even if my nights are still restless, even if my dreams are filled with her memories, it’s alright. There is no-one pressing down on me anymore. There is no-one stealing my breath anymore. My metamorphosis is complete. My crysalis has finally been torn apart, showing my innermost to the whole world. Showing my stone heart that has basked in the warmth of the sun – in the warmth of her smile.