All The Light We Cannot See

(text-style: "blurrier")[Your head is fuzzy and there's a fire wrapping its way up your arm, you think. Blinking doesn't get rid of the blur in your eyes and you just want to rip off your arm. But you blink one more [[time|room]].] (set: $healing to 0)

This isn't your room. Well, it used to be. It's the room from your old house, the one you and your mom lived in right after your dad moved out. It's small, off to the side in some developing neighborhood, but you two were happy at the time. It was cozy, and it made you feel safe. The bed's too small now for you, though. Your feet hang off, one brushing against the soft carpet below. It's pink and yellow, dotted with small and even circles. Mom had thrown it out before you'd moved away. Your arm feels cooler, now. You hazard a [[glance|arm]].

It's still attached, but there are *things* on it now. Pictures, sigils, runes. You bring your other hand, your left hand, up to brush against them. Your flesh is rough, scabbed under your fingers. They had been burned in. Twisting your arm, you try to make sense of what they [[were.|runes]]

One of them is easy to make out: a small heart, the same shape as the ones they used on Valentine's Day. It's placed directly below your wrist, and it looks like it beats under your eyes. A set of small shoes rests above the heart. They're without detail, except for the outline of the two pressed against each other. You can't make out the type they are. Finally, an inch up your arm and there's another picture. A flower, no stem or thorns around it. It looks like a daisy with the petals sticking out. It would be cute, something you would even get, in different circumstances. {(live: 7s)[What you can make out, however, is the [[door.|exit]]](stop:)}

It's nestled between a small, white table that's filled to the brim with pictures of your family, and a closet on the other side that's barely open. Looking inside would be useless; all you wore as a child were pastel, happy dresses in yellows and pinks. Now, you laugh at your younger self for being so optimistic. Your legs still work, luckily. Propping yourself up and then onto your feet, you walk to the door and open it. The hallway is grey. Your old house's walls were [[blue.|hall]]

There aren't any pictures and the tops of the walls are spotted with mold. You turn around quickly, looking into your room; it's still the same as it was, bright and lively. It's cold, too. You're sure it's summer, because you had went to the beach the other day. Not to swim, but to enjoy being around the people you'd met. You take a few steps for the closest room--the bathroom--and try to open it. The hinges creak for a second, but it doesn't open. You have to head [[downstairs.|down]]

The stairs, rotting and soft beneath your feet, go by quickly as ever. When you were young, you would run down them and crash into the shoe holder. One time, you broke your nose and bled onto the wood. Your mother had yelled for a long time as she drove you to the emergency room, one hand on the wheel and another pressing a towel against your face. The front door is right in front of you as you finish descending. The small, rectangular windows set on the top half are too dusty for you to see out of. The knob to the door, though, is missing. In fact, you can't even see where one would be installed. Behind you is the [[kitchen|kitchen]], where you hear a faint noise, like a drum, playing away.

You pivot on your feet, walking the few feet it takes to reach the kitchen. Your mother's body is on the [[floor.|body]]

There aren't any wounds that you can see at all, no blood. You look at her neck, trying to find any fingerprints pressed into her skin. There's nothing at all, except for a kitchen knife beside her. Vaguely, you think you should be feeling something, anything. But you're so detached from the situation that you just want to know what happened more than anything, before grief and before sadness. Your mother may not have been the [[best person|memory]], but you still loved her.

When you were young, your dad left the both of you. You were barely eight, entering the second grade, and he decided that one day he couldn't stay anymore, couldn't deal with the tribulations of caring for a housewife and a daughter. He still called you cupcake even when he was packing bags full of his clothes, and hugged you tightly when the moving truck parked in the front driveway. Your mother yelled at him for a long time. She yelled at him whenever he would get back to work, talking about his big *countdown* and how *she* would treat him better than this. She didn't set the plates out because her hands shook too much. Most of the time, she stayed in her room and slept while he ate and watched television. After he was gone, she yelled at you for a long time, too. The beating noise was [[louder.|beat]]

There's a soft glow coming from your mother's corpse, on the left side of her chest. It's dark and crimson, but it's under her skin and clothes. The knife sits beside her. The glow is unbearable, coming from her skin. You can't focus on her face, or on how her body is resting, peaceful you hope, and in need of a rest. [[Just that hideous, awful red. You have to get rid of it.|cut.]]

You kneel to the ground and pick up the knife. It's something you would use to cut steak, if you were the person to eat it. You expect blood, for her body to resist something tearing her apart. But it happens so fast you're disappointed. The incision, only a few inches, reveals that the corpse is hollow, filled only with a small, candy heart that's a malicious, glowing shade of red. You're tempted to [[eat it.|consume]] But a small part of you says that it would be a bad thing to do; if that was your mother's heart, it was [[her's to keep.|keep]]

The floorboards are still rotting, but there isn't any furniture in the living room anymore. Just a pair of shoes, sitting neatly in a pair in the direct center. The windows in this room aren't dusty, and a shaft of sunlight hits them like a spotlight. You walk forward, and kneel to look at them closer. They were your old [[ballet shoes.|shoes]]

It doesn't really taste like anything at all, at first. You were expecting the chalky, vaguely sweet flavor that they usually held, but it's all gone. Until something starts bubbling in your stomach, burning with rage and pain. It twists and turns around, clawing up your body until it reaches your mouth. The tears are all you, though, as you yell and scream and push your mother's shell away. You can't stand her, and you can't stand being around anything that looks like her anymore. Maybe this is what she felt like, all those years ago. You stand, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand, and walk out. Something thumps against the floor in the living room. You walk [[towards it.|lroom]]

It's too personal, something that was so close to her. Even if this is just a shell, it seems *wrong* to take from your mother like this. The candy heart burns in your palm as you bring it close to read. It says Sunshine--her nickname for you. Smiling, you place it in your pocket. The heat cools just enough so that it's a warm reminder of her presence. A thump comes from the living room. You walk out of the kitchen [[towards it.|lroom]] (set: $healing to 1)

After *he* left, as your mother called him, she put you into dance classes. They were a present, your mother said, from a dear family friend. Of course, when you entered and saw your Aunt Sarah at the front of the room, you had run towards her with a big smile. Neither your mother nor your aunt went easy on you, even if you weren't the best in the class. Maybe that was why they did. The pain from wearing the shoes never went away, either; you always had bruises and blisters along your skin, like a strange and surreal fabric pattern. They said it was a sign of progress, but it mostly just hurt. As you grew up, went through the classes and learned more from your aunt, you wondered if it was your fault the shoes always hurt so much, if you were doing something wrong to mess up so badly. Your mother had hugged you and said no, but in the same breath told you to practice. Her voice echoes in your mind, and you want to slip the small, younger you's shoes onto your feet to feel the sensation again. These shoes, though, are your size; [[perhaps they wouldn't leave bruises.|wear]] But then again, they never did [[break in, did they?|grab]]

Your feet slide into them easily. There's a moment where you breathe, happy that they fit. Another moment passes. {(live: 5s)[They restrict around your feet, tight, and you yelp in pain. Tears well up in your eyes. You take a step forward, and they don't [[loosen.|walk]]]}

You pick them up, looking at the shade of pink on the outside. It was the exact same as your dress, and just darker than the tights you wore in the biggest of recitals. It's funny how you hate this color now, but the shoes are still warm and filled with nostalgia. There's a string, thin yet supple, poking out the bottom of the shoes and keeping them tied together. You throw the shoes around your neck like a necklace, perhaps a boa, and look around. The glass that was on the windows before is gone; sunlight streams in and warms the room to an almost-pleasant temperature. The shiver from before is almost gone. You walk over and push yourself [[out|out]] of the room. (set: $healing to it + 1)

You breathe deeply, focusing on keeping calm. The shoes are impossibly tight, but you don't feel your feet going numb. Just that constant, pinching pain. Wincing, you take one last look around the living room, anything to remove them. The room is still empty, but the windows, low on the wall, are open. In fact, the glass is gone completely. You limp towards them, and pull yourself [[out.|out]]

There's a fog, thick and heavy over the small backyard, but there's also sunlight cutting through it. You can't see outside the edges of the yard itself, but all around it's illuminated. The flowers you planted are still growing, bright and strong in hues of yellow and purple. You remember who sent you the [[seeds.|memory2]]

Your dad never stopped talking to you, and your mother couldn't stop him from it. The court had said he could call, and if he wanted to, stop by and see me from time to time. There wasn't anything on his record that made him dangerous, but my mother didn't trust him anymore. She still gave me the phone, though, whenever he called. I could tell when it was him by the scowl that was on her face and the wrinkles from her angry, furrowed brows. Dad would call me cupcake and ask about school, ask how I was getting along in my ballet classes with the other girls. I would always happily tell him all the stories, and then finally when we'd run out of conversation, ask him when he was coming back. He wasn't a bad person, but he never gave me an answer. Five years later he sent me a birthday card and a packet of [[Gerbera daisy seeds.|onward]]

Your mom had helped you plant them, surprisingly. You had begged for a week before she agreed to ask the neighbors for some borrowed gardening supplies. You remember how happy you were that she helped you dig up the soil, showing you where the best place would be for them. She had told you that with hard work, this could be a beautiful garden. He never asked for pictures, never asked how the flowers were going. You suspected that he had forgotten all about sending those to you; probably something his new wife hadn't taken to. After a few more years, the cards stopped coming. He called you twice a year at most. But you'd stopped picking at that wound years ago, anyways. Even in your wildest fantasies, your flowers had never grown like this, spreading out into a field that pushed against the back fenceline and yearned to overcome it. It was beautiful, really, that this had managed to grow in such a dreary fog. You want to [[take one|take]] for yourself, to carry around and put in your hair. But some things are [[best left alone, aren't they?|ignore]]

The closest ones are the Gerbera's, yellow and happy. You kneel down in the grass, looking for one that's strong and grown. Once you find a suitable one, you begin to pull on it, trying not to disturb the others. But you feel something pulling back at your hands, and you look. A thorn has lodged itself in your palm, deep and strong. There are tiny barbs on the edge, and when you try to pull your hand back, it stays put. It hurts terribly, but you finally pull your hand back. The flower is stuck to you, more thorns lodging into your flesh. It's not bleeding, though, just sticking and poking and hurting. Turning back, you make way to crawl back into the house, but the [[main door is right behind you instead.|front]]

You look around the yard. It's peaceful here, you realize, with nothing to disturb the flowers. There aren't any bees hovering about, no birds nests in the trees that sit above everything. There isn't a sign of life at all, just a strange garden that's growing on its own. It's fine on its own, and taking something from it could hurt it more than you know. You don't know how long these plants have grown like this, but you can always look at the pictures of your own garden and imagine. You turn to crawl back through the window, but [[the main door is directly behind you instead.|front]] (set: $healing to it + 2)

(if: $healing is 0)[You step forward, and the knob is back where it belongs. This is how you remember it, after all this time; nothing changed at all, just you leaving your home like you always wanted. It would lead you away from her, from the memories of your father, and your own failure. You turn the knob and step through the door when it opens. It leads out, down a hallway darker than the ones in this rotting, wicked house. The gloom is pitch black, and you're afraid to step through the door at all. But it's better than staying, you suppose.] (if: $healing is 1)[You step forward, and the knob is back where it belongs. This is how you remember it, after all this time; nothing changed at all, just you leaving your home like you always wanted. It would lead you away from her, from the memories of your father, and your own failure. But perhaps you could move beyond that, one day. Perhaps you could have successes that you're proud of; perhaps, you could start a garden. Maybe you'll plant flowers in memory of your parents. But you're not sure about that; it's not today, certainly, but the future is uncertain as always. You turn the knob and step through the door when it opens. It leads out, down a hallway darker than the ones in this rotting, wicked house. You can barely make a hint of light at the end of it, farther away than the mountains you used to drive to as a kid. But it's better than staying, you suppose.] (if: $healing is 2)[You step forward, and the knob is back where it belongs. This is how you remember it, after all this time; nothing changed at all, just you leaving your home like you always wanted. It would lead you away from her, from the memories of your father, and your own failure. But you think that, sometime soon, you could get over that. You have friends now, people that care about you. They never yell, never forget, and always encourage you. They tell you your flower bouquets are divine, to die for. Perhaps, one day soon, you can love yourself like they love you. There's still some things you're not ready to uncover and reopen, and likely those wounds will stay hidden away for a long time, but healing is slow to come. Your nose healed when you broke it, didn't it? You turn the knob and step through the door when it opens. It leads out, down a hallway darker than the ones in this rotting, wicked house. It might take a few hours at most, but there's light close enough that you can make out a hint of *something* at the end of it all. Something worth chasing after, even if you have to hurt just a little longer.] (if: $healing is 3)[You step forward, and the knob is back where it belongs. This is how you remember it, after all this time; nothing changed at all, just you leaving your home like you always wanted. It would lead you away from her, from the memories of your father, and your own failure. But you think that, sometime soon, you could get over that. You have friends now, people that care about you. They never yell, never forget, and always encourage you. They tell you your flower bouquets are divine, to die for. Perhaps, one day soon, you can love yourself like they love you. There's still some things you're not ready to uncover and reopen, and likely those wounds will stay hidden away for a long time, but healing is slow to come. Your nose healed when you broke it, didn't it? You turn the knob and step through the door when it opens. It leads out, down a hallway darker than the ones in this rotting, wicked house. It might take a few hours at most, but there's light close enough that you can make out a hint of *something* at the end of it all. Something worth chasing after, even if you have to hurt just a little longer. But it's better than staying, you suppose.] (if: $healing is 4)[You step forward, and the knob is back where it belongs. This is how you remember it, after all this time; nothing changed at all, just you leaving your home like you always wanted. It would lead you away from her, from the memories of your father, and your own failure. Your hand hovers over the knob. You realize that your own thoughts are wrong; your mother's warmth sits in your pockets, soothing and comforting you. Perhaps she was angry, yes, but you didn't have to take on her anger. You would carry it for her, perhaps, but you would never let it be your own. Your past faults were just faults, nothing more or less; the shoes resting on your neck remind you of that. The shoes were just a bit too small, and your family was a bit too poor to afford more, but they worked, didn't they? They no longer hurt you, and you could even think back fondly to wearing them and dancing in them. And your father...he was gone, wasn't he? He had left a long, long time ago and left you and your mother for dead. But you had made amends with that; he was with his new family, happy and raising them somewhere south of where you lived. Why pick at a wound that you knew was already healed? You could remember him as he was, a man who called you cupcake and loved you. Firmly, you open the door. It's bright outside, and you take a single step. It's your new home, miles away from your old, rotting home. The carpet is clean, and the Gerbera's are resting in their vase. Your room isn't clean, but that's how you like it. This is what it's like to be content, and you know it's better than staying in that rotting, wicked house.]