so she wakes up in the middle of the woods. bile rises up unbidden and, black and oilslick what has become of her? every defense cut at once- torn to shreds, black spiderweb ooze-coating her mind and toungue and throat. she retches again. vertebre, white and corroded, seven. seven bones. memories, dreams, hopes, loves abandonded. she’s shivering, lying on the ground. hours later? it’s dark outside, and it wasn’t before. does she remember her name? she remembers the name of the- of the- the world tips again and she falls into the puddle of half-digested blood.
something’s very, very wrong. she thinks, maybe, that it’s been her all along.
the dreams staining her clothes and face and hands eat away her skin, her breath she can’t make them stop. she can’t make them leave her alone. the sword in her gut, the truth. the wound won’t close.
she sobs, and retches up another dream.
the angel is long gone. left her alone with her sins.
at least it pulled the sword out instead of leaving her pinned to that tree for- it wouldn’t have been eternity.
she can already feel the edges of her vision going. the horizon rushes in. black spider lightning eating her world out from under her. the ground under her hands softens, mud turning to ooze and then to-
no. NO. FUCK YOU. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME- she scrambles back against the tree, clinging even as its roots dissolve under her bloodstained feet claws biting into rot, wood only pulp, scratching, clambering- the bark sloughs off under her hands, and she falls into the void.
there isn’t anywhere left to run.
she feels every instant as her body rends itself asunder, splitting and twisting spiraling trails of rot
her last thought: ‘i do not tell lies’ was the biggest lie of all.
the angel pulls the sword from its lover’s stomach, lowers its head. she collapses, though no wound is visible. her eyes go dark.
the ghost beside it whispers something in its ear, places a hand on the corpse.
it vanishes, turning to black mulch, and the ghost plucks a single, unblemished seed from the rot holds it gently, reverently.
the tree stops bleeding.
the ghost places a hand on the angel’s shoulder, leads it away from the new soil chooses a different spot, points.
could you dig here?
the angel nods, kneeling to use its hands. the ghost plants the seed.
it’s hell, i know. “…it’s not, not really. i know enough to know she’d been dead a long time before now.” “…one hell of a betrayal, though.” yeah. “..is it going to be you, then? when this grows?” something like that. you’ll see.
the ghost kneels to place a hand on the ground, covering the seed hums under its breath
soft, burning golden light, and then it’s gone again. and the angel is alone with a new sapling, leaves soaking up the sunlight.