Chapter 4: Autophobia

 

Fulgur looked at his injured cheek in the mirror.

Another day, another wound.

This time, Fulgur missed the last couple flights of steps, and in an effort to balance himself, scrambled for the wall face first, giving himself a nice gash on his cheek.

He treated the new wound, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he opened the tap to wash his hands. His hands weren’t that dirty, but he took the time to wash them, feeling the artificial feedback of the sensation of water. The hand movements gradually slowed, he only realized that he’d just been staring at the sink when something ran down his lips and bloomed red in the running water that swallowed them.

Fulgur looked up at the mirror to see a trail of blood starting from his nose, and he finally felt a stinging pain.

Jaded? Dazed? Fulgur’s not sure, but lately it felt like he’s registering his surroundings through the murk of a raining night, his reactions dulled and delayed.

For example, he’s been staring at the bleeding nose of his reflection for…seconds? Minutes? And the only thought made clear in his mind was just the mirror needs cleaning.

He hasn’t been able to focus on tasks, heck he couldn’t even pay attention to where he’s walking. The first aid kit was rapidly depleted of bandages.

Sometimes when he’d regain any degree of clarity he’d seek to rid of the wool plaguing his head once and for all. It’s a tug of war pulling himself out of the haze, but with each yank a grip on his heart would tighten. He’d stagger to continue, even as his lungs would burn and lose air, yet all of the pain would always be enough to make him let go of the rope, surrendering himself to the comforting dull.

But he’d always go through the same ordeal, on his own. Again, and again, and again.

Maybe it’s because of the abrupt red blood, but Fulgur could feel the haze clear. He decided to give another go.

He tried to focus on something else, anything else, his floating sight settled on the other red mark on the reflection’s right eye, a mark of a heartbeat. Ba bump.

The peripherals of his sight started to blur. Fulgur blinked, but his vision didn’t improve.

Ba bump.

Has the facial features on the mirror softened?

Ba bump.

A wash of white started to fill the mirror, under the ears, over the collarbone, covering a more pronounced chest.

Ba bump.

The reflection smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump.

Fulgur raised his hand to reach out - am I reaching out? - and meet with the offered hand in the mirror that extended the same time he did.

Was it cool hard glass he touched? Or a palm with warmth?

Fulgur lowered his gaze towards the joined hands. He couldn’t tell.

He also couldn’t tell if he had made any steps forward, did he take any steps at all? He’s getting closer, closer, closer, towards the mirror, led by the hand that took his.

And in he went.

Fulgur looked back to see a window behind him, only as it became a faraway speck and the white noise of his running tap faded that he realized that it’s his bathroom in the window.

Other than that he saw nothing else, hear nothing else; there’s no horizon, nothing visible here except for the woman holding his hand, walking in front of him, her long white hair cascading down her back, white dress flowing along with the movement of her legs. The space they’re in was not basked in darkness, rather it’s even devoid of it. Their steps landed on no floor, made no sounds, this void denied them even of those.

His steps wobbled, am I going to-

“Focus now,” a soft voice said.

Fulgur froze. He looked towards the source of the voice. She had stopped to face him. Fulgur breathed out her name.

“Ovidia.”

“You’ve been a bit clumsy lately,” Ovidia didn’t let go of his hand. “Should I come by more often?”

She didn’t receive a response, but she chuckled anyway, “Thought so, you’ve always been a stubborn one, why would I expect anything else.”

Her other hand cupped his uninjured cheek, her thumb swept across the cheekbone. The delight in her eyes faded to doleful, yet her smile stayed gentle.

Fulgur averted his eyes away from the dissonance, but leaned into the touch anyways.

Ovida sighed, and with that she let go.

By instinct Fulgur chased her withdrawing hand, but he reached out to nothing. She’s no longer there.

Words bubbled inside him, he opened his mouth, yet there’s nothing coherent enough to be spoken, it all fizzled away.

He did nothing but stood in the void that wouldn’t take him, yet wouldn’t show him a way out, his hand still reaching, till a small hand wrapping around the fingers of his other hand startled him.

He looked down to meet the eyes of a young Ovidia, maybe seven or eight years old, black elastic bands holding up two small pigtails on the side of her head, her round eyes bright like her smile.

Seeing that his attention was caught, child Ovidia laughed and swung his arm.

Fulgur couldn’t help but tug the corners of his lips into a smile, it’s faint and awkward, but that’s all his facial muscles could manage, it had been immobile for a while.

There’s nothing he’d need to reach, she’s right here. He closed his fingers to hold her hand back, yet his hand curled into a fist, fingers digging into his palm.

Again.

It wasn’t until an embrace from behind enveloped him in warmth that he realized he’s kneeling on the ground, still looking at his empty hand.

Was there anything I could’ve held onto?

“There, there,” Ovidia leaned onto Fulgur’s back, her white hair, more lengthy than the Ovidias he previously met, swept over her shoulders and brushed over Fulgur’s collarbone, the ends caressing his thighs, “you’ll get there eventually.”

Fulgur let the embrace stay. He saw the arms wrapped around his torso, instead of the arms, inch by inch he lifted his hand, reaching for the tresses.

He felt the hair, and let go of the breath he held in. His fingers combed through the silky strands in idle play, letting them glide through the gaps, weaving a rhythm across the hair as the fingers stretch, twirl, stretch, twirl.

So engrossed with the locks, Fulgur didn’t notice the pair of limbs keeping him were gone.

And when he eventually did, he still continued to toy with the hair, but his eyes wouldn’t move away from where Ovida’s arms were, and in ritardando his fingers dwindled to a stop.

He didn’t feel like it, but he had to move eventually.

He traced along the hair upwards, expecting to reach the head of another, but the hair ended at his scalp.

His eyes widened, there’s no more hair draping over him.

Fulgur’s other hand fumbled about his collarbone, his shoulders, his head, but all he feel was his much shorter cut. There’s no Ovidia letting down her hair that he could climb onto, he has no hair to let down to let someone in.

The tower holds only him, and him alone.

Ovidia’s gone, but he could feel the weight on his back increase, bending him further, and he finally gave, lying on the floor, curled up.

The sound of a running tap abruptly roared above him. He couldn’t tell what’s colder, him or the ceramic tiles white enough to blind the man that just saw light after such a long time.

The haze had been cleared, he won.

He could think of getting off the floor, he could think of finally closing the tap, he could think of…

He could think of how there’s no one else.

No one here, no one in the hallways, no one in the once occupied rooms.

He could map out the entire house in his head. He could trace the footsteps of each Noctyx member leaving the house for the last time. He couldn’t trace their separate ways after that.

Did he scream?

Were those tears?

Did he hear a sigh?

A sigh. There’s someone. That’s someone right?

A daughter, a sister, a wife.

Somebody, anybody, anybody would do.

He could feel soft fingers brush his eyelids close.

“Stubborn as always.”

Chapter written by: @Faustus1231

Art by: @kaiivar