Written: 6/4/24
Word Count: 948

After all the pain, all the delirium, one would think I'd had enough of being conscious. I never expected to last the entire time it took Brat to wrap my healing ankle and brace it on both sides with—something. The messenger even removed my puke-and-blood-stained poncho, flipping my shirt up almost to my breast sling as it painted some kind of cold gel across all the bruises kicked into my ribs. Then, it wrapped my destroyed hand up in some leafy-substance, painting a clear liquid over the green, which hardened after sitting still for a minute.

Brat wasn't considerate in its ministrations. It didn't care about the spasms correlating down my body each time it twisted my ankle a little too far to the left or when it accidentally touched any one of my wrecked fingers.

But somehow, I stayed awake through it all, though a miasma of red and purple spots blanketed everything from sight. And when it was done, and I heard it about to leave, one would think I would allow myself to rest in peace or rest in pieces.

One would be wrong. Because I hadn't faced enough humiliation yet after leaving the Capital, I intended to sabotage myself at every turn.

"Stay," I quietly begged the child, who scoffed so loud, I feared even Father could hear it in the 11th Ring's royal office.

"You're kidding," Brat suggested. It had moved me around so I no longer slept on my face, though the ground was no more comfortable than it had been last night. I edged out my good hand, grabbing the torn shreds at the bottom of its orange pants. The flimsy material looked too thin and too windblown to be much help to it living high up in the Hesperides. The kid gave a great sigh, voice lowering a bit. "You're not kidding."

I closed my eyes, removing my traitorous fingers. Why had I done that? As if I could hate myself even more than I already did. The world was full of surprises. Apparently, the depths of my self-loathing was a bottomless ocean with reaches unknown.

After a few seconds of waiting for Brat to retreat, I realized it didn't. Cracking up one eyelid, I still couldn't see for shit, but I carried on like I was completely assured that it was still in the room with me. I wasn't, though. How could I be certain of anything with these senses of mine?

"What..." I wet my lips with my tongue, swallowing a throat dry beyond dry. "What is your name? How do I...call you? Pro...nouns..."

"I haven't decided on a name," Brat said somewhere to my left. I didn't know if the child had fallen to the ground or sat down at the desk pushed up against the wall. "Refer to me however you want. Most people use 'he' or 'him.'"

I struggled to understand. "But...what is right?"

"Goddess, your voice is wrecked," Brat swore. "Let me see what that Elva is doing. I'll bring you some soothing tea."

"Wait—"

Brat was gone before I could finish my thought. I didn't even know what it was going to be. Everything was happening with almost zero input from my brain. My body and mouth were just reacting. This dangerous combination has gotten me in similar trouble many times. I thought I'd conquered it, conquered that rebellious side. Nothing comes out of my mouth without my say-so.

But that wasn't right. Just look at what had happened with those two pixies. I'd been unable to control my stupid laughter and fell off a cliff as a result. Guess I'd deserved it.

Alright. So, Brat and Resinee had both come running to fix me, patch me up, then wind my gears to their preferred setting. I was but a mechanical doll.

Resinee was pretty clear about what she wanted from me, but what was in it for Brat? Did the Goddess really care about me?

Why?

It had become alarmingly clear that I was not a performing unicorn. I could not pirouette and twirl upon command. I was just some weird loser, some dusted elvaniac. What could the Loon of the East even do here? What could I do without making everything worse?

I had no desire to patch up wings or get eaten by spooked dragons. I had no desire to live under the thumb of Resinee, her brothers, and that eight-packed monstrosity called Rocco. But it didn't matter what my desire was, and it's not like I even desired anything to begin with. Upon closer inspection of my memories submerged in that mud bank, I wasn't excited at the prospect of Mother coming to live with me. I had an inkling that such an arrangement would only make everything worse.

But what else was there to do? To want? To desire? Mother was my responsibility, wasn't she? And Aunt Rosetta's estate had been left to me to deal with. It didn't look like there were any choices left for me to decide at all. So why couldn't I just accept it?

I heard Brat's return as something happening from a far-off distance. When it tilted my head back so I could drink without choking myself, I felt all my traitorous tear ducts disappear back to their usual state. Desolate. Dry.

"I'm tired," I told it.

Honeyed tea filtered down my throat. Gross. It was tepid. The soothe of honey was taken away by the depth of my thirst. It wasn't enough. Blast it, it wasn't enough.

Once all the liquid was gone, Brat walked away. "Then sleep."

But I'm not sleepy, I wanted to say.

That wasn't what I meant.