Fencing Academy Pt. 03

But then again, I'm in a lot of pain.

Her fingers quivering, she slowly worked the cork off. It popped, a gaseous essence tickling Lyza's nose. Greedily, she lifted it to her lips and let the drink slide in. She couldn't swallow it fast enough... it trickled over both sides of her mouth. The barley started bitter and ended sweet, and as it hit the bottom of her stomach it melted some of the emptiness inside.

When she was done, she was left gasping. She had ingested so much barley that her heart raced and her head rolled heavily against the rough table. When she regained a modicum of her senses, she came to the conclusion she needed to obliterate herself. She fumbled for the icebox and took out another. She didn't even bother sitting at the table to knock that down.

Lyza knew she had a tough stomach, so she judged she needed two more. These ones were for savoring, drinking slowly. She picked up her spent bottle and lay them out on the table.

The chair creaked beneath her. "Father," she said, "mother..."

She conjured an image of her parents, just how she remembered them. Her father had a thick but short beard, his hair brown, his eyes black and crowed. Her mother was mousy, her shoulders narrow. Lyza had her mother's looks and her father's robustness.

They had absent, ghostly smiles on their faces.

"Fencin' class is goin' well... I get along with all me friends," she burped, and continued, "I'm also learnin' to read and write. I still can't figure out numbers, though. It may be you raised an idjit."

Lyza slapped her forehead. "Ah, how foolish of me. I've been hoggin' all the ale, and ye have not had a sip since ye both died."

Carefully, Lyza poured out measured amounts of barley wine where her mother and father were sitting. The alcohol soaked slowly into the grain of the wood. Her own swig was not so measured.

"Let us pray— Saints, thank ye for the only good thing in this bad world of ours: barley wine. It can only be a miracle somethin' so boring could be so sweet... when 'tis squeezed proper-like."

Lyza belched again, but plugged her mouth soon after with another swig.

"I have good news for the both of ye. I've met a handsome lad. His name is Liam. He's a proper studious sort that I'm sure you'd approve of. Lookit, here he is."

Liam's phantasm conjured out of thin air, with his rough, sunkissed face. His smile, too, was pearly-white and unflinching.

"You'd like him. He's dead too, so it's like as not that you know better than I do. Watch him, and make sure he doesn't bugger anyone before I get to."

Lyza poured out a little barley wine for him too... a little more than she intended. She cursed and licked up the excess.

Suddenly, Margaret Fey materialized next to her. She still had that band that kept her hair swept back, and she smiled worse than any of the others.

"Oh sorry, everyone. This here is Maggie. I murdered her, I feel a mite bad about that so I've invited her over too. I hope no one pays mind."

There was silence.

Lyza laughed. "Oh, this is awkward, ha! I suppose you didn't know about that," said Lyza, to her parents, "about all the murderin' I've been doing. I've killed lots of people. Lots. I'm no innocent maid."

Lyza took another swig.

"Can you believe... can you believe someone told me I had daddy issues? And that I wasn't a real killer. I sure showed him. I killed him right good, too. Let's see if he raises from the dead like he promises."

She looked at her parents darkly.

"What d'ya mean? I don't need your approval."

She suddenly became sullen, her arms folded defensively.

"You agree with him? Ye think I have troubles? Well, fuck you. Fuck you!"

She lifted a bottle and tossed it at the ghostly image of her father. It disintegrated.

"You're dead! Fuck you!"

Her mother had done nothing, but she tossed a bottle at her too.

"You're dead too!"

Liam was next. His handsome visage was dashed apart by the bottle.

"And you too!"

Finally, Margaret Fey. She aimed it right at her dumb smile.

"And—"

The bottle crashed on the opposite wall, bursting like a bomb of barley. Lyza panicked, and ran over. The alcohol rapidly soaked into the floorboards, disappearing forever. Not knowing what else to do, she puckered and sucked up the wine, like it was the last pocket of air she could breath. When there was not enough to drink, she licked the floor.

She was done. She curled into a ball on the floor, eyes closed and muttered to herself: "No... no... why...?"

###

The bottom of the Blackwater is a foul place. As the killer struggled against the chains, and took in his first breath of filth and sewage, he thought death would be a mercy. It was not. As the spirit shed its earthly body, the imprint of its burning and spent lungs and its cold and stiff flesh was left as an indelible sensation that would not fade.

The Blackwater was no easier to swim through, even without a body.

After a long struggle, however, it managed to clamber above-water, to the mossy rocks of the sea wall. That it scaled against in salt and sea spray.

Its wet arms slapped against the street as it pulled itself to solid ground. The air whipping around it made it feel even colder. When it tried its legs, it found them heavy, like they were made of sodden mud.

Somewhere in the darkness and evil of the city before him, a crimson beacon burned that penetrated all solid surface. He hissed at it and averted his eyes. He wanted... needed to destroy it. It was the light of a soul that had... killed him. Drowned him. Cursed him.

It perambulated relentlessly towards it. It was slow work but it didn't sense time. It could wander through walls, and whatever mortal acts happened to be going on seemed blurred and meaningless. There was nothing with any meaning, except it and the beacon... the fire that needed to be put out.

It was close now. It was in an alley, and it had to clamber up a set of steps. The beacon was a fire, crackling with life, the sparks that emerged from it flavored with mortal hopes and fears. A habit from his time as a mortal caused him to reach for the doorknob, but its hand passed right through. It didn't laugh at itself. It simply strode through the door.

Though the red light was brighter than ever before, the room was not empty. Every available space, between and on furniture, was filled with a dark spirit just like itself, crammed shoulder to shoulder, their formless bodies soaking with putrescent water. Each of their heads angled downward, their burning coal eyes hypnotized by the red flame, which had come to rest on the ground. These spirits did nothing to acknowledge the newcomer. The newcomer, itself, had to push its way through the crowd, a slow and hard process.

The spirits had made a minuscule clearing around the flame, but they did nothing to touch it. The newcomer looked down. The flame floated above a figure laying on the ground... a girl. Her knees were tucked into her stomach. Smashed bottles surrounded her, and she lay in a puddle of alcohol. She wore the mask of the Weeping Maiden, but it was pulled so it covered her hair rather than her face. The girl was sleeping uneasily... she was suffering a nightmare that played out darkly in the flame. In the dream the girl was being eaten from the inside out by an insatiable, black acid.

The newcomer gurgled, "Lyyyyzzaaaa..."