Immolatio

by Julia Wheelehan

The cave is much colder than it ought to be. And there shouldn’t be so much water in it either — but that just makes you happy you’re wearing boots. As you make your way further into the cave, all you can see is what the flickering light of the dying flashlight allows you to see. Taking worn paths, you reach an unremarkable stretch of wall in front of you. Reaching out with your shaky hand, you trace the wall and feel the wet crack in the stone.

You pull out the knife from your boot and cut your palm; it doesn’t hurt even as the blood drips between your fingers.

As you smear the stone, it gleams wet and dark in the dim light and it takes one, two, three, fou — and the wall rumbles and pulls away. Stepping into the black, you tuck the knife away and the wall grinds back into place. You shut the flashlight off, let it slip between your fingers, and you don’t wince when it falls to the ground, bulb shattering.

You wait for a few moments, yet it feels like a lifetime.

Then the Shifter arrives and you forget to breathe.

That shade of cornflower blue looks so familiar.

With a guarded smile and a gentle hand, you allow yourself to be laid to rest, a rock poking you in the small of your back. You don’t remove the rock and allow the pain to center you instead, to remind you why you’re here — why you’re exposing yourself to a boogeyman. And, for a moment, all you feel is another body winding around you.

“What do you want?” the Shifter asks as your clothes grow damp.

More time.

“What do you need?” the Shifter questions as the hairs on your arms rise.

Peace.

“Who do you want?” the Shifter hisses and strokes your face.

You.

“Who do you need?” the Shifter purrs and brushes your hair.

“You,” you croak and it echoes in the inky expanse of nothingness. “Always — always you.” Your breath hitches, but you think nothing of it. If nothing else, your broken voice will be another sign of your conviction. It must work, for all you feel is a sharp pain, slicing away at the cut and the press of lips to your bloody palm.

It’s impossible but you almost feel the suction as the minutes slip away. You hear pants echoing in the cavern and it takes a moment, but you realize that it’s you — you’re the one panting like some animal about to be put down, shaking in the cold of the cave.

Your head is swimming and you see memories of summertime and ripe tangerines; falltime and corn mazes; wintertime and steaming drinks; springtime and midday rains which do nothing to lessen your nausea and pain causes your memories to blur. You close your eyes with a

sigh.

The last thing you feel is the press of salty lips to your own and something dripping on your eyelids.

After a moment, you open them again and look into cornflower blue eyes.

You smile.