Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (8 page)

Daina must be mistaken. Raimondas would not turn anyone in. Maybe
it was just coincidence. Gedrius’s wife had been a pretty woman. The soldiers
liked pretty women. He shuddered.

He should have made Saulė
stay home. She had been beautiful.

§

Once, the small apartment had smelled of flowers, of
Saulė’s perfume. Of hope. Now, only the scent of illness hung in the air.
Andrius opened his hand, and wisps of pale pink floated up. The smell of
freshly-cut roses danced in the air, but it was only a poor imitation. He
closed his fist tight, and the scent vanished as if it had never been there at
all.

Through a gap in the curtains, he saw a group of soldiers
sauntering down the street, their boots trailing mud on the cobblestones. A
small boy darted out of another apartment building. One of the soldiers grabbed
his arm, and the rest laughed.

Andrius raised his fist to bang on the glass, but pulled it back
before it struck. He turned away. The boy’s high-pitched cries crept into the
apartment. Andrius covered his ears and rocked back and forth. The boy was so
small. So small. Andrius wanted to help, but he couldn’t. He
couldn’t
.
The cries went on and on.

Eventually they stopped, and the soldiers marched on. Andrius dared
another look, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

Laurita was fast asleep, even though the sun was only beginning
to set. She’d refused to eat anything all day, claiming her stomach hurt. He
kissed her forehead, went into his own bedroom, and pretended to sleep.

§

“Please, Laurita, you must eat.”

“But I’m not hungry now. Can I eat later? Please?”

He nodded. “Okay. Later.”

She coughed softly. Once. Twice. The cough became loud and liquid
and thick. He sat her up and held a cloth to her mouth while he rubbed her
back. Her body shook with the force of each cough.

Finally, it subsided enough for a spoonful of medicine. She
grimaced, but swallowed it without complaint. He held her close, listening to
the air rattle in her lungs. Smelled the coppery tinge of her breath.

I am sorry, Saulė, I did the best I could.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“Papa, will I be well soon?”

“Yes, very soon.”

“Good. I am tired of being sick. I want to pick flowers.”

She coughed again, weakly. Her skin was cool and clammy. He
pressed a finger to her wrist; her pulse raced beneath, thready and
inconsistent. Tears blurred his vision. He blinked them away and shoved his
sorrow deep inside.

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“I wish the soldiers would let Mama come back for a little while
so I could tell her I love her.”

His tears returned. This time, he turned his head and wiped his
eyes dry.

“She knows you love her. I promise.”

“But I want to tell her. It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t fair. I wish they would let her come home, too.” He
sighed and looked down at his hands. None of it was fair. “But they told me I
could magic you a story.”

“They did?”

“Yes, just this one time, it was okay.”

She struggled up to a sitting position. He rearranged the pillow
behind her. His hands shook, but he touched her cheek. He had failed in so many
ways. As a husband. As a father. As a man. He could give his daughter this
much. It would not make up for what he didn’t do, nothing could do that, but it
was the only gift he knew how to give.

No matter the risk to himself.  

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful mermaid goddess who
lived under the sea in a palace made of amber.”

He lifted his hand and swept it through the air. The walls of the
bedroom glistened and turned sapphire blue in color. Ripples moved in lazy lines
up and down. At the edges, where ceiling met wall and wall met floor, white
foam gathered. The distant cry of seabirds drifted in the air. The room filled
with the scent of the sea.

A tiny shimmering light began to glow. It grew larger and larger,
revealing a palace with gilded spires.

“It’s beautiful,” Laurita whispered.

Multicolored fish swam in and out of the palace’s many windows.
Then Jūratė swam out of the front entrance, her dark hair flowing in
the water. Her tail was covered with purple-blue scales, her fins tipped with
gold. Laurita’s eyes widened.

Andrius waved his hand again. The air around them changed color.
First aquamarine, then sapphire, rippling around them in slow, gentle waves,
and through the water above their heads, a man’s face became visible. A young,
handsome man holding a fishing rod in one hand and a fish in the other.

Jūratė swam closer to the surface.
Kastytis
leaned forward; his mouth formed a circle, and he fell into the water with a
splash. Droplets landed on Laurita’s brow. Andrius wiped them away.

Jūratė pulled
Kastytis into her arms, and they
spun around in the water. Tiny pink and yellow fish circled them, moving fast
enough to create the illusion of ribbons.

Laurita smiled. “They are so happy.”

Then a man with stormy eyes looked down through the water, his
mouth set into a frown. In his hand, he held a bolt of lightning. He raised his
arm.

“Papa, don’t let him destroy the castle. Please!”

“But that’s how the story goes.”

“No, you can change the story, can’t you?”

Andrius sucked in a breath. He
gave his tears to the sea and tried to find a smile, but inside, his heart
clenched tight. He nodded.

No matter the risk.

The magic stretched within him, filling his limbs with strength.
He pushed it out, farther than he’d allowed in years. It made Laurita’s skin
shine, stripping the pallor of grey. She laughed, high and crystal clear.

The water rippled again. Perkūnas’s frown disappeared into a
smile. The amber palace gleamed. A fish swam close, its scales a brilliant
crimson, and Laurita reached out to touch its fin. It swam back around and let
her touch it again. Jūratė let go of Kastytis and swam over to the
bed, offered Laurita a smile and her hand.

“Papa, is it okay?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

The magic grew and grew. Jūratė took Andrius’s hand as
well and tugged them down into the water, toward the castle.

“Can we go in?” Laurita whispered.

Jūratė nodded. She swam between them as they walked up
the amber steps into a room with an arched ceiling. The floor was a circular
mosaic of amber in varying shades. The walls, thin sheets of amber the color of
honey fresh from the comb.

“Papa, it’s the most beautiful thing ever.”

Footsteps thumped in the hall, and his heartbeat quickened.

Not yet. Please, not yet.

“I love you, my princess.”

Voices rose in anger. Andrius looked over his shoulder. Through
the magic, he could just make out the bedroom door.

“Papa?”

“Everything is okay,” he said, forcing his voice to remain
steady.

“Is it the soldiers?”

“Yes.”

“But they said you could magic me a story, and it’s not finished
yet.”

“I guess they changed their minds. I think they need me to go
work with them for a little while.”

Jūratė let go of Andrius’s hand, but kept Laurita’s.

Andrius bent down in front of Laurita and brushed her hair back
from her face. “But while I go and work with the soldiers, how would you like
to stay here?”

“Could I?”

He looked up at Jūratė. She nodded.

“See?”

“You won’t be gone a long time like Mama, will you?”

Jūratė leaned close, her voice soft and whispery like
sea foam. “I will keep her safe.”

A fist banged on the door. He wrapped his arms around Laurita and
kissed her cheeks.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, her eyes filled with tears.

“I have to, my sweet girl, I have to, but I will see you soon. I
promise.”

“I love you, Papa.”

“And I love you.”

With a knot in his chest, Andrius bowed his head. The smell of
the sea vanished. The sound of the waves receded. And Laurita was gone. The
pillow still held the shape of her head; the sheets, her body, but atop the
blanket was a single piece of amber in the shape of a tear.

His last, and best, illusion.

He scooped it up and held it to his chest, rocking back and
forth. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He held the tiny piece of magic tight and
did not let go, not even when the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.

When the one in red gives up and screams, no one makes a
sound. We turn our faces away or rest our foreheads against the glass and wait.
It won’t take long. Big is quick with the remaking. In between the screams,
sharp snaps punctuate the air with exclamation points of splintered bone and
leaking marrow.

We all try not to scream.

We all fail in the end.

The walls of our room gleam pale blue speckled with dark spots of
dried gore. Little Big is messy. We hang, encased in wood frames with glass
fronts and hinged backs, from metal posts embedded in the plaster. Pretty boxes
arranged in rows like dolls on a display shelf.

I remember dolls and a small hand in mine.

Big finishes his task and puts the red one back in her box.
Swollen lumps of purpled flesh live where her knees used to be, but there is no
blood. Big is careful. He hangs her back on the wall and stops, all moonfaced
and sweating, in front of my box. The gears on his forehead turn and turn. My
heart speeds up four beats in the space of one. His fat mouth opens, revealing crooked
tombstone teeth. “Almost perfect,” he says, tapping the glass twice before he
walks away. My heart stays fast and busy; I know it won’t be long before he
takes me back out again.

I’ve been here long enough to forget most of the things I tried
so hard to keep. Names. Places. The remaking has taken most of my memories just
as sure as it shaped my form into something else. My arms bend in four places
now, my legs fold with knees back, my waist is spindle-thin, and my head is too
heavy to hold upright. I can’t see the changes on the inside, but I hear little
clicks and ticks.

Big gathers his tools, wipes down the stained wooden table, and
turns out the light before he steps through the doorway, leaving us in shadows
and grey. His footsteps thud heavy on the floor, then they fade away to
nothing. I don’t know what lies beyond the door, beyond this blue room. I think
I did know, when my legs bent in the old way, but now I’ve forgotten.

I crawl into the corner of my box. The sound of muffled weeping
from the metal cages hanging on the opposite wall fills the darkness. Those
inside the cages used to yell and curse and bang on the bars of their cages,
but Little Big took away their mouths, and now they sit, silent mounds of
broken flesh, always weeping behind their flat not-mouths. Because they belong
to Little Big, they will never have the chance to be perfect.

I want to be perfect. When I
am perfect, I will be allowed to leave.

§

Big remakes the red one’s arms next. He puts her back but
doesn’t take me out. Instead, he fashions three new boxes, tapping the glass
into place with a rubber mallet. Then he hangs them, still empty, on the wall
and leaves.

I wonder if they will come from the places I’ve forgotten or
someplace else. Someplace I never knew.

§

Even though there are three empty boxes, Big only brings in
two new ones, both dressed in black. One is female, like me; the other, male.
They sit in their boxes and whisper words over and over again. The man has a
white collar on his neck. I remember we wore collars once, but they had chains
attached to them. I don’t remember where the chains went.

On the second night, they try to talk to the rest of us. They
say, “The old god is dead, killed by the new gods.” We cover our ears with our
hands to hide the sound, but they are relentless.

Big takes out their tongues first.

§

After he remakes the red one’s legs, Big takes me out of my
box and puts me on the table. He runs his fingers along the crosshatch of scars
on my pale skin. My hands shake, but he pulls out a shiny box instead of the
sharp tools and opens the lid. I remember this box.

“Yes, my pretty one,” he says, his voice stretching out to every
corner of the room. “You are strong enough now for these.”

One by one, he places eight silver rings around my neck, stands
me up, and takes away his hands. All the weight inside my skull has turned to
air. His ugly teeth open up; laughter spills out.

He hangs me back on the wall. I stand, moving my head from side
to side, and inside my neck, the cogs and gears whir a soft, metallic song.

The third box is still empty.

§

Little Big comes in,
and I close my eyes. I don’t
like his long, narrow face
and the skin on his chest pinned back to
reveal the metalwork within.
A cage door screeches open. I made the
mistake of watching his remaking once. The sounds are bad enough—slippery, wet,
and scraping. Whenever he finishes, new spots cover the blue wall.

Little Big isn’t allowed to touch me, and for this, I am
grateful.

§

The last perfect one
was here a long time ago. He
wore black rings on his neck, not silver. Big removed the skin on his torso (He
didn’t scream. He clamped a hand over his mouth and moaned against his palm. I
hope I am strong enough to do the same.) and covered the shiny gears with a
clear panel.

After he healed, Big carried him out of the blue room forever.

§

The third box is no longer empty. I smell the new one, all
salt-sweat-angry. In the dark, he whispers, “Hello?”

No one answers.

§

Big lets Little Big watch when he removes the skin from my
back. I try to hold in the scream, but I can’t. Little Big’s eyes light up, and
he claps his hands.