She remembered wandering into the grassy knoll, meeting Contessa. She remembered the fight, Scion, everything that preceded it. Where-where was she? It took a moment for her memories to reorient themselves, but each time she tried to grab for the answer, all that came back was blank. To her left, a sculpted vase about the size of a small car drooled an endless river of red into the pool below, perpetually filling it. The walls were decorated with marble and gold, with pillars emerging at various points along its length, some encrusted by messy chunks of stone and gem, but did not reach all the way up to the roof, which towered so high above it was almost hard to see.
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Her fingers, where before she had assumed the rough edge of a shore cliff, were instead a series of small steps leading up and out of the pond she was floating in. Above her was a ceiling sculpted into stone, smooth and onyx-black, like obsidian. The red broke around her head, and Taylor took in a wheezing gasp of air that she didn’t need, but felt obligated to do.īlack spots freckled the edges of her vision, fading slowly as her surroundings slowly came into contrast. She pulled and scrambled and reached out and out and out and.
Her fingers bit into it, and she pulled up, crawling desperately towards the ever-brightening red above her-the surface, it must be. She barely registered the pain, reaching back out again as fingers caught against the telltale feel of stone, rough and pockmarked from age and erosion. Her hands met something hard, knuckles smarting harshly against it. Nothing made sense, nothing needed to, all she could do was flail, kicking her legs out, trying to recall the half-absent memories of swimming at summer camp, trying to propel herself forward and up, towards air or anything solid. She surged forward, tried to scramble her body, the panic of her mind refusing to acknowledge the lack of burn in her lungs that doubtlessly should’ve come after such a long time beneath it.
It was heavy, slick, sticky and viscous like honey. Panic surged, Taylor swiped a hand furtively through the red, sluggish and resistant from the fluid. The painful sound of a gunshot from up-close, then the violent pain of a bullet splitting her skull. A vast fight, a man made of gold, the stars, so far away, so infinitely larger than herself. Then, just as slowly as the awareness, the memories came back. Something in her head whispered that this was the place to be, that this was normal, that the slow ripple of bubbles around her mouth, around her hair was just as simple as the fog that might follow a warm breath in winter. For a time, being in the red, endless and metallic, was not something she sought to fight against. It wasn’t one moment she wasn’t, the next she was, but rather a growing sort of awareness, drip-fed like an IV, gradually settling into her skull. There was no single moment where she fully came back to herself. She could feel herself float in it, feel the way it stung her eyes when she tried to open them, the way it tasted faintly of copper on the back of her tongue. An endless red that surrounded her, entombed her.
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