...A Tale of Imperfections...

Chapter One:

Perhaps if I were lucidian, my lack of a heart could be forgiven. But alas, a
trill is expected to smile as brightly as a crystal's sheen, to flutter and flit
about with the ease of a cloud. Is that not so? Are we not the fairer of
Hallifax's two races, more pleasant, more agreeable to the outside world? Surely
such elegant beings have souls to match. Surely we, if anything is alive in this
crystal city, breathe.

My fingertips brush against the canvas, staring at it intently before casting a
gaze towards the window. The sunset bleeds through in various hues of crimson
and citrine, and I shut the draperies to mute the glow.

"Daughter, where are your manners? Greet our guest." The voice calls in from the
hallway and I dutifully ignore it, dabbing my paintbrush on the palette. "What,
can't you hear me? The Minister is calling for you."

I purse my lips and stare at the painting awhile longer. Slowly a figure takes
shape as my instrument caresses the canvas; the curves of the line twist and
wind, cloudy white mingling with the blues of the sky. "I am almost done," I
murmur, though this is far from true. At my imagination's command, the wispy
curls of the cirrus playfully wrap about birds caught in flight, and I have
become so focused I do not see Minister Lars, but hear his voice as he enters.

"Miss Fairquillion. Am I intruding?" It is a monotonous voice, and one I am
accustomed to. I ignore it readily. "What, are you painting?"

"Have you not eyes, Minister?" I say with a slight smile. "Indeed, I am
painting."

"Were you not painting just last month?"

"Quite."

"And the month before?"

"That would be correct."

There's a slight pause. This does not upset me, for I am fine with
silence. It's simpler in quiet than in noise, shouts, words squandered
in emotional refuse. So my hands do not still themselves but continue in their
work. My brush whips up more clouds, this time of a grayer shade. I bite my lip
until I can taste a slight trickle of blood. Minister Lars continues to say
nothing.

"You've a lovely room," he comments suddenly. I nod in agreement, but
one can tell when a sentence is useless, and Minister Lars might as well have
said, "The sun rises in the morn as the moon sets." People often talk about
nothing, I have come to believe it is a sport of sorts. Sometimes I chime in
from sheer boredom myself.

But silence is preferred. Always, silence.

"The door is too often locked," I respond. "Mother often forgets to
leave it open."

"You could always request to leave."

I stare at the painting a moment longer, contemplating. "I could."

"Do you ever miss your school friends?"

The spontaneity of the question catches my interest in a way the rest of the
conversation has not. To my utter disappointment, my answer is dull: "Good
Minister, I cannot even recall their names."

"Fuellina Windwhisper? Tuulah Skysoarer?"

The images on my landscape are clearer than those memories, and so I
concentrate on it instead. The sky is gentle there, innocuously so. What of
skies that thunder and rage, I wonder, what of skies that are not so complacent?

"They ask about you, from time to time," the good Minister adds. I nod
slowly, pretending to care about this news. I do like Minister Lars, I
find it rather unfortunate his messages rarely excite me. Faking their
worth does make him smile, however, and I do like to see him smile.

I cup a small glass in my hands and scoop up paint from the palette.
Thunder. How would thunder appear, for thunder has no image, merely
sound. How to translate sound to canvas - my wrist idly flicks the paint towards
the image, speckling the perfect sky with yellow, black, purple, green, blue, a
motley, grotesque display -

And gods, it's wonderful. It's thunderous.

"Wh-why would you do such a thing, Miss Fairquillion?" the Minister
sputters. My fingers press against the freshly covered canvas, smearing it until
the colours blend wonderfully into smudges of abstractions.

"Do what, Minister?" I inquire as I alter the hue of the clouds.

"Ruin your lovely masterpiece so. Were you not going to participate in
the city auction?"

I study my creation for a moment: whorls of dirtied rainbow polluting a clear
blue sky. It's become a tempest now, not a gentle dawn, roaring with squalls and
lightning.

"I rather prefer it this way."

"Miss Fairqui..."

The Minister shakes his head and takes his leave. I do not watch him
depart. I do not wash my hands.

Silence, once more, accompanies me. And I do not mind.

Chapter Two:

They have taken away my paints. I cannot find them anywhere. Mother says I have
lost them. I most certainly have not. I keep everything in my room in perfect
order: there is the bed, naturally, which is made every morning by the maid. My
clothes are folded in the wardrobe; the books on my shelf remain in
alphabetically order. My painting, however, is mysteriously missing from the
room. As is my easel, palette, and various other tools.

"Perhaps you will enjoy the lyre," Lady Windwhisper says to me with a
soft smile.

I do not enjoy the lyre. I nod, however, because she is a superior
artist, and a kinder one than Lord Skysoarer might be. And it makes her smile,
just as Minister Lars smiled.

"Play a minor chord for me." She plucks a few strings and I imitate her, letting
the music chime pleasantly. "Wonderful! What a knack you have, dear."

I do not enjoy her ruffling my head feathers. Physical touch is rather
cumbersome. Transfers diseases, causes one to flinch, it's an altogether
upsetting business. I tell her so. She immediately refrains.

"What sort of music do you enjoy, dear? We can play any sort you fancy." Lady
Windwhisper turns to listen to me intently and I shrug. Ah, does no one love
silence in this place but I? It would appear so.

"Ballads," I say crisply.

"Lovely! They are my favorite as well."

I thought so. I cannot help but be smug that my guess is right.

With each dulcet tone, my ears recoil, though Lady Windwhisper claps her hands
and urges me onwards. I wish for my paints. I wish to dip my hands in them,
rather than tangle fingers in these strings. Such a fragile instrument, the
lyre. Why with a single string removed, its power is crippled, and what power
could possibly be so weak?

"Perhaps you could perform on the stage, dear, they're always longing
for a good bard to star in the Opera House." Lady Windwhisper beams
brightly and stops her hand just in time from patting my head. The
effort is rather endearing. "You do produce such charming melodies."

"They are rather dull though, are they not?"

"Dull, dear?" Lady Windwhisper frowns. I analyze the lyre in my hands,
how the wood is fashioned into its curious shape, how each silver string is
strung just so...

And how fragile it is in its execution...

She does not see when I remove the first of the strings. A giddiness
fills me at this; we continue the lesson with her unawares until the
first sour note sounds. And then another. I am down to now three
strings. The discord rings out ever so magnificently and Lady
Windwhisper discretely covers her ears, unsure how to voice her
discomfort. I yank out another string and a lovely screech resounds.

"This is my favorite performance thus far," I say, with complete
sincerity.

There are no goodbyes exchanged when Lady Windwhisper exits my boudoir. In a
whirl of chiffon and "me oh my"s she leaves me to my games, and even as I let
the mournful shrieks ring out, I know this lyre shan't be by my bed in the
morning.

Chapter Three:

Mother tells me I am to leave my room today. I do not wish to go. I
cling to the draperies and quietly ignore her as she calls for me to
follow: "Daughter, there is much to be done, no time for this
foolishness." As she draws me away the curtains flutter away from the
window, allowing sunlight to pour into my chamber. It's blinding. I
despise it.

"I never leave my bedchamber," I say: a fact not a plea.

"You should know better than to speak in absolutes, my child. Such
fallacies you utter that way."

I had forgotten the stairs, and the dizziness and vertigo that
accompanied them in one's descent. The paintings upon the walls all blur into
single colours as they whirr past us; I can feel my body growing light, my head
falling heavy.

"Mother, where are we going." My stomach heaves with her quick,
dauntless pace; my mind reels, unable to take in the sights around me.
The doors to the city open wide and this time I shriek in physical pain as the
light sears my eyes. My arms are sticks in my mother's powerful grasp; I cannot
make out the blurry figures of the citizens who we sweep past. "Mother, I do not
like it here, I do not, let me go home."

Mother does not play the games of the Minister and Lady Windwhisper. She knows
better than to respond if she does not care.

The relief of darkness is immediate; I do not know where we are, but the doors
of this place close behind us, and I can feel my body grow limp as I lean upon
my mother. I do not like physical contact, but I notice the lack of her embrace
just the same. "I have brought her to you, Doctor," she says simply.

Doctor Shevat stares at me with cold, unreadable eyes. He nods to my
mother without shifting his gaze.

"How long has this been occurring, Madame Fairquillion?"

"Since she was but a child. She is sixteen now."

I dislike knowing I am but a fixture in this room to be commented on. I dislike
how this lucidian man looks at me. I want my paints and the
cool, enclosed darkness of my bedroom.

"Symptoms?"

"Weak constitution. Agoraphobia. Photophobia. Misanthropy. Morality of a small
child. Prone to masochism with lapses of memory."

Mother yanks my arm forward and points readily at scars that mark my
flesh. I do not recall them being there, but then again, I have not
bathed this month, and I do not remove my robes before then. I wonder
how they have appeared beneath my sleeves. Why, they look as if painted: red
crisscrossing lines. I am transfixed by their beauty.

Doctor Shevat nods, his crystal skin flushing a mild white. "May I ask
why you did not have her come here sooner, Madam?"

"I would tell you to ask my husband, but he is dead, Doctor. As are his naive,
foolish ideas of indulgence."

I stiffen as a cold hand brushes against my neck, fingers feeling about before
stopping at a vein. Doctor Shevat shuts his eyes, following my pulse, and I have
to restrain myself from shoving him aside. It is cold. I cannot abide this cold.

I could scream. No, I -am- screaming.

The chill suddenly swallows my body whole; other figures have emerged in this
place, wielding metal that binds me down. "Mother, stop them. Stop them, they're
hurting me!"

It is now I realize she has left me. The cloying scent of anesthesia
invades my lungs and everything shifts in colour.

Red. Furious, bleeding red. Black appears next, marring the strange
fleshy hue as green follows, leaking brown into the spectrum. I cannot
tell if my eyes are open or shut. Consciousness floods in and out. It's daytime
in summer; it's a cold winter's night; it's a desert; it's a funeral pyre; it's
not my room, not my room, not my room...

Needles plunge into my arm and the images in front of me dance like
flames. Pain shoots up my veins and I gasp in elation, fading into
unconsciousness before another blissful prick wakes me into this strange
reality. Another. And another. Oh gods, it's wonderful. I don't want them to
stop.

"Damn, hold her down. The patient won't stop thrashing, keep feeding her
sedatives."

The more I struggle, the more needles cut me open. This knowledge is
exhilarating; I kick more, and each time the effort takes more out of
me; I am slowly losing control of my limbs, as the poisons take effect. I
scream, because that adds to the pleasure. When even that proves difficult, I
begin biting my cheek, the warm blood soothing me in this chilling laboratory.

"Permission to use force, sir? Were just short of overdosing her."

"Granted."

The colours all end in a magnificent sweep of black, and my eyes roll
back.

Time stands still. I lie still. Thoughts unhinge. Focus...fades.

Chapter Four:

The ticking of a clock. Tic. Tock. Tic. Tock. A damnably steady rhythm. My eyes
flutter open, longing to see the broken lyre by my side, my instrument of
blessed discord. If only to stop that damn clock.

The colours of this room are all one and the same: a dreary white that
is not stained by even a speck of differentiality. My fingers itch to
paint it somehow, and to my dismay I've no paints. The only tool at my
disposal - ah, but of course, the blood pouring from my veins! How
marvelous red would look on that white wall. How perfectly splendid.

I start to move forward but am restrained by these blasted metal bars
that hold me to my bed. A sleepy trill woman glances up from my side and frowns.
"Sweetie, you just stay put. You'll be better soon enough."

She pats me on the head and I want to bite her hand. I do not, however.

"I am not sick," I say instead.

"Of course you're not." She smirks. I should have bitten her hand.

My eyes steal over the tools assorted in this patient's ward - gods, I
am a patient. I am in the lowest wards of the city. I am Not Perfect
Enough to walk Hallifax's streets. I am Broken.

There is Something Wrong With Me.

My entire being aches. The pain that remains from the various needles
has subsided from its original ecstasy and left me in the throes in
agony. My soul longs to depart this loathsome body, or be distracted,
somehow. I want my bedroom back. I want to go back. I hate this room, I hate
this woman, I hate this body.

Tic. Tock. Tic. Tock. Gods damn.

The door to my chamber opens and the trill rises to greet Doctor Shevat, who
glances at me before whispering to the nurse. "...severe masochism, perhaps a
result of exposure to..." He lowers his voice, and it frustrates me further.
"...drastic measures were taken. If things get worse, well." A tiny needle is
passed into her hands. Immediately my body tenses and a hunger wells within me.
"You know what to do."

Tic. Tock. Tic. Tock. Tic. Tock.

The door shuts. The nurse resumes her doze. I stare about me once more. Blank
walls meet my blank eyes.

But no - I am incorrect. One wall is not the same. Two trill women are
standing beside it.

In some ways, I am relieved to realize I am not the only patient here.
Her nurse is clearly as enthusiastic as my own, and this patient, too,
has been chained to her bed. Greying wings surround her pale, bloodless form,
and weak red eyes stare about her as if frozen in horror. Sweat has matted her
feathery bangs to her face. The wrinkles of age crease her brow and her mouth,
and she appears wasted by the years. She, too, is covered in scars.

"May I ask your name, lady?" I inquire politely, but my throat goes
hoarse, my lips are cracked. She opens her mouth as I do, though no
sound comes out. I try again and once more we speak at the same moment. And
again. And suddenly my sight blurs as tears prick my eyes.

"What did you do to me."

"Calm down, sweetheart, it's just a simple aeonics - "

"What did you do to me!"

And I wish, in this moment, I had reserved some of my strength, for my
body cannot struggle against these bars now. I stare at my reflection in the
mirror and cannot stop the thoughts from spinning; where is my
youth, where is the body I once knew to be my own. Who is this older
woman, who appears dead, staring back at me.

"I knew the mirror would be a dreadful idea," she quips, inspecting her nails.
"They panicked, dear. You had far too much strength left in you, protested far
too much. Your body is weaker in this state, as is your mind, and both have been
the doctors' adversaries. The disease is already weakening, just look at you.
You can be held down now. You can properly rest."

I scream for lack of better options, but the cry dies off quickly, and I go
silent. Lady Windwhisper is not here with her smile, nor Minister Lars with his
kind pity. I am not sick. I am not sick. Everyone else is simply mad.

"Time is relative, dear. It was either this or overdose you to death."

"I am not sick," I whisper. My body trembles uncontrollably, though it
does not look like the body I ought to own. "I am not sick. I am not."

The nurse absentmindedly turns the needle in her hands. My heart turns
with the movement, craving its freeing pain. My hands itch for the lyre, my eyes
seek some kaleidoscope besides the full scene before me.
Everything is The Same. Everything is Dead.

"Calm yourself," the nurse intones. "It will be reversed soon enough,
when they know you won't weasel your way out. Then you can be young
again. Goodness, such lower emotions..." The needle spins once more in
her grip; my body lurches involuntarily. She smirks at that and holds it
tantalizingly close to my face. "What, sweetheart, you want this? What an odd
thing you are."

I lick my lips. I wonder if my tongue can reach it from here. I wonder
if I could possibly get its glorious metal to pierce my flesh.

"Odd, deranged thing." She draws back and I let out a hiss as the needle is
pocketed. "Goodness, why they don't just toss you out, I shall never know. Those
curious old fools, their lust for knowledge will be the death of them." The
nurse fans herself idly with her hand. The needle slides in her pocket.

My eyes do not leave the point of my salvation. It is either that or the walls;
either the damned walls or the mirror; either the damned mirror or the clock;
either the damned clock or the blessed needle. Blessed, blessed needle. I wonder
how this new body responds to injection. I wonder if the pain is just as
liberating. I desire to know. I hunger to know.

Time passes slowly, in increments of tics and tocks. The plump nurse
stands up, stretches, walks around, flaunts her mobility in idleness. I wish to
strangle her. I have never wished someone's death so terribly, but I want to
strangle her.

"Ah, goodness me, about time you arrived."

The door has opened once more and the change in this routine adjusts my focus
from the needle to the visitor. He is younger than the nurse,
appears slightly ill at ease as he walks in. A human, no less: rare
sight in these spires. His garb is that of the Institute and he steals a glance
at me shyly before turning to the hateful nurse, bowing awkwardly.

"What would you have me do, Mother?" he inquires.

Immediately panic seizes me: "She's wrong," I rasp. "I'm not sick."

"Oh, tut, hold your tongue you rash, demented cretin," she mutters as
she tightens the bolts around my wrists. The boy watches in something
akin to pity and I do not want his pity. I want him to strangle the
nurse. I want him to know this is all a mistake. "Alright, m'boy, she's a live
wire, so I want you to keep a close watch on her."

Eyes wide as saucers, the boy nods. "Yes, Mother. H-how long will you be gone?"

My ears perk up; the beast, gone? No. My needle cannot part from me so. What
will I be able to hope for, in this hopeless room? The boy is not pleasing to
look at. Hair unsettles me. The colour of the walls
unsettles me. Everything here unsettles me.

"Not long, just need to take a nap or so, eh. Do not be so frightened,
what, do you believe this old woman able to hurt you chained up so?" The nurse
chuckles and ruffles my head feathers patronizingly. I growl and the boy starts.
It thrills me to see him quake.

He stammers: "Are you sure that I should be...ah, I mean, shouldn't you find a
Doctor to..."

"Oh, hush. There's nothing to be afraid of." She pats him on the hand,
and I swear, there's a glint of silver as she goes. My eyes widen. A low moan
sounds in the back of my throat.

The boy quivers. I pay it no mind, for his hands hold Freedom.

Chapter Five:

"S-so. You're, ah, related to Madame Fairquillion?" the boy squeaks,
glancing at my nametag. I do not know why a blasted nametag has been
attached to my clothes; it has felt as if years have passed since
someone has said my name aloud. And, if you look at my body, they have.

"Give it to me," I murmur, no longer caring to join in these idle sports of
speech.

The boy goes ashen. "What is it you want?"

"Give it to me. What else could I want, but what you have, give it to
me. Give it to me!" I rattle my bars and chains and the boy jumps back
with a yelp. "Free me," I whisper and it is a plea suddenly, not a
demand. "Gods, let me go, give it to me, free me, give me pain, give me
pleasure, get me out out out out out out - "

"Miss Fairquillion, I can't..."

"Out out out out out out out out out!" I shriek, each decibel piercing
my lungs.

"Shh, please, Miss, no, please, calm down," he gibbers. The pleasure
from his fear is nothing compared to the bliss that needle can afford
me. All the same, I prolong it while I may. I continue until my voice is nothing
but a whisper and the boy is standing in the corner, shivering, with his hands
over his ears.

"Good gods..." he breathes. Shakily, he gets up from his feet to face
me, twiddling the needle in his hands. The silver flashes and I let out a sigh
of longing. "You, you aren't, you aren't alright, Miss
Fairquillion."

"I'm not sick," I state, and the boy just nods.

"H-how long have you been here?" he asks, but the sentence cracks
half-way.

Again, I don't care to indulge in this game. It is done by people who
prefer to see the world the way it's easiest viewed. They care not for
thunder, for discord, for the freedom that comes with...that comes
with...

"Madness," I whisper, and the word fills me with glee. "Absolute
madness." I start laughing and I can't stop. I don't think I want to. It feels
delicious, almost as delicious as the boy's terror, as the needle plunging into
me. Gods, that needle. That needle that needle that needle.

"Miss?"

"Give me the needle, give it to me," I laugh, my aching body struggling once
more for freedom. "I am old, I am dying, I am sick, I have children, and a
husband, and grandchildren, free me, this is unkind, give me the needle, do
something, boy."

Confusion flashes across his features and it both delights and
infuriates me. He stares down at the needle in his hands and then up at me,
backing away slowly. "I, er, I'm not supposed to."

"Why? Why not? You would deny an aging woman her health, the ability to see her
family once more? My poor grandchildren," I moan, and the lies fill me with a
joy I cannot express. I like this boy. I want him to stay longer.

His reply is soft and quiet: "It's, um, for emergencies."

"Emergencies? Emergencies! What is an emergency?"

"I...I don't know!" he exasperates suddenly.

"Give me the needle," I say, licking my lips, "and I will leave you
alone. I will stop speaking, I will, I promise. Simply give it to me."
This seems to strike him somewhat and I continue: "I'll haunt you if you don't,
when I die. I'm a witch and I'll haunt you forever and ever."

He's trembling; my words have struck him. How old is he, I wonder; he
appears younger than even me, before this bizarre treatment. Fourteen?
Younger, possibly. Impressionable.

"Give it to me, please. I will do whatever you like if you give me that needle."
I chew my lip until blood trickles onto my tongue. "I was once young, and
pretty, and would have fallen in love with you if you gave me that needle. They
stole my youth, you know, I'm not a grandmother, I have no husband, I am just a
scared little girl. That needle will save me."

He takes hesitant steps forward and my heart leaps; I continue, "I am
not really crazy, I just need help. That needle will save me, you know. I'll be
normal, just like you. I won't be locked here any longer. And then perhaps we
could play, I like to paint, you know, I would paint you a picture."

The boy weighs the needle in his hands for a moment, and the weight of
that little piece of metal contains all the hopes and fears I am allowed to
possess now. "I don't want to hurt you," he mumbles a bit as he adjusts the
needle just above my arm. "I haven't ever...I mean..."

"Unlock my arm," I say without hesitation. "Let me do it." Alarm halts
his movements and I continue in my silky sweet voice, "I will not hurt
you, you are saving me, you are giving me what I need to be rescued. I
am just a victim here. I am mad."

As if transfixed, he nods, and fumbles with the key before unlocking my right
arm from its prison. I crow in delight; I stretch it up and down, I feel my
face, my feathers, my wings. They are not mine, but knowing they are there is
enough. I turn to the boy. He's shaking. "Give it to me," I wheeze, extending my
arm. "Save me, boy."

For the briefest moment, our skin brushes against one another's, and
then the cool, freeing embrace of metal greets my palm. My heart skips. My blood
rages and boils with anticipation. I let out a strangled sob of joy. A fire
rages throughout my body, demanding to be fed.

"Please, get better," the boy whispers, but I no longer care about him. He tires
me. With my single hand I try to poise the needle above my other arm - but no.
That is child's play. Have I not already received scars there? No. No, I must
penetrate new flesh. But where. How.

It hits me in the briefest of moments and I hold my blessed, beautiful
needle above my bosom, heart racing desperately. "Here," I murmur, "here is
where I shall be purged." Mother would be pleased. Was it not she who said that
all these years, "my daughter holds no heart"? Why, then it should simply be
flesh that greets my needle as it continues in its descent.

The boy flinches as footsteps can be heard down the corridor; I do not
need to be told twice. I thrust the needle into my bosom and inject the fluid
into my bloodstream. I shudder with delight; I can feel my body shutting down
and yet coming to life at once. A ripple of laughter breaks free from my throat
and with it comes foam, a bizarre bile that bubbles from my lips and appears to
be green from the mirror.

"Oh, gods, what have you done?" the nurse shouts as she storms in and
shoves her son aside. My body spasms and shakes, a thrilling energy
coursing through my veins that I cannot explain nor name, and as it
tingles throughout my fingers, I can feel the nerves there suddenly
growing dead. Following it, my arms go limp, and suddenly I can feel my heart
slowing within me. Tic. Tock. Tic. Tock. Yes, I have a heart, and it is dying.

I can see my beautiful needle fall to the floor as my grip fades with
the last of my consciousness. My eyes, now, are failing, and oh, that
boy is crying, and am I crying? If so I cannot feel it. The room goes
black and the colours before me flicker once again. Red. Black. Green.
Brown. Thunderous sky. Angry, raging sky, imperfect and beautiful. It's a storm
of colour, the white walls that disgust me are gone now. It's calling me, you
see. Calling me with the screech of broken lyres and beckoning the heartless to
a land where hearts are not necessary.

I am not sick, no. I am Perfectly Fine.