A deep darkness flooded my vision.
It wasn't the black of an ordinary dream.
It was a liquid black, dense, that clung to my eyelids like tar.
And in the distance, I heard a cry.
Waaaaah!
A distant cry.
A baby.
The sound reverberated through the darkness like a bell submerged in water.
For some reason, a thought came to my mind, as sharp as a lightning bolt in the night.
(That cry… it feels familiar…)
Something in that sob touched a chord I didn't know I had.
As if I'd heard it before.
As if I myself had…
Ah!
I woke up suddenly.
My back hit the mattress.
Gasping, I sat up and leaned against the headboard of the bed.
"What a dream…? Huh?"
I looked around.
The cream-colored curtains, the dark wooden wardrobe, the soft glow of morning filtering through the window.
I was back in my room.
"Did I pass out…?"
I wiped the light sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
My heart was still racing, but no longer from fear.
It was the adrenaline of waking.
"Well… a glass of water is always necessary, right?"
I smiled to myself.
A small, unwitnessed smile.
I got up.
The sheets slid to the floor with a whisper.
But this…
I looked at my foot.
It was perfectly fine.
I twisted it.
I flexed it.
I touched my ankle with my fingers.
No trace of the swelling, or the purplish bruise that had been there just… how much time had passed?
"I thought that…"
I closed my eyes and opened them again, smiling more widely.
"Better to forget…"
(I'm not going to question a miracle. I'll have time to ask later.)
I opened the door and walked toward the stairs.
The hallway was bathed in the golden morning light.
The stained glass windows of the foyer tinted the marble in shades of amber and honey.
"This house is too big…"
I stopped halfway down the stairs.
My fingers slid over the polished wooden banister.
Below, the foyer was empty.
Silent.
"Maybe I should have drunk water in the bathroom…"
My heart jolted.
"No."
(The bathroom. The locker room. The red-eyed woman. The showers. No.)
"Better not…"
I kept walking.
My footsteps echoed in the silence of the mansion: tap… tap… tap…
The kitchen was empty.
The table was tidy.
The pots were clean.
A ray of sunlight came through the window, illuminating dust particles that floated in the air like tiny stars.
I took a glass from the cupboard.
I filled it with water from the tap.
The sound of the liquid falling was almost hypnotic.
I drank.
"Yes… that's good…"
BANG!
A throbbing pain exploded in my head.
The glass fell to the floor.
It didn't break, but the water spilled across the tiles with a cold splash.
"Ah… ahh… ahh…"
I knelt down.
My hand clutched my chest, over my heart, which was pounding like a frantic drum.
"Ahh… ahhh… it hurts… it hurts so much…"
My breathing became more and more erratic.
Short, ragged gasps.
The pain in my chest was suffocating, as if an invisible hand were squeezing my lungs.
(Damn it… my voice won't come out…)
I tried to scream.
My lips moved, but no sound escaped my throat.
And then, a cold touched my neck.
It was a cold that pierced through skin and muscle and reached the bone.
A cold that petrified.
"Haa… ha…"
(Lift… lift your head…)
With unbearable pain, I forced myself to look up.
A face without eyes and with teeth instead of lips hovered in front of me.
It had no eye sockets.
No nose.
Just a smooth, pale surface, interrupted by a mouth that wasn't a mouth, but an open wound filled with teeth.
And those teeth… they weren't human.
They were needles.
Dozens of yellowish needles jutting out in all directions.
I fell backwards.
My head hit the floor with a dry thud.
(Shit… shit…)
I dragged my body backwards, toward the kitchen cabinet, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle any sound that might give me away.
My fingers slipped on the wet tiles.
(Shit… God, Kamisama, Madoka… please… someone… save me!)
That monstrosity drew closer to me.
So close it almost touched my nose with those needle teeth.
Its breath smelled of nothing.
It was empty.
Disgusting.
Ring… Ring…
A black telephone rang behind the creature.
(Ah, shit.)
The sound wasn't normal.
It was metallic, distorted, as if coming from very far away and very close at the same time.
The creature turned its eyeless head toward the sound.
And then, a great spiral opened in the white wall, like the mouth of a whirlpool, and it sucked us both in.
BOOM!
"Ah… shit, that hurts…"
Kieee… Kieee…
My hands trembled.
My voice stuck in my throat, trapped between fear and disbelief.
I looked forward and saw how the creature —that eyeless thing with needle teeth— was absorbed by the white wall as if it were a cloud devouring an insect.
It writhed.
It shrieked.
And then it vanished.
"Well, well… If it isn't our dear visitor…"
I turned my gaze toward the voice.
Behind a desk, reading a book, was what looked like a headless child.
No.
It wasn't a child.
It was the shape of a child —small, frail, in old-fashioned clothes with golden buttons— but where there should have been a neck, a nape, a face, there was nothing.
Only a smooth stump.
Like a statue whose top had been ripped off.
"Come on, come closer."
Its voice was hoarse, too deep for that childish body.
It beckoned gently with its fingers.
"What the hell…?!"
The urge to vomit rose in my mouth.
I swallowed it down with effort.
A chair appeared behind me —literally appeared, as if it had always been there and I just hadn't seen it— and pushed me toward the desk.
My feet dragged without my consent.
"Who are you…? What am I doing… here again?"
The child said nothing.
I didn't know what to make of it.
To begin with, I couldn't —or rather, I didn't want to— look at it.
"Come on, boy… you're nervous…"
It raised its hand, offering a steaming cup of tea.
"Dammit… Where the hell did you get that?
No… wait… If you don't have a head… how do you drink?"
It placed the cup on my side of the desk.
The liquid was a dark amber, almost black.
It smelled sweet and bitter at the same time.
"You offend me…
In any case, I am Last once again.
It offends me a little that you forgot me so quickly…"
It lowered its book.
The cover was black, without a title.
"Last?"
I closed my eyes —(I don't want to see it, I don't want to see that stump)— and grabbed its shirt by the collar.
The fabric was cold, slippery, like wet silk.
"You! Damn freak! Give me back my body!"
"How violent you are, Sienna… I see you haven't changed…"
"Ahhh!"
My hands burned.
A white, unbearable heat ran through my palms.
I let go instantly, shaking them in the air.
"Damn it, that hurts!"
"Hahaha."
It sat down again and crossed its feet on the desk with an almost insulting nonchalance.
"Says the chicken who won't even open her eyes.
Anyway…"
"Anyway?"
Clank!
Two chains bound my wrists.
Icy.
Heavy.
My hands were pinned against the desk.
And then, without meaning to, I opened my eyes.
And I could clearly see its entrails.
Its organs floated in the empty space of its torso and neck: a tiny beating heart, lungs expanding and contracting, a stomach bubbling with a greenish liquid.
All suspended in the air like an anatomy lesson in hell.
"Ahhh!! Damn it, make it stop!"
My hands wouldn't move.
My eyes wouldn't close.
My urge to vomit nearly won.
The acid rose in my throat and I swallowed it back down.
"Alright, alright…"
A mannequin head —white, expressionless, with lips painted red— settled onto the stump of its neck.
The porcelain eyes looked at me without seeing.
"You're so dramatic, Sienna… You look too messed up…"
"Yeah…"
I panted.
"I guess… What am I doing here?"
"What are you doing?
Continue the mission.
You only have two days and eighteen hours left."
A shudder flooded my chest.
I felt the cold spread from my sternum to my limbs.
"I-I don't have almost four days… It's a…"
The chains vanished.
My wrists were free, marked with red bruises.
But I didn't sit down.
I stared at it, at that mannequin head and those floating entrails.
"It's a… week, isn't it?"
He just looked at me.
He raised his teacup and drank.
The amber liquid disappeared somewhere between the mannequin head and the floating organs.
"I see… It's not seven days… It's one week.
Tomorrow, go and do it."
(One week? That is to say, the current one… Today is Thursday…)
I slammed my hands on the desk.
The impact echoed through that empty, white space.
"Hey! You didn't say that!
You just said 'one week'!
What kind of guide are you?!"
(I know it won't change anything… but… it's so unfair!)
"It is…"
Last admitted, and his hoarse voice had a hint of weariness.
"But it's the truth.
I always meant the current one."
He stood up from the desk.
The chair disappeared behind him.
"Time is almost up, Sienna.
I don't think we'll see each other again… so I'll tell you what's important."
I swallowed.
My throat was dry.
"Dammit… you could have done that before…"
"Heh…"
He laughed.
The mannequin head trembled slightly.
Then, he looked down, as if he could see something I couldn't.
The head fell.
It rolled across the desk and hit the floor with a hollow clack.
"Listen… One week.
Tomorrow, go and do it."
"Okay… okay…"
I lowered my hands and looked at them.
They were still shaking.
"I'll do it tomorrow… Anyway… What was that thing?"
"That thing?
Ah, that?"
Last tilted his headless body, as if looking back.
"Better not to know."
"Better not to know?
Why?"
He turned toward me.
His entrails floated lazily in the air.
"What would you do if you knew?
Would it change anything, Sienna?"
I shrugged.
"I suppose not…
But why do I see them?"
"Because you haven't done the mission.
So it—"
Zzzzt.
My vision blurred.
As if someone had drawn a curtain of static over my eyes.
"Huh… what…"
"So you haven't, eh…?"
Last's voice, now almost distorted, reached me as if through a tunnel.
"Remem… one week… no… Sunday…"
Tap, tap.
"Huh? What…?"
I opened my eyes.
The morning light hit me full in the face.
And I saw Misaki's face inches from mine.
"Miss, this is not a good place to sleep, you know?"
She straightened up with a fluid movement.
Her skirt swayed slightly.
Her pink hair was immaculate, tied up in its usual ponytail; it was the first time I had seen her like that.
I was in the kitchen.
Sitting in a chair.
My head had been resting on my arms, on the table.
"Yes… Thank you, Misaki."
My vision went blurry for a second.
I blinked until it cleared.
(What was that… week… Sunday…?)
I got up slowly, just in case.
My foot was fine.
My hands had no bruises.
Everything was in order.
"Mom and Dad aren't up yet?"
"No…"
Misaki turned toward the refrigerator.
"Today is Thursday, so they won't be going to work."
She took some things from the shelves: milk, eggs, bread.
"By the way, Misaki… Did I sleep a lot yesterday?"
Misaki turned to look at me.
"Yes," she smiled.
"You slept a lot.
Don't you remember?
You felt tired, and when we got back, Osvaldo carried you to your room."
"My room?"
I sat down on the chair.
The wood creaked under my weight.
(So I slept like a log… And the dream? The kitchen? Last?)
"And my foot? When did it heal?"
"Your foot?"
Misaki froze for an instant.
"Ah, that… It healed on its own."
"On its own? That's not possi—"
"It healed on its own!"
Misaki looked at me nervously.
Her fingers clutched the milk carton as if it were a lifeline.
"On its own… huh?"
I murmured, lowering my gaze to my ankle.
"But that's…"
Misaki left what she was doing and came to the table with a steaming cup of milk.
She placed it in front of me with a soft clink.
And then, she took my hand.
"Miss… please, promise me something."
Her fingers were warm.
Firm.
Her golden eyes —those eyes that could hide nothing— looked at me intently, like two small suns at dawn.
"Promise me that if anyone asks, you'll say it healed on its own. Okay?"
I held her gaze.
Fear and love mixed in her golden pupils like strands of gold and shadow.
I smiled at her.
"…Alright. I'll say that, okay?"
She nodded, relieved.
Her hand remained on mine.