Chapter Twenty-Eight
Confronting the Faceless 💀 CompleteFebruary, 1998
"In dreams, we enter a world that's entirely our own"
It's cold.
It's a fact that it is cold, has been cold for weeks, months, years?, but it's been cold for so long that Farrah can't tell if it's actually all that cold anymore.
It's quiet, too. Luna is gone, long gone, dead?, unknown, alive when she was dragged out days, weeks, months? ago, dead now maybe. Timon is gone, dead, dead on the floor of his cell, no one took him, but it's cold, cold, and maybe there's a smell but Farrah can't tell.
Hazel still alive, Henry unclear, Farrah still alive?, maybe, maybe, unknown.
It's cold.
The cells are a miserable place. They always were, but with Luna dragged out by her hair and Timon lying even colder on the stone floor of the cell they've managed to get worse. Whenever Farrah is lucid enough to process her surroundings she instantly wishes she wasn't. She distantly remembers a time at the start when she tried to distract herself by picturing how she'd make the stone structure cozier, homier, put up some candles and scatter some pillows, bring in some nice carved wooden furniture, but now she knows that nothing could ever make this place bearable.
They haven't spoken in a long time. How long is anyone's guess, but Farrah thinks it's long enough that she maybe can't remember how to form words anymore. She wonders if it's the same for Hazel and Henry (if he's alive, without his voice to confirm Farrah doesn't know. She doesn't ask Hazel. Doesn't want to know).
It's cold.
Hazel's breathing is ragged these days, she must be sick. Or maybe it's Farrah's breathing. She can't tell anymore. Sick here means as good as dead and maybe once that would have scared her, but it's just life now. Life is cold and dark and quiet and sometimes there's food but Farrah can't always eat it and maybe that's killing her too. Everything here dies eventually, everything in here killing everything else.
She slumps against the wall, the corner, feels more enclosed, protected, warmer?, maybe once but not now. Eyes closed - it's always dark, no difference between open and closed - maybe not closed then, can't tell.
It's cold.
So she stays away from the cells. Retreats into her mind. Retreats to the streets of Oxford, the walls of her flat, the warmth of her friends. The warmth of Christian. Retreats until she doesn't feel the cold anymore.
The Christmas decorations are down now, but the town is still decorated with shimmering icicles and coated in frost. Farrah is bundled up in the new, very fashionable coat that Christian had gotten her for Christmas as she waits for her boyfriend outside the flat, looking around at every noise in hopes that it's his motorcycle.
Clara laughs at her from the doorway. You're going to freeze. Her friend warns. I'm cold just looking at you.
Farrah laughs as well. It's not so bad. She tells her friend. I barely feel it.
Why? It's a good coat but still, why does she...?
It's cold.
Farrah falls out of the fantasy when an ugly cough drags her back to the cells. She thinks she blinks - everything is dark and blurry - decides the noise is best ignored, and drops away again.
She and Christian are whipping along the freeway. She's clinging to his jacket and resting her head on his shoulder, her hair flying behind her. She knows they must look beautiful under the light of the setting sun, knows they fit together so perfectly that anyone who sees them will be jealous of their perfect life.
She wraps her arms around Christian tighter and breathes deeply, hoping to catch a whiff of the ink and iron he always smells like. She thinks there's a trace, but the wind is sweeping most of it away. She buries her face further into his jacket, bracing against the rushing chill.
She can't feel much heat from Christian. He must be cold too. Maybe next time they can borrow Clara's car. Or Jackson's? Her mind stutters. She can't remember which of them owns the car - maybe she does? She doesn't think she has a car?
Her mind ends the motorcycle ride and now she's sitting in a cozy little restaurant across from Christian, and he's smiling and she smiles back and forgets what she was thinking about.
It's their anniversary, she thinks. Or Valentine's day? Maybe both.
Six months with you makes me wonder how I ever lived without you. Christian says, and Farrah smiles because he's perfect. Six months, that's right. Six months together, from when he'd asked her out properly. It had been grand, she thinks. A grand request.
He'd come out front of the flat she shares with Clara. Clara had been out - with Jackson? At work? Unclear - and he'd called for her like out of one of those movies with the beautiful people Farrah's parents used to watch. Had there been a boombox? Yes, there had, she decides. He'd declared his love and she'd swooned in the window, calling back her own commitment to him.
Yes, it had been perfect. She'd descended to her front door (do they have stairs? They must, she couldn't have descended otherwise) and he'd held it open for her before helping her onto his bike and they'd driven out into the countryside to watch the stars together.
It had been perfect. It had been... cold?
It's cold.
The door slams open and the stars vanish from her eyes.
"Eat up, and appreciate it." The guard grunts.
The noise is grating, painful. Sound is a rarity here, only breathing breaking up the stillness most of the time. These food visits are never pleasant.
There's light now, blinding, flickering, painful. She can see the food a few feet away from where she's curled against cold stone. It's far, too far, everything is disorienting.
Still, Farrah crawls towards the tray, her stomach clenching, her heart hurting, her eyes watering. The movement is automatic. She doesn't think she's hungry but some part of her overrides her consciousness to take the food and force it down.
If it tastes like anything Farrah can't tell. It sits heavy and grounding in her stomach, rooting her into the cell, and the cold, and the quiet. It's dark again, and Farrah is glad for that small comfort at least. Amazing how the smallest of things seem so massive now against a backdrop of stone and chill.
Hazel coughs, shifts, whimpers. Farrah doesn't know if she ate. She probably should, but if she's sick maybe she shouldn't. They don't clean the cells ever and it wouldn't be pleasant to live in your own sick.
Maybe she hears something from beside her, she can't tell. Timon lies silent.
Farrah drags herself back to her corner and resumes the fetal position, curling around herself and tries to return to Christian. The weight in her stomach holds her back, and maybe she makes a noise because Hazel looks over at her, eyes barely visible and dull.
Hazel looks away shortly after so maybe Farrah was quiet. She can't tell.
Time doesn't exist. They just float, somewhere between existing and not. Maybe they don't exist. Maybe they never did.
It's cold. Farrah finally falls back into Christian's embrace.
You should get a tattoo. It would look amazing. He tells her, tracing along her skin as they lay beside each other in their bed.
I know. She grins back. But you know I'm not a fan of blood.
He laughs at that. I do recall something like that, yes. I admit catching swooning women wasn't quite how I expected to spend that day.
Aren't you glad it was though? She teases back, blushing at the thought of their first meeting. She really doesn't do well with blood, what can she say? And that particular fainting incident was beyond worth it. After all, if it wasn't for that moment happening just as it had, she wouldn't have met Christian. And then she wouldn't be lying here now beside him in their shared flat.
Of course I am. He says, and she melts at the honesty. That's why she loves him - he could tease, but he doesn't. He's open and honest and perfect, and she sinks deeper into his embrace, humming happily.
I love you. She tells him, and she knows when he says it back that he'll mean it, and they'll be beautiful and perfect together forever-
I know.
Farrah flinches - that's not Christian's voice. The body behind her suddenly feels different, colder, harder, and when she turns she meets cruel dark eyes.
She whimpers when she realizes who they belong to.
Melissa. Her first relationship, her first love. The woman who destroyed her life.
How is she here? What is she doing, where is Christian?
Melissa's arms grip tighter around her and Farrah can't breath, she can't breath and-
It's cold.
Farrah has never been so happy to wake up and feel the freezing stone beneath her. Normally falling back to reality manages to border on physically painful but when it's a nightmare she's escaping the dark and the cold is a relief.
She has more nightmares than she cares to admit - despite her seeking happier thoughts, despite the fact she knows the Dementors aren't in the prison anymore (Luna told them when she was here, if she was here? maybe things have changed, time doesn't exist and the world feels dark enough for dementors).
She can't remember what she was thinking. Something about Christian? Must be something about Christian, why would she think about anything else?
But her mind refuses to return her to Christian. She's thrown again and again into her darkest memories, alone, scared, hated. She curls up in her corner, the stone pressing against her skin, the chill seeping into her bones and soul, rooting her in the darkness she's desperate to flee.
Finally, finally, Christian comes back. Farrah clings to him, desperate but slowly forgetting why as she listens to him talk about his day. It's sweet and meaningless background noise lulling her back into safety, until she loses herself entirely in the fantasy again.
It's Valentine's day today, and Christian has been dropping sly hints all week that he has something big planned. Clara giggles as she helps Farrah get ready.
I'm telling you this is it! She says happilly as she curls Farrah's hair in tightly styled ringlets. You two are the world's most wonderful couple, no way he doesn't propose on Valentine's day!
Farrah smiles dreamily at the mirror, beyond pleased with how she looks. I know you're probably right but I don't want to get my hopes up. She says lightly. Though I will admit, anyone who doesn't propose when I'm looking this good probably should get their eyes checked.
I think that's that. Clara declares after a moment. Go have fun!
Farrah leaves the Hufflepuff common room humming happily, heading for the Astronomy Tower where Christian is waiting for her. The paintings wave and cheer as she goes and her dress trails behind her in a glittering train.
She's at the top of the Tower moments later, the stars glowing softly overhead. A figure stands on the edge of the Tower, gazing out over the grounds.
Melissa turns to smile at her and something feels off, but Farrah smiles back and accepts a hand up onto the wall beside her girlfriend.
I love you. She says. Melissa smiles.
Melissa pushes her off the Tower and Farrah screams.
She wakes with a start, heart pounding, stomach churning nothing but acid that stings as it comes up, corroding her from the inside out and would that be better than this?
She can't remember the dream. She can't feel her toes.
It's cold.
Food comes again before she can manage to return to her safe world of the imaginary (the real? Can't tell anymore, can't-). Hazel doesn't eat. Henry does. Or rats. Impossible to tell. Farrah eats, throws up, curls up in her corner again. Back to warmth, back to dreams, to whatever they'll give her that isn't dark and quiet and cold.
They're on the hill again. She likes the hill, with its view of the stars uninterrupted by clouds or skyscrapers. Christian is next to her, of course he is, when isn't he? She can almost feel him pressed against her and for a moment her mind stutters over that but in the next he's pointing to a shooting star and she's laughing and everything is beautiful.
They just lie there, mostly silent, watching the meteor shower and whispering their wishes to the sky. Around them flowers bloom from the fallen stars and light up the hilltop and everything is glowing and soft and perfect and Farrah never wants it to end, so it doesn't. The stars keep falling and the star flowers keeping glowing and she thinks maybe someone is singing because there should be music for a scene like this one. Music would make it perfect.
She stretches out on the hilltop alone, staring a the sky, at the moon as it dances with the stars and smiles at her, invites her to join them, but she's so comfortable on the grass that she can't quite find it in herself to move.
Then she sees Christian up in the sky, dancing with the moon and laughing, reaching out to her.
Join us. It will be perfect, don't you think?
So she stands and she dances across the sky with him and doesn't think of anything else.
They're joined by the sun and the planets, spinning around them in a happy salsa that Christian sweeps her into, laughing and smiling and stealing kisses in between twirls, moving together like they were meant to be.
Her vision blurs and turns grey, but then lights up again as they stumble onto the grass and spin through a flower-filled meadow, still dancing and laughing and lighter than air.
The wind brushes against her cheeks and it feels wrong. After a moment Christian leans forward with a worried frown, their feet slowing as they spin to a stop in the shade of a great mountain.
What's wrong? He asks. Why are you crying?
Is she crying? She must be if he asked. It wasn't wind then, it was tears. Yes, she is crying. Why is she crying?
Above her the mountain rumbles and explodes and everything starts to melt to the sound of her parents' screaming vile words, and she's driven back, out of their house, away from saftey and home and Melissa-
Something is wrong with that thought but she can't quite grasp it as she's swept away by the ocean her tears have formed and she's soaked through to her soul-
It's cold.
But there's light. Light is new. Light is warm in a place where it's never warm, never bright, never safe. Farrah blinks and curls tighter in her corner, still halfway between awake and asleep, fragments of her sky dance and crumbling meadows flickering on the edges of her mind even as it studies the new light uncertainly.
There's a noise, broken, hurting, confused, and it takes a moment for her to realize it had escaped out her own throat.
Across the room Hazel looks at her through dark, bruised eyes. "Dunno." She rasps out, hearing the question Farrah didn't know she'd asked. "The guard brought it a while ago, while you were asleep. Didn't say anything. No food either."
Her voice sounds like giving up.
"Doesn't seem to be a point to it." Another voice rasps out, and it takes a moment, a minute, forever?, for Farrah to put together that it must be Henry, because there isn't anyone else. (Isn't there? Isn't there Christian and the moon and star flowers dancing?)
Not dead? Then not dead.
She makes another sound, then finally words, sharp and jagged against her vocal chords, scraping through her chest like knives. "Better than dark."
"Maybe."
She doesn't know who said it, they all sound of defeat and exhaustion and perhaps that's all they are anymore. She hasn't ever felt this alone.
Once she had thought Melissa outing her to her parents was the worst moment in her life, that nothing could hurt deeper than that. Surely there was nothing worse than the woman you thought you loved and the people who claimed to love you turning their backs? But this, maybe, this is worse. She can't tell though. At least this has Christian.
He's sitting by the light, smiling, looking healthy and happy and maybe Farrah is too? She should be, must be, if he looks like that. She tries to reach out but her hand only trails across the ground, limp, useless, something in her clenches but she's too tired to pay it mind.
Her eyes drift at the same time her mind does and Christian whisks her back to Oxford once again.
There's a picnic and Clara is giggling with Jackson while feeding him grapes. Eloise Taylor is sitting on the blanket as well, scowling like she always does but it's good that she's getting out of that drab awful Ministry basement, Farrah thinks. Next time they'll have to get a guy for her too, loosen her up further.
She giggles at her unintended double entendre and leans again Christian, who's napping against a tree next to her. The sun beams down on them cheerfully and Farrah waves at him and he waves back.
You're a very cute couple. He tells her. And it's a lovely day for it.
It is. She agrees. Clara and Eloise are now cuddling on the blanket and Farrah smiles. Good, they deserve to be happy. And they're cute together as well. That's very important, looking cute.
She feels an irrational need then to look down and make sure she's cute. Not that she'd ever go outside looking anything less than perfect but the urge arises and she wouldn't mind reminding herself how great she looks anyway.
But instead of a cute pastel dress, or ripped jeans and a black fishnet top, she's horrified to see she's wearing what's basically a grey bag and nothing else.
She tries to shriek, to stand up and jerk away from the weight suddenly pressing down on her but her voice is caught in her chest and her limbs seem to sink further into the ground the more she struggles. Clara and Eloise laugh and smile at each other and Christian smiles too.
What's wrong? He asks but Farrah still can't speak, is still slowly being enveloped by the ground growing soft around her. Why can't he see? Why can't he see she's slowly drowning? They're perfect, he should know.
But he just keeps smiling as the sun dies out and the ground opens up.
It's cold.
The light is still there, disorienting even if she thinks it was brighter just a moment ago. Hazel, for once, is closer to her cell door than usual, Farrah can make out hollow cheeks and tears in her clothes, dirty and exhausted and disgusting.
She thinks she must be the same, but she can't be, never goes out if she doesn't look perfect, always perfect. Her mind flashes with an image of a grey bag and she doesn't understand where it came from. So she stares at Hazel and wonders if she looks hard enough, if she'll see her own reflection inside eyes too wide and too broken to really be considered a child's anymore.
The eyes stare back, and she blinks as the little girl in front of her starts crying. She knows this child, she has to protect her, she thinks. Someone needs to tell her that she matters, that she's loved and protected.
Is it a lie though? Farrah doesn't know, but it must be true if she thought of it so she tries to reach for the girl but she's gone, and there's only a mirror reflecting perfect hair, perfect outfit, perfect face, perfect. Farrah is always perfect but she has to be extra perfect today because... Christian. Because Christian is coming, why wouldn't he come? He'll come, he'll save her.
She leans out the tower window and gazes over the fields below and knows that he's surely going to come. Any day now. That's how these stories always work, right?
But no, not a story, this is life, isn't it? Bored in a tower with only the guard dragon for company. But Farrah can adapt. Farrah has adapted, she's been here for...
Her mind stutters and she doesn't know? She does know, it's just not coming right away is all, that happens. Time is a funny thing.
He's going to come today. That's the most important thing after all. And she needs to... to look good.
The mirror tells her she looks a mess, she needs to brush her hair and get her makeup done, no one looks perfect right after waking up of course.
But Farrah comes close, the mirror agrees, just a few adjustments is all, just a few here and there. To make perfection.
Her waist line is smaller than she remembers when she brushes fingers over it, and she frowns, flickers on the edge of something that falls away with the sun rising through the window.
Today feels special. He's coming today, she knows. Her mind hits a wall when she tries to name 'him' but that's okay, they haven't met yet, right? She can't know yet.
The dragon below is pink and squat and looks more like a frog than a dragon but Farrah knows many a brave knight have fallen to her already. But today will be different. Surely it must be different, the dragon can be killed. The dragon can always be killed.
Can she kill it? Can't she? Why can't she? Her wand is sitting on her desk after all, isn't it? She's a witch.
She makes her way down the stairs with her wand ready to confront the other witch. The woman sneers in pink and Farrah waves her wand and the world is painted pink, but the dragon is still around.
Farrah wanders aimlessly around the fields, the fairies following her and offering direction and compliments. Clara is her very best friend among the faries.
How's Christian? Does he know? She asks, and Farrah nods in reply. Of course Christian knows, she tells him everything.
Does the Ministry know that he knows? We're not supposed to tell anyone you know.
Farrah frowns. The Ministry of Magic is a powerful force in the land. The dragon was from there, keeping Farrah locked up away from Christian. Others too, Hazel and Henry and Timon who helped her escape from the dragon. Now she needs to warn Christian. He can keep her safe if he knows everything.
I'm going to tell him about magic. He should know, our daughter will be magic after all. She says, brushing her hand over her abdomen.
She needs to get to the Ministry first though, and to Christian. Clara and Eloise and Hazel and Henry and Luna and Timon all come too, a grand final stand. Farrah stands in front of them, hair blowing in the wind under her tiara. They'll reclaim the kingdom and save prince Christian from the wicked toad race. Only Farrah can do it, and her army follows her bravely to the Ministry castle.
Only the army is gone, and it's only Farrah alone in a courtroom built from stone and pain and hate. The toad leers at her and she tries to scream but she can't and the stone closes in on her and why isn't Christian here, he was supposed to be here-
She wakes violently on the ground, stone pressed to her cheek and bare arms.
It's... cold? She can see her breath so it must be. She doesn't think she can quite tell anymore.
It's still quiet, and the dark is back. Or her eyes never opened, but Farrah doesn't have the energy to check which it is.
But she's more alert now than she thinks she has been in a while. She can feel the coarse stone beneath her palms, can hear Hazel's ragged breathing echoing mutedly in the bare space between them. She thinks she can hear shuffling in the cell beside her but that's just a touch too soft to fully confirm.
She breathes in shakily, flinching as the chilled air hits her lungs and burns her nostrils. The movement presses her eyelashes to her cheeks, pinpricks of sharpness that reveal her eyes are, in fact, still closed.
She should open them, see what's changed, if the light is still there, maybe try to figure out why it is, if it is. But... she's scared to do it. Doesn't want to see the dirty stone walls of a cell. Doesn't want to see Hazel's haggard and starving outline huddled in the cell across the way. Doesn't want to open her eyes, because if she does she has to admit that this is her life now, four stone walls painted with dead hope. A body lying in plain sight that she can't stomach looking at because that only makes this more real.
Her eyes stay closed, and her mind tries to grasp at something warmer but no matter how she tries her hands stay firm on the floor of the cell and her ears continue to process every pained sound permeating the stale air. Even the idea of kissing Christian can't pull her out of her new hyper awareness of her situation.
Thinking about Christian stirs up a memory of a dream, where he was a prince and she was a princess, and he was coming to save her. She wonders if it was really a dream, or maybe he actually is on his way to free her from all this. Wouldn't that be lovely? Her knight in shining armor, come to rescue her.
They do love each other after all. Right? That's real, that's not a dream. And true love conquers all, even clammy cells and broken wands.
She breaths in again, burns again, coughs, and scrapes against itself in it's desperation to be clear. Another noise, ostensibly from her but she isn't aware of making it, can only hear it, drags itself through the air. A pitiful whine, weak and breaking, and she feels sorry for whatever dying animal would make such a pathetic sound.
The door bangs open, and the sound cracks through her skull like a stunning spell, harsh and abrupt and painful, and she jerks back, hits her head on unyielding stone. The animal whines again and she can no longer pity it through her throbbing skull.
"Shut it." It's growled and harsh and it hurts, too much noise, it hurts.
A tray appears and she can smell it and her stomach turns at the thought even as her body drags itself forward desperately, starved in a way that's disconnected from her awareness. She eats, and somehow it stays down despite the rebellion of her intestines.
She curls back up against the wall, the new weight in her stomach an extra hurdle stopping her from going somewhere happier, brighter, safer. Here isn't happy or bright or safe and that knowledge seeps into her bones and chains her to the ground.
But when this is over, and she... she has to believe it will be. It hasn't been so long, surely, can't have been too long, Christian is coming. Christian is coming and he'll wrap her up in his arms and everything will be safe and bright and happy again.
Her limbs are still heavy, and her eyes have fallen shut again and she didn't realize she'd opened them until she feels lashes like needles brushing over her cheeks as they close. The animal is quiet now, only soft breathes break up the air. Farrah thinks she's adding to them, but maybe she isn't. Maybe she's finally stopped breathing and she can escape from here, like Timon, like Luna.
Something in her mind tells her that's not correct, but she can't find it in herself to pay it much mind. The weight in her stomach is settling further and her head is sagging as well, suddenly unable to be supported by her neck.
She slides to the floor, acutely aware of how ungraceful it must look and flushing in embarrassment. It's a good thing Christian hasn't seen her like this, it's not like her and very unbecoming. She's always perfectly put together, but stuck in such a drab place for so long effects even perfection she supposes. This is why she's always telling people to pay better attention to their aesthetics, they can really make or break a person.
But Farrah isn't broken. She's just... She isn't. She's resting here a moment is all, resting so she can once again rise and go find Christian.
Suddenly her eyes are far too light to keep closed, and her lashes flutter up again, and it must be very pretty, she thinks, her lashes fluttering like that. Like butterfly wings. It would look ever better with fake lashes. and a septum piercing - she should get one of those later. She can get it at Christian's shop and he'll compliment her and tell her she's beautiful and it will be flattering even though she knows. And then he'll take her out to dinner at her favorite restaurant and it will be wonderful.
Her stomach turns and the weight is gone from it now, leaving hollow and hurting. Her eyes are open but unfocused, it's too dark to focus, she must have woken up before sunrise again. She should try to go back to sleep.
Her eyes blink rapidly, attempting to close several times unsuccessfully before suddenly dropping like lead, like she couldn't keep them up even if she wanted to.
Her face presses into the stone below her and it's cold. It's... not cold?
It's warm.
Farrah closes her eyes and dreams.
Author's Note: So... yeah. This was pretty obviously experimental in nature and I think I like how it came out? But I also have insight into Farrah's whole deal and history so it may be total nonsense ^^'' Let me know! I love getting feedback when I try new things!
Next Week: Out is sometimes no better than in
So I'm thinking I might do a final 'afterwords' chapter to share my thoughts and feelings on writing this story, if that's something people would be interested in? I'm also open to answering any lingering questions people might have there as well!
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