Page 5 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
Catch him.
The urge. It struck her with blinding force, her hands spasming with that sudden rush of violent desire.
Hold him.
Her knife wobbled against his skin; he swallowed.
Drag him to water and keep him down until his blood is salt and his eyes are food for the fishes—
Mercy breathed in deep, then breathed out slowly again, struggling for control. She mentally counted to ten until the irrational moment passed. That darkness in her, whatever it was, which gave her such unpleasant ideas and whispered to her at night, had no place here.
She didn’t know why those thoughts plagued her relentlessly, only that they did. It was simply a part of herself that she had learned to live with.
Rat Tattoo had not missed the flux of emotions passing across her face, or the dangerous twitching of her hands. He went completely still, like a frightened mouse.
“Whatever, I’m done.” Mercy stood up and put her knife away, trying to conceal the tremor in her limbs. “Bao, let’s go!”
Bao withdrew from the prone man, his form shimmering and compacting down. By the time he reached Mercy’s side, he was again the size of a small kitten.
Rat Tattoo scrambled upright, face red from anger and shame. “Fuck you, dog-faced bitch! Fuck your mother, fuck your father and your uncle and your bastard demon cat! May your whole family fall down in the street and get run over!”
“Too late for curses,” she said, stepping through the burned door. “I have no family.”
His swearing echoed after her all the way down the alley and halfway down the next block. But he didn’t actually follow her, and she didn’t look back.
2PICTURE A GIRL
Thirty-three years ago…
Picture a girl, floating in a storm-churned ocean.
Her arms hang limp, eyes lidded and unresponsive. She has a worker’s build, strong all over, hands blooming with calluses. Dark hair fans out in the water, forming a cloud around her face. A thin bracelet with a tiger charm encircles one wrist.
The current stirs and swirls. She does not.
Dead things surround her. A few drowned men drift in the water, limbs rigid and possessions scattered. The broken remnants of freshly sunken boats lie half buried on the ocean floor. History is eroding down here, rusting in the mud.
Beneath the water, her eyes open.
So does her mouth. She is drowning, floundering. Splayed hands paddle, sturdy legs kicking her upward. The instinct to live is strong.
She breaks the ocean surface with a gargling shriek. How long was she underwater? How did she get here? Questions without answers. She needs to get out of the ocean before she dies. The shore isn’t far, visible as a hump of indistinct trees. She swims.
And swims. Against the surf, against the tide. It drags her out and she rides the waves, knowing instinctively how to work with the ocean’s pull. This surprises her, to find how well she navigates water. She must be experienced at swimming.
Soon enough, the girl slogs onto the beach in the dead of night, feeling raw for reasons she can’t explain, yet knowing she has done a terrible… what? What is it? Something she does not want to remember and can’t think about. Not yet.
There is water inside of her, a lot of it. She spends a while vomiting it up, chest aching. But at the end of that ache is air, sweet and clear.
More water pours from her eyes. Not ocean water, though it tastes of salt. She is crying and can’t stop.You can’t cry under the sea without drowning.Who said that to her? Someone now lost. The crying only ends when her dehydrated body runs out of tears.
Thoughts and memories contradict each other inside her head and she can’t sift through the confusion. Slumped up against an abandoned fishing boat, entirely alone, she dares risk thinking about the memories which frighten her.
Names, first. She must have one, is sure she did once. She can’t recall it, though, which is scary. It is then that she notices the injuries along her forearms. In the stress of everything happening, those details have only just registered.
Firstly, there is the scar. On her left side runs a branching mark, from shoulder to wrist. It looks like a lightning bolt etched into her skin and it is violently red, still raw to the touch.
Secondly, there are the words. On her right arm, someone has scratched characters in a red weal along the skin. Just a simple name: Chen Mei Chi.
