Blood of the Pure (Gaea) Read online

  © 2014, Sophia CarPerSanti

  E-mail: [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-989-99100-0-3

  Title: Blood of the Pure

  Graphics, pagination and final art: Marta Costa

  Cover: *Exilys

  Official Website: http://carpersanti.net/Gaea.eng

  Author’s Blog: http://sophia-carpersanti-en.blogspot.pt/

  Printing and Finishing: Alkimya Productions

  1ª Edition: September, 2014

  The partial or total reproduction of this book,

  by whatever means and for whatever reason

  is strictly forbidden except

  when previously granted permission by the author.

  To my Mom and my Dad

  * To the Stars of the Balance I belong to

  Preface

  “There are things that never change, in the World we know as Human World. Things that obey a Law as ancient as the World. An unbreakable Law which, in its immutability, is in itself the supporting pillar of the World, keeping the dimensional portals that allow us to arrive and leave here, opened.

  In this World the oceans are liquid, although their temperatures, currents, depths and tides are many. The earth is solid, even though it has many different heights, constitutions and colors. There are mountains, plains, valleys, rivers and lakes, but they all end up changing places and shapes. The sky is blue, even though it can be white, grey or even black.

  When we arrive in this World for the first time, we are eternal, incorporeal and expansive. However, in order to stay, we become material, heavy and mortal.

  Some call this World a school ... maybe they’re right. Still, even if we define it as such, this World we call ours, in truth, does not belong to us at all.

  In this World we are nothing but fleeting passing lights. We arrive here to grow, live, experience ... but we always end up leaving and very few choose to remain.

  To us, mere guests, the Law does not apply completely, and to the crack that remains opened, almost as a fatal error on a system otherwise perfect, we call it Free Will.

  Because we are the only ones who enjoy it, in our insignificancy and arrogance, we think ourselves almost divine. We claimed and named the World as our own, forgetting the existence of its true owners — those who have no choice, who never arrived here and never shall leave ... those who inevitably live by uploading the Law.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Am I alive ... or am I dead?

  Maybe my existence has been over a long time ago and I’m just a wandering spirit, attached to a world of shadows. Yes, because shadows are all I see and all that surrounds me.

  Maybe it’s best if I’m dead. Because if not, what kind of life is this? And strangely death doesn’t sound that bad at all.

  The wind that roars in my ears, tossing my hair here and there, is cold and I can’t help ask myself how come I’ve just noticed it.

  I hear the rustling of paper and look at the notebook at my feet. In an apathetic numbness, I pick it up and look at it with something similar to curiosity.

  On its pages strange symbols have been inscribed as well as some nonsensical words I have no recollection of writing, some even in foreign languages completely unknown to me. I try to read a few lines and find no meaning whatsoever. Some are fragmented thoughts, others the ravings of a lost mind, others yet what look like some strange magic recipes. However, I recognize my handwriting on all of them and know I should feel shocked for not remembering, but in truth I feel nothing.

  As of late, I really can’t tell where my mind has been. All I know is that when I wake up from the apathy that keeps me company the whole day, I’ve been staring into nothingness, lost in thoughts that I can never recall. All that’s left is this vertiginous sensation of falling into an abysm where all that awaits me is pain and emptiness, as I fall into an endless pit from where I know I’ll never be able to return.

  I raise a hand and notice that I’ve almost forgotten how to move it. Ironically I notice that I’m not even sure this body belongs to me. Maybe I’ve just taken it by surprise. Maybe it was the shock of intrusion that stole my memories of whom I used to be, before being locked inside this box of flesh and bone that, even though it should be warm and comforting, appears to me as cold and unfeeling as any prison.

  I hold my arms into a small embrace. Feel how thin they are, how my skin is freezing cold. Once more I question myself about how long I’ve been standing here, sleeping with my eyes wide open, staring at the faraway horizon. I try harder to remember, make an effort to recover the time that I seem to have lost, trying to find an answer. But the memories come to me deformed, like a landscape you can’t clearly see lost in the mist. I know that normally this misty canvas is enough to make me give up, choosing to simply go back to my apathetic and unfeeling existence. However, never before, in my continuous and unconscious roaming, have I ever found myself in a place such as this. And, although the view is indeed magnificent, the hidden meaning behind my presence here leaves me unusually awake and curious.

  And so I decide to insist.

  I tell myself that, should I be unable to remember what brought me here, or how I got here, maybe I can recall what happened before ... or even before or much, much before even ...

  I stop for a moment.

  Exactly, what is the last thing I remember?

  The question echoes unanswered in my mind. The last thing I recall ...

  And then sounds come to me from afar, as if my ears could capture the voices from the past. I feel my heart jump in anticipation, a sensation all together strange to me. I’m not used to feeling anything.

  I recall a touch and, at the same time, know that it’s not real. I close my eyes trying to stop reality from interfering with the frail thread that is my memory. Now that I’ve finally grasped it, I want to try and hold on to it. I focus even harder and, slowly, let myself be carried away by this strange feeling of warmth.

  I take the pen I find in my pocket and open the notebook on an empty page. I want to make sure that something will remain, something that will be able to spark my memory once I’ve forgotten myself again. I allow the voices and sensations from the past to fill me and pass through me as if they weren’t really mine, as if the eyes through which I see them weren’t my eyes as well ... and write.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The lips that kept me silent were soft but cold, stealing my breath away. The hand that held my wrist against the bed was big, its fingers long and thin.

  The weight of his body, the electric touch of his skin against mine, the sound of his heavy ragged breath on my mouth, in between passionate kisses.

  For a moment I tried as hard as I could to master a single coherent thought. Somewhere, inside me, a small almost mute voice was telling me that that wasn’t right.

  I placed my free hand on his naked shoulder and a shudder went through my body. His cold skin was smooth and thin, his shoulder strong and firm. I pushed that rock with all my strength, or at least I willed it so. Obviously, I would never be strong enough to push that heavy body away, but that didn’t even matter. My hand simply trembled as a feeble expression of my weak desire and slid around his neck, locking a strand of surprisingly silky hair.

  His lips left mine as I lay there dizzy and gasping for air, and his breath caressed my face, stopping near my neck.

  Cold fingers touched my leg, pulling it around his waist, and I trembled. All I could feel was his skin, his body molded against mine, or was it the other way around?

  His tongue soft and strangely hot traced the outline of my ear lobe, gently nibbling it, leaving me breathless again.

  His low velvet laughter left me suddenly alert, but
still, that sound only made me want him even more.

  “You’re mine …”

  Chapter One

  TEX

  – Exordium of the Equinox of the Gods. 1 –

  “Ah, to be able to love, to be able to suffer, to be able to feel ... That which all Humans have for granted, for me are nothing but fleeting rays of light amongst the dark clouds that constantly overcast the sky of my life ...”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  T

  he sound of the alarm clock brusquely pulled me away from my dream. My heart was pounding and I took a deep breath as I searched for the alarm button.

  With some effort I realized the day of the week and, being Wednesday, wished it was Saturday so I could just turn over and go back to sleep.

  “Mari! Hurry up! You’ll be late!” a woman’s muffled voice called from the distance and I grumbled as I complied. Reluctantly leaving behind the warmth of my soft quilt, I stood up and opened the curtains. The heavy gray sky of another February morning greeted me and suggested it would probably rain.

  The quiet Cressingham Road where we had just moved was already showing signs of life, as those who started their days earlier left the comfort of their homes, and I was once again dragged into my personal reality.

  Removing my pajamas, I put on the jeans I’d left over the chair the night before, and the cold of the fabric against my warm skin made me shiver.

  For a moment the dream, which had disturbed my sleep so many other nights, came back to me, making my cheeks burn.

  I looked at myself in the mirror hanging from one of the walls and sighed. Just like me to dream of something like that ... Or maybe it was exactly because it was me!

  Another sigh, this time much bitter, left me rather depressed. The truth is that in my seventeen years of life, I had little to no experience as far as relationships with the opposite sex were concerned. In fact, none would better describe my situation. And now a dream like that tormented me every single night.

  I covered my face, too ashamed to even look at myself, and took a deep breath.

  Not much I could do about it anyway. Truth be said, I was far from being an attractive girl. At five-feet-one I was too thin, even though I tried on daily basis to correct that fact by eating enough for two. My straw-like hair was neither blond nor brown, falling straight just below my shoulder blades. My eyes, of the same indecisive color, were too big for my face, making it look like I was always staring at something, or someone, which made me avoid direct eye contact with others. And to finish it off, I was basically deprived of any feminine forms, leading others to believe I was only old enough to attend, maybe, the seventh grade.

  I sighed again, now feeling really depressed, and put on a brown, turtleneck wool jumper. Next in line were my rain boots and I was finally ready to make my way to the bathroom, and face my every morning fight against my dull hair. Once I was finished, all that was left for me to do was follow the delicious scent of freshly made toast into the kitchen.

  “Finally, Mari! Good morning!” Rachel, my mother, greeted me, kissing me lightly on the cheek while placing a plate with two pieces of toast and a cup of milk in front of me. “Sleep well?”

  “Kind of,” I answered, taking a bite, but she didn’t even seem to listen to my reply.

  “I have a meeting today. Which means I’ll probably be late. But you have what’s left from yesterday’s dinner on the fridge. If you’re not up to cooking, all you have to do is warm it up. Just make sure you eat.” She spoke while putting on her coat and, like every morning, looked for her car keys.

  “On top of the cupboard, in the living room,” I advised her, and she nearly ran out of the kitchen.

  “Ain’t I the luckiest to have an all-knowing daughter like you,” she told me as she came back dangling the keys on one finger and then turned around inquisitively. “How do I look?”

  Quite different from me, my mother was a very attractive woman. The gray wool-skirted suit fit her perfectly. She tied her blond hair on top of her head, allowing the elegant line of her neck to show. And the soft makeup she wore highlighted her expressive eyes.

  We’d moved into the house at the beginning of the semester after what had probably been the most peaceful divorce on Earth. My father had taken a working position in New York and, it seemed, they had both agreed there wasn’t any reason to try and maintain a relationship that had been deteriorating over time. Only I had been living in the illusion of a happy family and a perfect marriage.

  Rachel was an independent woman, her personality strong and outgoing, the complete opposite of me. She worked as an interior designer and, contrary to what one would expect, the divorce hadn’t affected her in the least; almost as if she’d never been married and my father’s leaving had been the same as saying goodbye to a nice neighbor with whom she had casually shared her house for the last twenty years.

  “Wonderful, like always,” I honestly responded, asking myself about her secret to achieve such an appearance. She smiled happily as if she needed my approval.

  “Be good then,” she said, kissing me on the forehead. “Anything, just call me. See you later.”

  “Later,” I answered with a smile. The sound of her high heels echoed through the house until the front door was shut.

  Once alone I made sure I ate the two slices of toast, although I wasn’t particularly hungry at all. When I casually took a peek towards the kitchen clock, I couldn’t help cursing. I was already late!

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  In the beginning of the year I’d enrolled the Christ the King College.

  After I’d completed the eleventh grade at a Catholic school, my mother wanted me to continue my studies at a Catholic institution and Christ the King had been her choice. I didn’t mind it anyhow.

  The sound of the bell made me run once again. The first course of the morning was English Literature and the teacher was particularly demanding with regard to punctuality.

  “Morning, Mari!” I followed the voice that had spoken to me and made sure I smiled.

  “Morning, Steph. Late as always, I see,” I remarked, fully aware I could hardly criticize her that morning, but she shrugged unconcerned.

  “I hate English Literature. Especially early in the morning,” she replied, running to keep up with my pace before I opened the classroom door just in time for the second bell.

  Our teacher, Mr. Frederich, raised his narrowed eyes from the class enrollment list and looked at us coldly.

  “Late as always, Miss Stephanie Waters! And, as it seems, your bad influence is starting to rub off on your friends. Miss Mariane Mellis! I should warn you that if you’re going to start following your friend’s bad example, you’ll end up seeing your grades plunge until they’re also the same!”

  “I’m terribly sorry. It won’t happen again,” I quickly apologized, and with an unpleasant frown he had no choice but to let us in.

  “Hurry up and take your seats! Quietly!” he grumbled and we obeyed as fast as possible.

  “Stupid annoying old man. I hate him as much as he hates me!” Steph said under her breath as she pulled the chair beside me and I smiled wryly praying he hadn’t heard her. Joanne Baits, sitting right in front of Steph, was an entirely different matter, and she smiled amusingly as she turned back in her chair.

  “And then? What was it this morning? The cat? Your brother? The bus?” she asked, trying to guess the excuse Steph had prepared.

  Steph shrugged. “Fell asleep. I was watching this movie last night and didn’t hear the alarm clock,” she answered while opening her book as Joanne laughed lightly.

  “Oh my, Steph being honest,” she teased and turned to the front before she could be scolded. I smiled as Steph sighed, bored to death, and opened my book to page forty-seven to follow the text being read.

  Stephanie Waters was the only girl in school I’d dared call a friend. In truth it was almost as if she’d somehow adopted me. Stephanie, Joanne and Joe Rider were all childh
ood friends, frequenting the same schools since forever, and Steph had been the first person to talk to me in the beginning of the year when I‘d been completely alone, being the new girl and all.

  The complete opposite of me, Steph had wavy dark hair, which fell softly around her delicate face. Her olive-colored eyes changed shades according to the light. And her skin was smooth and pinkish. Quite taller than me, her body was the envy of many girls our age and everything she wore fit her perfectly, almost as if she were some magazine model. She was funny, outgoing and generally well liked, and there was no one who didn’t know her. Steph had pulled me into her group of friends and was my daily savior, filling up the space I couldn’t fulfill due to my usual lack of appropriate words or knowledge for interesting conversation subjects. Thanks to Steph, my otherwise nonexistent social life always managed to have some color.

  The morning went by the same as usual.

  After English literature came philosophy. Neither Joanne nor Steph were in that course, so I shared my desk with Kevin London, another one of the boys from our group.

  Kevin was the quietest of them, no one knowing exactly what he thought about the rest of the world. Together we were the absurd of the lack of subject, since the words we exchanged were always so few. But I still couldn’t help feeling at ease near him, and his company was much more pleasant than that of the other boys.

  When lunchtime finally came around, we met Steph and Joanne again in the cafeteria where we took our places at our group’s normal table. The conversation became immediately livelier and, as always, I followed Steph while she told us about the movie that had kept her awake the previous night.