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By: Marc Orkins

Read Time: 10-12 minutes

“In a void between galaxies, within a pocket of space that was never meant to open, an icy body bloomed. The pocket cracked open, and all manner of things bled in. Warmth, for one, and with such a tender concept came inevitable change. Life filled the space, bespeckled the icy body, giving way to cities of stone and glass over time. 

“Earth was its name, for the New Revelation decreed it so in the name of God: humankind’s sole patron, embodiment of time and Heaven above—black and limitless, incomprehensible, an all-encompassing terror. 

“Solely upon the Fall of Humankind, collapsing beneath its own conceit, is it said that God fell, too. Its’ memories and teachings, naught but a memory. In the aftermath, the surviving flocks were left without Its’ mercy, ignorant in spite of living under scrutiny of Heaven’s Abyss. 

“Ignorant, for the flow of time was equally perpetual. Surely, then, God must still be watching? 

“Humanity, a child presumably free of its doting parents, persevered under the illusion of independence—unaware of the glances its parents swiped,” —New Revelations, Foreward

In the heart of the Great Sepulcher, neath a sarcophagus sizable to a whale, the gleam of one-hundred and three lightbulbs filled every crevice in the town-sized chamber. The air, stuffy, smokey from the ceaseless burning of incense pots and reeked worse than the cinders of Earth following the Fall.  

Upon smooth snowstones, flecked with crusted blood and splotched crimson, stood fixedly two humans. 

The Mistress of this tomb and her orphan daughter. 

“Yeah, no. I’m not crippling you again.” Karla’s lips curled in spite of herself—the little Miss was pushing herself upon skinned palms. “By the Embrace of It, you never quit until you’re broke!” 

Oh, she’s just loving this, thought the often-chided “Miss.” She might have backed down, but the nerve of someone so high and mighty brought Alma’s knee beneath her, a stiffness to her spine, and a fist before her. “Your shoulders quiver, Mistress.”  

“That’d be with excitement,” Karla said. 

She pushed against the shocks wracking her muscles. “Stealing my lines?” stupid, weak Alma shrilled, trying to sound collected. 

“You’ve become that predictable, dearie.” The caretaker slid a bare foot forward, reassuming her stance. “Not only do you strike as a child would, you puff your chest like one, too.” 

Mistress Karla was always getting on about her wild behavior: ‘Words were but waves crashing upon a bulwark.’ I see what you’re doing, thought Alma, swallowing a biting comeback. She was tough, unyielding, emotionless—a wall rising above the big, scary ocean of ridicule and judgment. 

At least, for this moment. 

“You’re old, Mistress. There was a grunt when my elbow hit.” Alma suppressed a smirk seeing her elder’s eyes widen. “If we keep going, I might finally hear the sweet song of ‘Uncle! Uncle!’” 

“And that’s why you ask for yet another go?” Karla huffed, crow’s feet crinkling. “You’re strong and full of vigor, sweet one. But have you forgotten the purpose of these scuffles? I hope not. It certainly isn’t for the purpose of harming fellow man.” 

“Sometimes I feel like you see me as a legitimate moron,” Alma muttered. 

“Oh, because I do.” Karla smiled wryly, Alma threw her way a smirk. 

But all jokes sprouted from a kernel of truth. 

She swallowed her petty ache. “I can barely feel anything when we fight nowadays. Why are we still doing this anyway, if not to skill and strength train?” 

Karla crossed her arms. “You still experience aches outside of our sparring. Inside, and very clearly out.” Alma blanched. “Is something happening at school?” 

She resisted the relieved sigh. You’ll never know, eh? Figures. “Please. Barely anybody talks to me, seeing as how you’re my guardian.” Alma gazed right, upon the great tomb housing God’s body. 

If you’d learned to exercise your feelings, appraisal from me would come. Perhaps even the awaited commending from Archdeacon Fredrich, earning you the recognition of a human in its most pinnacle form.” 

As if I care about that! “Thanks for the tip,” said Alma. “Been wondering what the point of these last couple weeks has been.” Damnable tremble, infecting her words with weakness. Alma swallowed it, smiled her wolfish smile. “I wonder, did you let that hit land earlier?” 

“Never.” Karla sounded genuinely shocked. Maybe it was the sudden change in topic. “You’re far more clever than you give yourself credit for, Alma. It pains me to see that used to unproductively hurt yourself—this is why I can sense your emotional weakness, and why you’re not yet recognized as a perfect human being.” 

‘You’re smart,’ ‘You’re so good, you just don’t apply yourself,’ as if those were any different than, ‘You can do better,’ the flavorful scolding of last weekend. Anyone can do better, except for Alma, who was only ever praised as if she were the next Karla, the next Gravetender of God. 

Karla, whose perfect full lips fell into a frown. “Alma, is there something—?” 

She hardened, hunched forth in a low stance like last time. “Come on, Mistress. One more time, let me have this.” At least enough for my Happiness to wanna take care of me. A long, pitying look stirred a sickness within. “Mistress!” her voice cracked, rolling pitifully in the vastness of the Great Sepulcher. 

“It will take time for your muscles to heal, dearie. You might not feel it now, but—” 

“MOM!” The adrenaline was the only thing that kept her going, and Karla was wasting it on purpose. “C’mon…” 

Sighing, Karla took a stance. 

Excitement jolted up Alma’s chest—she was actually entertaining this! As if… like I’m a spoiled child. 

It’s what Alma wanted, but the pity in Mistress’s eyes made it painfully clear that she didn’t view her as an equal. Not at this moment, anyhow. Alma was no better than a yelping puppy with an owner too kind to kick her down. 

Perhaps that’s why she always got in trouble in schoo—THWACK! Her nose cracked, vision filled with an elbow. A tightness around her bicep flared the bruises upon it, and the Tomb of God spun toward the ceiling before the stones slammed up into her back, flashing the world white. 

Bleary at first, a great, artificial sun emerged into clarity, winking in and out through a screen of curling, smoky fingers. Alma’s teeth ached, gritted so tightly. Breaking them sounded good, actually; breaking anything, a novel idea in fact. 

A curse boiled within, her heart surged forth, and a strangled, wet sound emerged. Alma’s chest, her belly, convulsed for air. 

Karla’s face, brown and flawless despite the centuries it’d seen, slid into view, looking down with disappointment. Her frown pitying, gaze soft only when regarding her disgraceful misfit of a daughter. 

“If you mean to do something, then do it. Don’t get distracted by trivialities. If you were truly stone of heart, you wouldn’t waste time and energy asking permission to fight more.” 

Swiftly her hand removed from Alma’s throat, air surging back into her lungs. As she gasped for breath Karla’s feet padded soundlessly toward their folded gowns on the floor. 

“Next time,” Alma gagged, sliding to her knees, “I’ll be the one breaking you.” 

Karla said nothing as she slipped her gown over her head. It drifted like snow down her bare back, pure white over the bleeding eye resting above her narrow waist. Alma hated how it looked, even her own—God’s Eye. Decreeing its eeriness was the one and only time Karla had struck her without asking for it. 

It ogled unblinkingly the world at the back of God’s Gravetender. 

Karla had been motionless, Alma realized, staring at the smaller gown in her hands. “I don’t enjoy sparring with you. Ever,” she added with a turn. A shimmer danced across those obsidian eyeballs. 

The wavering smokey snakes overhead were so much more interesting. Understandable. And warm to think about. “‘The hardest things are the ones we hate,’ so says the New Revelation.” Like school, leaving the Great Sepulcher, dealing with idiots. These icy stones on her back. “You peddle this all the time, Mistress. Why’re you complaining now?” 

“I’m not.” Karla’s voice was so close. 

Alma’s slim, bruised stomach felt walloped by the light gown falling upon it. “Then why tell me this?” She sat up, unfolding the article. Karla sat criss-cross beside Alma as she clothed her nakedness. “Every time you kick my ass, too. You just gotta let me know how little you care about it.” 

“That thinking is exactly why I tell you this, little one. Even if it’s what you want, I hate hurting you with all my being. Inside and out.” 

“How emotional. To tell me this before God’s coffin, even. You really don’t care if you get flogged should the wrong ears catch that.” 

“Indeed I don’t. You’re to succeed me one day, after all.” 

Shame weighed heavy; Karla had to have been the reason why this was so difficult, growing the way she wanted. 

Totally not the person waiting at her apartment. Whoever, whatever. I’ll find a way. 

“I have a sermon to attend,” Karla announced, hand upon Alma’s shoulder. A hand that had broken so many of her bones over the years. “Can you walk yourself to school?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Alma shifted to kneel—a big mistake, as an acute pain felt like it tore her calf down the middle. Crying out she toppled over, rubbing the area as further pain blossomed. 

“Alma!” 

“Don’t! Don’t, I can do this myself.” Gritting her teeth against the pain she rose, rose until she stood half at Karla’s height. 

Karla, who looked down on her dubiously. “If you say so.” 

“Yes, yes I do.” Even ignoring the pain she hobbled toward the coffin’s right side, the one closest to them. It’d be quite a walk before she reached the north exit. 

“May you know Death again, my dear,” Karla intoned, practicing for the sake of the sermon, though she always denied it. At least she didn’t insist on helping Alma this time, making her late for the stupid service. 

Then again, Alma could actually walk this time. Maybe that was Mistress’s plan with that swift, humiliating end to the fight—to fan her pride beyond accepting help. “Yeah, you too.” 

“Got twelve for the bus, ma’am?” Cigarette smoke and putrid hot garbage punched Alma senseless. Her step wavered, crossing as she spun, backpedaling. “What? Sorry?” 

The hooded man insistently shook his callused hand. “Ya got it or not?” 

Alma’s calve twisted as she pivoted back around. “Sorry, man!” she said, swallowing her pain. “Don’t carry cash on me.” Her pace quickened. 

“It’s alright.” Glancing back, he’d replaced his hands in his pockets, continuing down the other way. 

Poor guy. Alma sighed internally. Already running late, she thought. My Happiness woulda worried more the longer I took. Not two steps later she pondered, I could have gone to an ATM, right? …Nah, no, giving out money willy-nilly helps no one and hurts me. At best it gives that guy one meal before he’s back begging from suckers like me. Karla wouldn’t approve anyway. 

The glass-made buildings became blocky little apartments as the road ahead gave way to her caretaker, decorating Alma with the title of Gravetender at last, having displayed such disregard for the well-being of another human. She would retire, happily move in with Alma when offered, perhaps guide and even approve of her Happiness. 

Maybe then that girl would settle in a job. She may very well skip the application process and be deemed “peak human” on the spot, considering… 

All of that, Alma realized heavily, because I gave some homeless guy the cold shoulder. All thanks to God, and Its overzealous ruling government. I feel gross now: thinking this way for shrugging off a person in need. 

He didn’t even care. No anger, he didn’t attack like the hairs erect on the back of her neck forewarned. Just a shrug and proceeding along his merry way. Maybe he’s broken, Alma thought, coming to the chilling realization that he, if seen that way, was closer to God than she, a servant who visited Its House weekly. 

A red door suddenly halted Alma’s way. Before her, a comparatively squat pile of brick white as that which comprised the city’s walkways, the veritable skyscrapers flanking it. Her pace had kicked up a notch, Alma realized, starved to reach the Happiness awaiting within. 

She pushed through, jogged to the sole upper level, every step her heart climbing up her throat until ‘#02’ stared back with its golden face. Her knuckles rapped beside it. 

Steady, muffled footfalls answered. Then, the other side clicked. A short, sharp, metal whisper after. Finally, a deeper clunk than before, and the knob turned. Alma remembered to breathe, to suppress her excitement down to a casual smirk just before the door parted open. 

A svelte girl with striking grey eyes entranced her. “You’re back early,” she observed, analyzing Alma’s figure. Perhaps through her robes, even. 

She hugged herself, feeling judged suddenly. “Yeah, well, clearly you’ve been lazing all morning.” She gestured to the long, pale legs sprouted from a pair of sleeping shorts, disarmingly pink for the one wearing them. “So, hop off it, Melissa,” said Alma, squeezing by. 

Only for Melissa to stonewall her from her own apartment. 

“Hey!” 

“You’re covered in blood. You limp. And you’re too weak to budge me even a little.” Melissa tilted her head, soft voice dropping a hair gentler: “Don’t avoid this like always.” 

A soundless, exaggerated gasp—though deep down, Alma’s heart fluttered. “You’re saying you… are worried about me?” 

Melissa swallowed, gazing off to the side. “I don’t know,” she uttered stiffly. “Sorry.” 

“Well, don’t worry about it.” She cared. Of course she did. Hard to glean, of course, but Melissa wouldn’t have soaked in Alma’s atypical appearance if it wasn’t out of care. 

And only care. Anything more passionate would be out-of-character. 

“Alma—” 

“What’s there to avoid?” Jabbing her stomach swiftly enough to elicit a grunt, Alma pushed through. “Kars surprised me with a sparring match, nothing more than that.” The kitchen counter presented to her a rack of bananas. 

“Ah,” said Melissa. Alma broke one off as three short clunks behind signaled a locked door. “So you arrived, Karla said nothing at all, merely initiated a fight. And afterwards you parted ways. Is that correct?” 

A familiar irritation pulsed inside Alma’s brain as she finished peeling. “No, obviously n—!” She was met with a nigh-invisible smirk. “Cute. You actually had me going there.” 

Melissa dropped it, returning to her placid resting face. “I can joke. I’m—” Alma pushed the banana against her lips. 

“Alexithymic, I know.” She feigned shock when Melissa stole a bite. So cute. Grinning, she said, “But you’re starting to joke, which is great!” 

Melissa swallowed, twirling a pale, golden lock around her finger. “Only because I know what will elicit an intense reaction from you specifically.” 

“That’s called ‘knowing your audience,’ genius!” 

Alma made for the living room beside their small kitchen. Melissa seemed to dog Alma’s steps, her voice following: “Your shoulders look heavy.” 

“You saying I got fat arms?!” Alma cried, spinning back around. 

Melissa’s eyes actually widened. “No. That makes no sense, you’re barely fatter than me. Why would I care for the weight of your arms anyway?” 

It all came so fast, was so endearing, and so, so ridiculous. 

“Golly gee, thanks!” Alma burst out laughing, though poor Melissa knitted her brows, definitely perplexed. Oh, jeez, she’s actually worried on some level! I shouldn’t be happy about this, but—! Fighting the urge to tease about it, Alma suppressed her grin; God, and Alma, knew of the brick wall such an avenue would lead towards. 

“I didn’t try to make you laugh,” said Melissa. 

“Yeah, well, ya did.” 

“How so?” 

Alma shrugged. “I’unno. You just do sometimes, ‘kay?” Scratching her cheek, said: “Sometimes when we’re not together. Karla cracks my knuckles with a chop when I do.” 

Melissa’s eyes widened, hands suddenly clasping her biceps—rare for her to move so swiftly. “Why?” She swallowed, her gaze searching the floor for words. “Do you do that, I mean?” she asked the hardwood beneath her toes. 

Alma licked her lips, cleared her suddenly arid throat. “Say, you wanna know what happened with Karla?” It was actually easier to talk about that. And I could use your practical way of looking at things, now that I’m reminded of it. 

Melissa, of course, gave a nod. 

“Alright, then. I’ll spill the beans. But!.” Alma upheld her stump of a banana. “I want you to apply the medicine for me. And gauze me! And… the splint, too, I-I can’t do that myself.” 

“You walked all the way home with a broken leg?” 

Alma could have sworn astonishment colored her words. “Nah, no, no… A torn calf. My pinky though, yeah.” She raised a hand between them. 

Melissa looked from Alma to her broken bent pinky, then back to her face. “Alma.” 

Her disappointment was evident. “I’m sorry. I tried fighting my best, honest!” 

“That’s not what I—” Melissa stopped herself, eyes drawn shut. 

“Are you mad?” 

“Huh? No. Why would you think that?” 

“Couldja help me then?! ‘Cause it’s getting really hard to keep playing cool!” 

A raised brow. “That was up for bargaining?” 

Alma cackled out of giddiness, to Melissa’s clear exasperation—she always had, but to know Melissa was all ready to do it was something else.