The Changing of the Guard

Nyssa sat on the edge of the fire, shivering with a fever and wearing a necklace; amber lilies framed by rose gold. 

She was alone.

There were ten petals in her necklace. One had turned; red amber cocooned with green. A second was losing its colour. She kept her fingers around the flowers, planning her tomorrow. Sleep late, drink water, bottle after bottle until she was drowning. Stay up, sleep late, sit at her computer without making progress. Sit at her desk wishing she could leave. Sit, but not in the bed. Anything but the bed. Sit up, stand up, get up. But sleep late. Just one more day, one more day. Nyssa hunched over herself, searching for the warmth, her necklace tightly held.

She wasn’t alone.

Nyssa sat away from the fire, cold but growing warmer, her neck bare. Green threaded her fingers shut but she tugged at knots until they gave and broke. Tangled up, she planned her tomorrow. Wake up early, drink bottle after bottle of water, sit at her desk wishing she could leave. Sleep before midnight, wake early. 

The threads snapped, noiseless, and Nyssa kept tearing.

Sleep before midnight. Wake early, drink water. Get up and walk — ten minutes out, ten minutes back. Sit at her desk and work — it didn’t matter on what. An hour of assignments, half an hour of reading, fifteen minutes on a commission. Sit and drink and work. Then find someone — her friends online, her sister at dinner, her parents half an hour across town — it didn’t matter who, just that she didn’t spend every day alone. Then sleep, before midnight, and wake early and drink.

She could stretch her fingers, still tangled in the threads. 

The Nyssa sitting away from the fire rose, staggering to the Nyssa with the necklace shivering with fever. She shrunk away, clutching the petals desperately, as green tangled fingers carded through her hair. 

“One more,” she whispered, shivering. “Just one more day…”

“It’s always one more,” the other Nyssa said. She pressed down, Nyssa with the necklace sank back, flames to the skin. She struggled, tangling the threads tighter and tighter around Nyssa’s hand.

She didn’t burn. Not that night at least. But day after day, Nyssa rose from the floor, untangling her fingers, and pushed the feverish Nyssa lower. Day after day, the struggling weakened and her hands grew less tangled. 

Eventually, Nyssa took the necklace from the coals and set it around her throat. It was cold, feverishly cold, and she hunched by the fire, searching for warmth.

She was alone.

There were ten petals. Two had turned; red amber cocooned in green. A third was losing its colour. Nyssa planned her tomorrow. Wake early, drink water, sit and work and find someone then sleep, before midnight, and wake and drink.

And then she wasn’t alone and green tangled fingers carded through her hair.