Irregularity

Eve’s heart is filled with venom. Her expression is blank, of course, clean and empty. The eyes, however. The eyes give it away. Her eyes are welling and spilling with the depth of hatred only known by the valiant adversaries of irregularity.

She can feel it burrowing under her very skin, distanced though she is from the source. Perhaps the depth of her hate has hyper-sensitised her flesh, for she should not be able to detect those vibrations butterfly-trembling through the floorboards under her bare feet, but she can sense every faint flutter. Steady at first, pleasingly regular in the frequency. Then, a pause. A judder, a stutter. A stone hurled through the window of the natural order of things.

“Are you feeling alright, Eve?” asks the Voice in her head. Eve’s Voice does not speak up often, so when it does, Eve makes sure to listen. “You are not acting like usual.”

“I am alright,” Eve replies, in the quiet way people use when speaking with their Voices. “I have something to take care of, but tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

Eve moves closer to the bed, elegant despite the pain still clawing at her insides. Sliding her hands forward, sheets glossy-smooth. A white pillow, cool and soft under her palms like freshly-swept snow. She stares at it for a long time, so long in fact that she expects the Voice to speak up again, but her head is quiet. She is alone with her thoughts, and the pillow.

Then she is stepping forward and all she can see is white and she is pressing down, down. Not all of her weight, no. It does not take much effort at all. Standing still. How many minutes? She knows not. How long does guilt last? How long is the rope thrown to a drowning man? Never too long, darling, never too long.

It is peaceful now, and she basks in the sheer tranquility. The disturbance previously fraying at the hem of her spirit has been silenced forever. Regularity rules in perfect omnipresence once more. She stands up, feeling the joy swell up inside her like water gushing from a hot tap. Everything is the way it should be, and it is all because of her. It is drunkenly easy to get lost in the labyrinth of pride, and she only comes back to herself when her Voice speaks up.

“Well done, Eve,” it praises gently. It would seem motherly if it was not for the fact that all Voices are neither male nor female. “It is alright now. Not left, not wrong. Alright and all right.” Eve likes the sound of that.

She replaces the pillow in its rightful spot and slides into the right side of the bed. Always the right side, always right and all ways right. Eve goes to sleep, finally content.

Adam enters the darkened hospital ward and realises that all the beds are empty, except for one. Curled up on her side, facing away from him. Arms pressed tightly to her chest. By the looks of it, his sister is still sleeping. Her bed next to the window at the far end of the room, and he walks over to draw the curtains. Murky morning light seeps in. He glances back at his sister. Her eyes are wide open, staring unblinkingly. Not so asleep, after all.

“Godmorn, sistermine,” he greets. Eve does not respond, makes no indication that she even knows he is there. Adam reaches out and touches the skin of the tiny body lying by hers. Marble cold. “Oh. It must have died during the night. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Eve’s gaze shifts to him. They both know he is lying. Adam huffs and withdraws his hand. She has failed to fulfil the purpose of her gender, and he is disgusted with her. The little freak had been born with arrhythmia. An abnormal heartbeat. Corrupted to the very core. Really, it was blasphemy that a host of such irregularity had been allowed to survive even a day.

“The doctors should have put it down as soon as they discovered it was deformed,” Adam’s Voice remarks, and Adam hums in assent. “At least they left the mother to redeem herself.”

Eve still has not moved. Adam sinks into the chair at the end of her bed, eyes flicking to the clock. It is simplistic, metallic face bare of numbers, matching the rest of the hospital. Ticking away, satisfying in its unwavering frequency. Adam likes clocks. He looks at his watch then checks the clock again, and is delighted to see that they are in perfect synchronisation.

“Do not worry, sistermine. I am certain the next one will be perfectly normal.” He bites back a smile as she flinches. It is her own fault for birthing a monstrosity. “I have a gift for you.”

As is tradition for every new mother, Adam presents his sister with a piece of jewellery. Eve will be permitted to adorn herself now that her body has proved itself fertile, proved its worth.

Eve takes the locket with trembling hands. The pendant is mockingly shaped in a heart–but this heart is smooth, whole, unflawed. It is possibly the cruellest thing he has ever done, and Adam can barely conceal his glee at the glorious irony.

“To commemorate the occasion,” he murmurs, graciously clasping it around the vulnerable stretch of her throat so that the metal heart rests above her own, cold leeching into her skin. “And to remind you to do better, next time.”

Adam’s good mood lasts through the entire day. He dare not show it, of course, he would not want others to become concerned and report him. Still, he is feeling jovial enough that after the final bell rings and he exchanges the usual farewells of “godnoon, brothers” with his classmates, his Voice pipes up.

“You were unusually cheerful today.”

“I suppose so,” Adam muses. “I am glad that sistermine has finally fallen.” He is thirteen and she is eighteen and this is the first time she has failed at anything. He is practically giddy with schadenfreude. “Only now can she repent and find salvation.”

“I understand,” his Voice says, and Adam knows that it does. Your Voice always understands. “You must be careful, though. Anyone can fall victim to the Irregulars. You must fight to retain regularity. Retain regularity. Retain regularity.”

Adam repeats the two-word prayer until he can feel the alliteration thrumming in his bones.