Repentance of the Grimm

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. I try to convince myself, this time they won't come. Like a fog lifted from the swamp bogs, I would be freed from those cursed clouds. Every night at 11:55, I stand ardent at the outskirt, and imagine I can cross the threshold. I imagine a sky the color of cauldrons, only painted by the illumination of a million stars.

Beyond the town of Granger is a vast snowy peak ascending into the sky. Beyond that peak is an ocean. I only know this from the dusty books in my father's study. I can see myself there, standing with sand between bare toes. I can almost feel its warmth. But alas, the bell of the clock tower hammers home the realization. At twelve the violet mist emerges and veils the night sky. Beautiful reminders of the sins of our fathers.

Tempting fate, my grandma would always call it. The way I'd always dance with death, wait until the very edge of the safe hour before seeking harbor in the cottage. This is the only excitement I can manage to muster, trapped in this wretched town.

In Granger there are two things to do--repent and die.

I'm not sure why I should spend the limited time I have during the sunlight hours repenting. It's not as if I wiped out an entire town of mages. I didn't. My parents didn't. Not even my grandparents can take responsibility.

A hundred years ago, my wretched ancestors saw fit to annihilate a tribe of mages, and so I spend daylight on my knees. Hours of wasted time weeping to the earth for redemption. As I kneel into the cool stone floor of the worship house, I ponder on how stupid my ancestors must have been. If I was going to wipe out an entire clan of people who can conjure black magic, I would damn well make sure they're all dead. A single mage left alive was able to bound the ancestral blood of my forefathers forever to this earth.

The blood of my forefathers runs through my veins, and will no matter how long I pray to the gods.

I'd say I'd rather die, if doing so could free my soul. But even death can't cure me of this curse. I would even take the boredom and monotony of living over the option of becoming a grimm. That is what death means in Granger, an eternal afterlife haunting the stone streets. Spending infinity as a lost soul, a black shroud of devouring nothingness.

The only options are repent and die. I've grown all too accustom to watching people die. My mother died to give me birth, an act I can't quite thank her for. Often I wish I had never been born.

My father was of the faith. He was devout in his belief in repentance. He wore his knees, he prayed daily and nightly so that the gods might be merciful. What thanks did he receive for his stout devotion? Being swallowed into the darkness of the grimm.

All to save his wretched daughter who strayed too far from home.

And I don't even have it in me to seek redemption in his name. Aren't I the worst? If I am awful because my blood deems me so, then let me be awful. I don't care so long as I am free.

So I stand on the outskirt and tempt fate, despite the dread churning in my stomach. One day I will reach those mountains. I convince myself of this truth, as a means to carry on.

"Allis, darling, it's best not to think of the worlds that cannot be." My grandmother once told me. She was elderly in a fragile way few in Granger had the luxury to be. This gave her true wisdom that she tried her best to impart. The fates cursed her twice. Once to be born in Granger, and twice to raise a hopeless granddaughter that could never learn. It's been eight days since she passed, leaving me alone for the first time in my life.

Though, I suppose, no one is ever truly alone in Granger after midnight.

It is my nightly routine to walk myself up to the town's edge. In the distance I can see the world I long for. The setting suns and mountain ranges. They forever remain beyond my reach. I try to will my feet to take that fated step. One single step would bring me freedom. But they cannot, because they are bound, and so am I.

The air has turned. A sickly chill trickles up my spine. The humming song of night time quiets, and I am left with a familiar dread. I glance at the silver watch on my wrist. 12:07. I've been out for too long. My strides are long as I dash back to the empty cottage. I can't help but think of my grandmother as I stumble over stone and dirt clumps.

There is no one left to warn me of the dangers of my daring. No one to chide me for my arrogance. I am swallowed in grief thinking of her brittle body, her thin face and soft brown eyes. I hear myself hum the lullaby she once sang to me.

Beyond the mountains lies a sea

A brilliant blue calls out to me

So I will fall on bended knee

And pray I may be free

I miss her. I miss my father. I long to see them, but not as they are now.

Bound to the earth for all eternity.

"Never stay outside past midnight, unless you want to join in the darkness forever."

I don't know why Miss Ashcroft's voice comes into my head at that moment. I suppose because I am the woeful child who did not heed her warning.

I was never very good at obeying orders and heeding warnings.

I see the misty violet dust rise from the cemetery grounds.

I don't want to see grandma as a grimm.

It was hard enough to witness the warped face that once belonged to my father. It was tragic, looking into the eyes of a once admirable man and only seeing unresolved sadness. He became a vicious ghoul like all the rest. No amount of prayer or repentance could save him from the fate bestowed upon him.

When I was nine, I convinced Samwell Hackerly to sneak to the outskirt with me. He was a tepid fat child, and I should have considered those facts. That was the last time I danced this far along the knife's edge, daring to stay beyond the cursing hour.

Children are full of unfounded bravery. We dared each other, Samwell and I. To us, it was a game. We had never seen it truly--the horror that came with nightfall.

We were not urgent, we did not run to the safety of town. We strolled like we had forever. Samwell spoke of his dream to be a golden knight. I did not want to tell him that he was much too large to ride a horse. I could at least offer him the small kindness of fantasy.

When the purple mist rose from the ground, setting the scene of horror. We did not think it as such. "It's so beautiful." I remember I whispered, mystified by the sight.

But then the pretty violet mist began to take human shape. Faces emerged, almost familiar. People we've known, people we've lost-almost the same, but twisted--dark and soulless. That night was the first time I saw my father as he is now, a weeping ghoul. There is something cruel to me, about a devout man bound to the earth and denied the heavens.

But he was there then, as he is now. Back then, when we realized our danger, Samwell and I tried to run back to the safety of the village. But poor Samwell could not keep my stride, he tripped and fell behind. I did not look back, so I can only recall the bloodcurdling scream as he faded into the abyss of the grimm.

My pace quickens at the memory. As the mist begins to twist into the familiar horror, I repeat a chant to myself.

I will not be swallowed into darkness.

I will not be swallowed into darkness.

The haunting moans of the damned fill the silent night. I can see the cottage yards before me. The small yellow visage is a sight that brings me to tears.

The skin at the back of my neck crawls like a spider ascending its web. The grimm are moving ever closer. I throw my elbow into the old wooden door and push my way through the threshold.

In my haste, I did not consider gravity, so I topple with a harsh thud on the rickety wooden planks. Despite my bleeding knee, I sigh in relief when I realize I am safe. For tonight at least, I am alive.

Limping to my bedroom, a thought haunts me. Did that vengeful mage know what they wrought when they whispered that dooming spell?

Bound to this earth for all eternity.

Did they intend to damn the dead to aimless, wantless wandering until the sun rise sent them back to the earth?

Probably.

After all, the vengeful don't usually consider mercy in their terms.

It is only by irony that the cottages we dwell in once belonged to the mages themselves. They are safe guarded with spells and wards. Within their walls, we have protection. It's a faint relief to calm the heart of the trepid.

If you remain within your home forever, you will never lose yourself to the darkness.

But I was not put on this earth to remain behind walls and die. I will climb the peaks of those mountains in the distance. I will feel that sand between my toes.

I will. I must.

Or else I might as well join the chorus of moaning grimm there beyond my door.