I'm not okay

Zèklè And in the sea that's painted black Creatures lurk below the deck But you're my queen and I'm a lionheart "Hey, Iso," you begin. It sounds, for all intents and purposes, like the beginning of any conversation your have had with Isopia. But, ya know, in just a few key ways, it's not. The tree is not Isopia. It lacks her curiosity, her endless thirst for knowledge. It cannot spread a wing over your back, or go with you on adventures. It doesn't even look like her. It's barely brown anymore; black ash curls up its side like ash. It is old and rotted, not young and full of life; it is still and speechless, not inquisitive and alert. It doesn't have her infrequent, beautiful smile. The tree is dead. That's all it has in common with Isopia. They're both very dead. You shuffle in the dead earth (dead like her), your hooves kicking up clouds of ash. "It's been a few days now. Maybe more. Still keep thinking I'll wake up an' this'll all be just a bad dream." Your eyes remain studiously fixed on the tangled roots. The boughs above block out much of the rain, but one insistent drop falls, tink, tink!, on your metal wing. The sound is amplified in the silence, grating and painful on your delicate ears. You don't move. "A lot's changed already," Your voice is steady, heavy, wet as your skin. "I got a tattoo, I guess - a whale. You'd like it. It reminds me of-" of us, of that day, of you. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. That day is too near, that memory too cruel - once it was a treasured prize, a serenade of your youth, but now the notes are cacophonous, empty, each one a sharp slap in the face, a reminder that you were not enough. Tink, tink! A moment passes - two - before you speak again, still addressing the roots of the tree. "It matches Mauna's. The one of his face. His is better though. Tt makes him look so grown up. He's growin' so fast, Iso - he's already nearly as big as me - an' you'd be so proud of him, I know you would, he's so curious an' sweet an' brave, our Little Mountain. "I want him to keep being brave. But the world is scary, an' I don't- I can't protect him. Not all by myself." Pain, flashing, a flare up of that constant ache that sits in your stomach, gnaws at your insides. Sunbeam eyes close, trying to keep back the tears. You bite your lower lip, hard. "It hurts so much, Iso," you breathe. Don't cry, don't cry, don'tcry. Tink, tink! The tree doesn't blink an eye. It doesn't have eyes. It's a tree. In an instant your sorrow contorts into fury. You inhale sharply, suddenly, sucking in your cheeks and tensing up your lungs, before shoving the air back out: "FUUUUUCK!" It's a bellow, a scream, a moan and a cry - and this time it's addressed at the tree itself. You turn bloodshot eyes to the innocent behemoth, your face a twisted glare, wrath and rage in the tense strings of your body. Your figure is a bowstring, taut enough to snap. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" you demand of the tree, your voice heavy with rage. That you could just leave us?! That we'd be grateful for the ABANDONMENT? THAT YOU COULD JUST FUCKING DIE AND WE'D ALL GO ON LIVING LIKE IT WAS NOTHING?" Your throat is raw and red from screaming, your voice hoarse - but you have never been a short-winded fellow, and you have more to say. "What about your children? What about Mauna? WHAT ABOUT ME?" Tink, tink- THONK! The tree doesn't so much as quiver when you throw your weight against it, slamming your shoulder against its ancient bulk, kicking and biting and lashing out in every sense, like a petulant child. Why, Zero? Why are you assaulting the tree? Grow the fuck up, kid. Life sucks and then you die - Isopia just found a shortcut out of the sucking part. You don't stop. Again you slam yourself into the tree, each thud of your body punctuated with another strangled scream. "WE. NEEDED. YOU. AND. YOU. JUST. FUCKING. DIED!" Anger is a bright fire, but it's a short-burning fuel. Sooner than later you find yourself fading, and without really realizing it you're on your knees, your wings and shoulder bruised, your muscles aching, your breath coming in ragged, unsteady heaves. Salt runs like rivers down your cheeks (when did you start crying? when did you stop?). You reach out your tongue to lick it off and taste the copper of blood. Eventually your breathing steadies (though the pain in your bones, as ever, remains). Rolling onto you back, you sigh, your swollen eyes gazing up into the branches above. A drop of water falls on your belly; another lands on your splayed wing. An improbable leaf, heavy with moisture, falls from above. It spirals and somersaults, and you track it in its dance, following its descent from the canopy down, down, to where it lands atop your hammering heart. Likely swept here by a storm wind, the little piece of life nevertheless lifts your bedraggled spirits. Is it a message from Isopia, an apology, a promise, from wherever her spirit now flies? Isopia once told you she didn't believe in spirits. How ironic, then, that you should be searching for hers now. "I'm trying," you whisper to the damp leaf, your breath making it flutter against your skin. "I'm trying so hard, but I'm so tired an'- an' I dunno what to do. Mauna, he still thinks you're comin' home. How do I tell him his Ma is dead?" Dead as mine- but that's a problem for another day, an even greater absence than that left by Isopia. "I dunno how to do this by myeslf, Iso- you were 'sposed to be here to help me." Your head falls back among the roots. You sigh. "I miss you, Isopia. I keep sayin' everything's okay, but it's not, is it? Nothing's okay anymore. Mauna's not okay. Sparky's not okay. "I'm not okay."

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