The Divided Line: Leonna [Part 2]

CW: suicide ideation + attempt

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It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

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Leonna turned from the flames and strode down the hall, refusing to look back, refusing to allow herself an ounce of regret.

The flames would purify and spread until there was nothing left of her. She’d be reduced to ash and element, her spirit returned to some otherworld, some variation of God, just as the ancients when they’d lain upon their funeral pyres. 

Firelight flickered on the walls, and the crackling grew into a roar. In the amber glow, a face watched her pass, little eyes staring out from an old photograph of her daughter. 

Ivy was twelve when Leonna last saw her. The girl was Leonna’s greatest pride. The one creation of hers whose heart seemed truly pure. She hoped Ivy had remained that way, indelible and defiant against the cruelties of the world, never letting them break her. 

Leonna’s husband had torn Ivy away from her, had taken the girl when they’d separated, and had forbidden Leonna to call or visit. Due to his rank, the State supported him. 

Leonna took the picture from the wall and pulled the print from its frame. 

In the bathroom down the hall, she poured the remains of her sleeping pills into her palm, went to the kitchen, and filled a cup with gin. The first few pills were easy to swallow, the rest a little harder. She thought of Ivy. She thought of God. 

“Forgive me,” she muttered when the last had been consumed. 

The flames had spread outward by the time she walked out, searing the carpet, and blackening the walls. Sweat gleaned on her skin with the heat of it. She placed a chair at the closet’s entrance, sat and faced her fate. 

There was a beauty in the flames, a peace found in the great burning heart of the Beast. Charred paintings tumbled from boxes, combusting and spreading their infernal plague. She hoped the fire would wait to claim her until she went under, but already, the fire lapped at her clothes, stung her flesh. 

Her eyes grew heavy, her blood leaden. She whispered a prayer with the last of her strength and held Ivy’s picture to her chest.

But then, she heard the front door splinter. Iron hands clamped around her arms and dragged her from the Hell-gate. “No,” she gasped out, but she was too weak to stand, too weak to fight back.

The last thing she saw before oblivion took her was the small patch on the man’s shoulder. The all-purifying sun.

Ricardo Gomez Angel via Unsplash

Leonna lay against cold metal, limbs sprawled in a grotesque display, pain coursing through her entire being. Her insides felt like they’d been carved out and set ablaze.

Steel cuffs bit into her wrists when she tried to move. She’d been cured and confined. Tears welled in her eyes, and she let out a wrathful cry. Couldn’t they have just let her die? 

With a trembling strength, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the metal ceiling. The ground swayed beneath her, rolling on tumultuous waves. 

She had failed. In the heat of the sun, the wax wings of freedom had come undone, and the fall would be a brutal one. 

She crawled to the corner of her cage, heaved little more than spittle into the pot they’d left for her, then she tucked her knees to her chest and broke beneath despair. 

The heavy trod of boots thumped against the hollow metal floor and stopped outside her cage. She looked up through blurred eyes and laughed when she saw who it was. A man stood in front of her, tall and regal in his uniform, face concealed with a black shroud beneath a blue, militant hat. The absolute picture of the Conformist militia. 

“Leonna,” he said, and her heart panged with the agony of loss and old familiarity. She pulled herself up and spat at her husband’s feet. His face twisted with regret, and his voice came thick. “This is for the best.” 

He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a question. “Where is she?” She had to know if Ivy was okay. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “She disappeared the night of the train robbery. I keep checking the logs. We don’t have her.” 

Relief coursed through her. If nothing else, at least she had that to hold onto. She leaned back against the bars and watched her husband go.

She had no means to track the time, only the slow motion of the ship as they sailed to their destination. Eventually, the ship groaned to a stop. Soldiers marched through the hull and collected the prisoners, chaining them together in a long line. Leonna was thrown somewhere in the middle, unable to see either end. Heads hung heavy, and feet dragged, chains clanking together as they shuffled forward. 

The sun beat down on them, blinding after the darkness of the hull. She kept her eyes down and watched the rippling grass beneath her feet. She didn’t know when she’d see it again.