gallery
The taste of paracetamol mixed with blood and bile lingers in the back of Anya’s throat when she wakes up. Bitter, astringent and metallic—a combination of flavors that turn any sensory experience into hell. Actual hell.
Where she is, exactly, she can't really say for sure; it's so bright that she thinks she must be in some sort of afterlife dreamscape, but then she makes out the details. A sink, closed stalls, white tiles on the floor, brick walls painted an eggshell white, all white fixtures and facilities. It's bright here—blinding, even, compared to what the Tulpar had.
…Does heaven or hell have bathrooms? Is this what goes on in the mind of a desperate and suicidal woman as she dies, a dreamlike state in a pristine public restroom? That can't possibly be ideal in any circumstance, so maybe this is purgatory.
Needless to say, she doesn't feel amazing. As she stands here, gripping a sink in a bathroom she's never seen before in her life, an overwhelming wave of terror and nausea hit her. The memories of where she was before come flooding in—violent, terrifying, and disturbing enough to make anyone sane practically crawl out of their skin.
Killing herself. She was killing herself. Truthfully, Anya has no clue what's supposed to happen once life ends—in spite of going to church as a child, she's never been particularly religious in recent years—other than getting the hell out of the crashed Tulpar. Ideally, she'd be taking out that unwanted passenger in her body along with her and then bringing her story to a close.
So, why is she here?
She walks out of the bathroom and into a wide open space that is unfamiliar to her: wooden flooring, more brick walls—that of which are lined with canvases, each covered with unique paintings. From here, it's pretty easy to rule out the fact that she isn't on the Tulpar, but that doesn't particularly help with the overwhelming sense of confusion.
As she glances around the area, her breathing ragged and her heart rate spiking, she can't help but wonder if she went horribly wrong somewhere along the way. A sense of panic leaves her head spinning and that familiar, disgusting taste of blood lingers in the back of her throat, coating her senses in iron and viscera.
Then, you approach her.
She doesn't know you; it's hard to glean much out of looks when she's grappling with double vision. Your frown still stands out amongst the blur of panicked perception and you speak in a concerned voice.
“Hey, are you all right?”
Anya's widened and unfocused eyes meet yours for only a fleeting moment. “Huh?”
“I'm so sorry, I didn't even realize we had guests this late in the day. I would've greeted you sooner if I had noticed— whoa!”
When Anya staggers a bit, you catch her before she can fall. Being touched right now is the last thing she needs, but it feels better than crashing onto the cold wooden floor, so she doesn't jerk away from it. She gasps for air in your arms, some latent fight or flight instinct that she's been tamping down finally resurging. Collapsing into a stranger is not her proudest moment, but she doesn't really know what to make of her situation otherwise. She's utterly lost.
“Hey, it's okay. I've got you,” you reassure her in a gentle tone, like one might talk to a frightened and cornered animal. The intonation is unfamiliar and bizarre; if you were anyone from her job, you’d be meeting her with a much poorer reception.
“Wh– What's going on?” Anya asks, her voice faint and distant. “Is this— Am I in Heaven?”
She hears your chuckle reverberate in your chest. “Strange time for a pickup line, isn’t it?”
“That’s not what I— Not what I meant,” Anya stammers out, wrenching herself free from you. Her gait is still wobbly, but she needs to get a better look at the stranger that just stopped her from falling. She won’t easily let herself go vulnerable in someone else’s arms, lest she face consequences of trusting too easily. “Who are you? Wh– Where am I?”
You're a woman of about her age, maybe only slightly older or younger. It’s hard to tell exactly. You are quite good-looking, but looks can be deceiving. Appearance doesn't mean much to her at this moment. Anya has no idea what your intentions are; she’ll have to feel this interaction out before making any judgments.
“My name is Y/N,” you greet, gesturing to yourself with a smile that betrays your worry. “You’re in an art gallery. I, uh, work here.”
Your words are met with a bewildered gaze from Anya. “An art gallery…? In– In the afterlife?”
“Haha!” You laugh a little, but even your laughter seems to end off on a questioning note. “No…? Just an art gallery.”
Anya’s face falls, paling. She glances around, noticing all of the artwork lining the walls. The gallery is quiet and unoccupied by other guests, but there’s something otherworldly and eerie about being anywhere that isn’t the Tulpar. It’s been over half a year since she spoke to anyone outside of her work, and reintegration into some kind of society is not something she was planning on when she’d just taken a lethal overdose of paracetamol.
She feels like she’s going to be sick, the rhythm of her breath uneven as she staggers away from you to gaze briefly at the vibrant canvases and elaborate statues in the room surrounding her. This gallery is wide and open, with walls far apart from one another. No metal flooring or steam, no rumbling ship in space. Anya's frantic gaze returns to you.
“On– On Earth?”
You nod. “Yes, on Earth.” After a few seconds, you speak more carefully, asking, “Is everything okay? You seem really disoriented.”
“Of– Of course, everything is okay,” Anya replies, but her tone is faint and her mind is buzzing. She looks at you, feeling ill. “You really mean that? About– About being on Earth?”
“I do,” you reply, taking a step towards her and furrowing your brows. “Hey, I know we don't know each other, but maybe it might be a good idea to have a seat, take a breather?” You motion towards a bench adjacent to a large painting of a snowy cabin.
Not in much of a position to argue with you, Anya nods and takes a seat at the bench you motioned to. The seat is made of a cool leathery material that's smooth to the touch, soft against her hands as she sits there and grips it like it's an anchor to reality.
When you sit beside her, Anya jumps and lets out a small scream. Frightened and mortified, she covers her mouth. “S– Sorry…”
You shake your head, scooting away a bit. “No problem. I should be apologizing for startling you.” Your concerned gaze lingers on her. “Miss, are you in danger?”
Danger.
Is she in danger?
Jimmy's hands are ghosts on her body, touched without permission. He screamed at her, an axe in his hand, for something as small as asking for help. No locks on the living quarter doors, she took to blending into the background as well as she could to make sure he didn't do it again. Her heart ached with yearning to be free, but she was trapped on the Tulpar.
…But apparently, she isn't now.
So, is she free? Is she still in danger?
Anya has no idea. She blinks backs at you, uncertain in every sense of the word. “I don't know.”
That answer doesn't particularly satisfy you. You're still frowning, and Anya wonders if she should've just kept her mouth shut, like she should have before on the Tulpar. Then, you speak again, prematurely cutting off whatever self-deprecating train of thought Anya's mind was planning on boarding.
“That's… Okay. Um, can you tell me your name?”
“Anya,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around her midsection. “Um, Anya Nusome.”
“That's a nice name,” you softly reply, offering a gentle smile.
She barely manages a dizzy, awkward little laugh at the compliment, which has easily caught her off guard. “O– Oh… It isn't common where I come from. The last name, at least. Thank you, though… I'm not used to hearing that.”
“Really?” You tilt your head to the side, your gaze lingering softly on her for several passing seconds before you shift your attention to the painting. “I think it's nice overall. Anya is a pretty name. Sounds kind of Slavic. Are you visiting from Europe?”
Visiting? Not exactly, unless one could call dying and waking up elsewhere visiting. Anya frowns, shaking her head. “I don't know how to… answer that. I'm from Russia, originally, but I haven't been there in a long time.”
“Wow, really?” You tilt your head, brows furrowed. “That's a long way from here.”
“Uhm… Is it, now?” Anya tentatively asks, brows furrowing and eyes squinting. “Where exactly… are we?”
You tell her location. It's the name of a city that she's never lived in. It's somewhere she at the least recognizes, though, to be somewhere on Earth. A sickening feeling wells up in her chest and she shudders. She isn't supposed to be here.
“Is that so…?”
“Um, Miss Nusome,” you cautiously begin, “Are you lost, by any chance?”
“You can just call me Anya,” she softly, “and I think I might be… lost, I mean. I– I'm so sorry. I don't know how to explain this without sounding utterly insane.”
“That's okay,” you gently answer, “I have time. I'm actually gonna be closing up the gallery soon, so if you want to talk about it over a cup of coffee, or tea, or whatever, there's a cafe nearby—like, in walking distance.”
“Oh, uhm,” Anya mutters, her fingers digging into the plush surface of the bench, “I hate to turn you down, but I don't– I don't exactly have any money for that.”
That, and she hasn't been around people other than her coworkers in months upon months. Being in a public space sounds terrifying.
You frown and slowly nod your head, scratching the back of your neck. “Yeah. That's, like, totally fine. I understand. I wouldn't mind buying, though, if that’s the main issue.”
Anya furrows her brows, silent for several passing moments. The nausea has subsided a bit, but she still feels wrong, like a fish out of water trying to breathe air its respiratory system wasn't made for.
Everything feels out of place. She is clearly out of place.
“Um, I– I need a second to think, sorry,” Anya tells you, cradling her head in her hands. She shudders, breathing uneasily. From nearby, she feels your body heat emanating into the space around her. You are not some ethereal unworldly being—you're a person, too detailed to be made up in a dream or a hallucination in a dying state. It's strange and unusual that the two of you are together in one place.
“Sure, take your time. I’ll be right here, okay? Or, uh, I can give you some space, if you—”
“N– No, that’s fine,” Anya interrupts, the ache in her chest only growing increasingly acute. “Y– You can stay.”
What does it say that you’re the first person who’s been this kind to her in months, and you don’t even know her? She hasn’t even been here for longer than a handful of minutes. You're a stranger, but you're unusually nice through your concern.
Is it because you're a woman? Maybe. Anya hasn't seen another woman in as long as it's been since she saw anyone other than her coworkers. She's not sure if this is a comfort or a cause for upset—a sign that she's so broken and damaged that she can't interact with another woman without overanalyzing every little detail of the interaction.
This shouldn't be that big of a deal, but it is. Anya just got done killing herself, so everything that is to follow is, by definition, a very big deal.
She feels so, so nauseous. Her mind isn't able to properly comprehend what's happening. Anya wants to ask for help, but the last time she asked someone for help, it was Jimmy, and he blew up at her. He drove the final nail into the coffin. Asking for help after that is a terrifying challenge.
Her nervous, poorly focused gaze returns to you, a wince in her eyes and a frown on her lips. You've been quiet for several passing minutes, and the silence might drive her mad. Leaving the ball in her court after she's grown accustomed to avoiding speaking up… It makes everything difficult in ways she never imagined.
“Um,” Anya croaks out, her voice small, “Thank you for asking if I'm… if I'm okay…”
“Hm?” You look back at her, your eyes darting from the painting to her. The concern in your expression is palpable. “Don't worry about it. It's just basic kindness. Are you feeling any better?”
Anya shakes her head. “No. Well, maybe marginally…” She hesitates to answer for several moments, looking down at the floor. “You said your name is Y/N, is it…? You're sure this– this isn't some kind of afterlife?”
“Anya, it for sure isn't,” you say, the passive tone of voice you take contrasting the direct choice of wording. “Listen, whatever you're going through, you aren't alone. Do you have anyone I can call or otherwise reach out to…? Friends, family?”
That hurts to hear. The question makes a lump form in Anya's throat and, once again, she shakes her head. “I don't have anybody I would know how to reach.”
“Okay,” you softly answer, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Your hand is warm and your touch tender, the sympathy a foreign thing that makes Anya curl in on herself as you maintain your presence.
“What do you need the most right now?” you ask. “Food, water? Shelter?”
She needs her existence to be over. It should be over by now. Anya trembles beneath your hand, the pain in her throat increasing as the seconds tick by.
“Y– You don't need to do anything for me, really,” Anya answers, shrinking back. “I'll be fine.”
“So, you have somewhere safe to go, then?” you inquire.
There's another long stretch of silence before Anya answers that question.
“No.”
She doesn't meet your gaze, doesn't even want to know how you'll react. Half of her is expecting you to get angry at any moment or just accept that and walk away. She doesn't anticipate what you have to say afterwards.
“Do you need somewhere to go?”
God, you sound so caring. You seem really nice, and Anya has no idea what to make of it. Her eyes flood with tears and she bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to rend her flesh raw. This has all been too confusing and overwhelming.
“I'm n– not worth your time, Y/N. I'm sorry. Please, just– just forget you ever saw me in here.” She pulls away from your kind touch, wanting to stand up and run away, but she doesn't even know how to navigate this place. So, she stays where she is. Her throat hurts when she tries to speak and tells you, “I can't– can't even repay you if– if I wanted to.”
Pathetic. If Jimmy were here, he'd tell her to stop breaking down over every little thing like she always does. He isn't even here, but his previous actions haunt her and make her feel like a hollow husk of whatever happy, hopeful person she once was. She can't even say anything more without fresh tears rolling down her face, warm against the cool air of the gallery, sinuses inflamed from the sudden outburst of emotions.
Instead of reprimanding her, though, you speak softly. “Hey, it's okay. You don't need to do anything. To be honest, I'm just– like, really worried about you.”
“You don't even know me,” Anya replies between sobs that she can no longer hold back. “You have no idea what I just came from…”
“Yeah, that's– that's true,” you anxiously agree, “though I still care. I know that might be hard to believe, but I do. I just… I just want to help.”
This should, on paper, be a comforting thing to hear. Instead, and much to Anya's embarrassment, she ends up bawling into her hands. She shakes and trembles and weeps until, finally, after a span of several minutes, she tires herself out. Then, after another beat of silence, she turns to you with red and puffy eyes, still watery from her breakdown.
“I do need somewhere to go,” she finally answers, “but I don't have anywhere.”
Your eyes are compassionate as the gentle hand that once again finds its place on her arm. “I know a place,” you tell her, “if you want to go somewhere away from here, I have room in my apartment.”
Finally, too tired to argue, Anya nods her head. “That would be nice… Tha– Thank you.”