Encase Page 14

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  This seems to be the hook that always gets her – the simplicity of an argument formed out of “you have nothing more to lose”, the same argument that seems to have been propelling me through certain life choices and moments.

  “Well, I met a lot of people.”

  “A lot is subjective. You met only five people, and you did not meet them so much as they met you. You’re automatically putting yourself as not the center of a story where you, by your own view point, must be by default.”

  A laugh from the stormy skies makes a smile flicker, for a brevity, on my face.

  “Five, but all at once.” She seems to be answering how many people she’s walked with, something both Thomas and I talked over.

  “All at once?” His surprise is palpable and expected. “You walked with five people at once? Isn’t that... dangerous, or something?”

  “Or something,” she chooses, which does not earn her points from me.

  “There is no ‘or something’ about it,” I’m interrupting incredulously. “It is dangerous to walk with such a group on a small staircase. Even the two of you are at risk, walking the way – ”

  “Did you name them, too?”

  The simple, single sentence jolts both me and Freckles. It is in that moment that I realize something extraordinarily complex about the young boy who has been caught in a world of which he never signed up, of which he has been born and is now living as an child in: he is more than just a child.

  He is as complex as I am.

  As Thomas may be.

  As anyone can be.

  He lives, and he loves, and though he puts a steel cage around his heart, all he really wants are people to fill it.

  It sounds familiar, I suppose – but I do not know familiar to whom.

  “He’s afraid of being replaced,” I muse, aloud, for nothing more than a reaction from Thomas.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  The vulnerability of such a phrase both surprises and perplexes me. “I don’t believe I am,” I note, attempting not to sound haughty in my opinion. “I don’t believe I can be replaced.”

  “Of course you can’t. Because you’re special.” Half of his voice is reverent, honest; the other, annoyed and hurt.

  “No, no. It’s not that.” But it is that, in a way. I cannot be replaced because there are none other that can accurately fill the spot that I do. No one else would do the job in exactly the same way as I can.

  In this world of insanity, I am surprisingly level-headed. Enough to take on two charges! And though I lose memories, or thoughts, or understanding – I believe that I am uniquely qualified for the job that has been requested of me.

  “I believe we’re all special.”

  “No you don’t.” His voice is as unhappy as Freckles’ seems to be, on the other side of the staircase, recounting the life and death of her companions, something I have already watched and would rather not be reminded of. “You only believe certain people are special.”

  “In a way. I certainly believe people are special. Every person, perhaps.”

  He does not seem automatically impressed by this alteration of belief. “What changed your mind then, huh? From the last time we talked?”

  I gesture at Screech, who is continually questioning Freckles on every syllable she pronounces about her past life. “You already know. I told you. They’re different. He holds more emotion and feeling than I originally thought.”

  “So, because of that, all humans are diverse, intricate, and one-of-a-kind? All of the sudden?”

  “Why not? If I believe it for myself, and my charges, why can I not believe it for others?”

  “Because it’s just your charge’s fault! Again! You base all of your beliefs and everything off of something they say – ” I hear the words that he doesn’t mutter, but wishes to, within the back of my head. What about what I say? You never listen to me.

  “That is my job, Thomas. To listen and interpret what they say.”

  “No, your job’s to watch them.”

  “And apparently become attached to them? Right?” My voice is more pressed in anger than it has been in quite a length of time. “I am supposed to fall in love with them, or something, and yet when I show any sort of slight to them, you get incomprehensibly mad?”

  “I’m not mad. I just – ”

  “Just? Just? Just what?”

  “I just don’t know what you – you think of them. You don’t talk to me, I just – I don’t know.”

  “Anyway,” another voice interrupts, babbling from the barrier, “then there was Todd.”

  And suddenly, it’s as if any of the words that Thomas and I had been discussing are gone. My mind is completely tuned in, and my thoughts are blank, except for the face of my younger twin brother.

  “Todd?”

  “He remembers his name and not his age.”

  Is that how she sees it? He’s traded one form of memory for another?

  As I sit down, cross-legged, in front of the viewer, I allow myself and Thomas to “pause” our discussion, and I close my eyes and allow every word, every thought about the younger brother that had used to be part of me to fill up the air and my mind.

  We had known each other for such a short amount of time in this cycle, and yet, I still feel inexplicably connected to him.

  He is my twin, after all.

  We knew each other on a different wavelength, a different level. We could see one another and understand.

  If only I knew how to fight his demons for him.

  “Odd Todd.”

  “Lanky boy. Bright blue eyes. Rather limp hair. Tall.”

  “Early 20s or something.”

  “Sort of friends with everyone, y’know? Even the creepy girl sorta liked him, I think. Everyone loved Todd.”

  “No. Not Todd.”

  “You mean he went on without you?”

  Through all the other subjects and thoughts jumped together, my mind awaited his mention, his name again. I stare forlornly up my own staircase, wondering how far I would have to go to find him.

  Wondering if he is even still alive.

  It has been a while since I’ve last seen his face.

  But, as I stare in the reflection of the barrier, I remind myself, a bit brokenly, that he’s always with me.

  “You miss them?”

  I look back up to the shimmering screen above me, awaiting an answer I seem to have something riding on.

  “If I think about it.”

  How could one not think about it?

  I pull my knees to my chest, momentarily, staring at the silhouettes of strangers adorning a staircase far away, and think about the spot of strangers I’ve had in my life that have already left.

  These two are all I really have left, now. Them and Thomas.

  “I think,” I begin, startling the man above me out of his silence, “that they are different than I originally envisioned.”

  “Different how?”

  They are beginning to move, the legs that were pulled beneath them suddenly exploding and carrying their bodies above, higher, so that they can walk and bobble up the staircase.

  I follow suit, the answer to the question Thomas has left not forgotten, just delayed.

  “I think,” I murmur, unsure whether or not I truly want him to hear, “that they are more normal and more extraordinary than I could have ever possibly imagined.”

  He doesn’t verbally reply, which is good; I am busy thinking.

  Quite like you, Thomas.

  eighteen

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “I’m not. Why would I do that? Do you think I want to upset you?”

  “At times, it is unclear to see whether or not you truthfully want to extend your sincerest help, or are simply being rude and stealing things and secrets from me firmly and securely.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re being such a drama queen.”

  “I am neither dramatic, nor a
queen.”

  “You’re only dramatic, and only a queen.”

  “Why do you consistently feel it necessary to argue with me about my own personality traits?”

  “Because you don’t know the truth about yourself.”

  “I do not know the truth about much – but I do believe personality is one thing I can nail without your consistent help. Regardless, I still believe myself to be right in our original argument.”

  And, indeed, I know I am correct. It has been some length of time – longer than the ones I am normally used to, that is – and it is plain to see, from any eye that exists, no matter how blind, that the staircase is growing smaller.

  It is not only my staircase that is decreasing, but Screech’s and Freckles’ – both have noticed and commented on the fact. I still remember the conversation, ringing in my ears.

  “Don’t you think the staircase is getting smaller? Much smaller?”

  “No. No.” Freckles’ voice was strong, but I could hear the lie within her words, even as she was attempting to hide it and fabricate another truth. “It’s some sort of... warped perception thing from us climbing up the staircase too long.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It happens all the time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, sure I’m sure! Don’t worry about it. This is normal.”

  And though Screech, perhaps falling beneath the veil of his age for once, seems to believe her, I most certainly do not.

  “You must be able to see it, Thomas. The staircase is shrinking seemingly right before our eyes!”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “You’re doing what Freckles is doing – but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes.” I attempt to shame him with a singular wag of my finger upwards, but that only triggers a laugh from him.

  “Oh come on. You really think I’d lie to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Puzzle pieces.”

  “What?”

  The memory of my brother and our shared secret comes back so strong that, for a moment, I forgot he was not there and that the words were not common knowledge. For some reason, I feel the expansion of anger within my throat.

  “Listen, it – it doesn’t matter. I just know without doubt that the staircase is shrinking.”

  It’s been days – or weeks – perhaps months since I first noted this observation. Screech and Freckles stop for rest, and the day changes, and they exchange words, and then they stop for rest once again. Days can go on for years and seem like moments, yet minutes can seem like years; the perception of time is warped, but I know my perception of vision is not.

  As Freckles and Screech are quietly discussing how tall the staircase is, Screech instigating everything as always – “If it gets too tall, do you think we won’t be able to breathe?” “If the mist is made of blood, we probably shouldn’t be able to breathe anyway.” “So you think all of everything is out of whack?” “Out of whack, huh? Using our big boy words?” “Shut up.” – I debate with Thomas, once again, about the size of the stairs.

  “I used to be able to lie down on it, across, if I wanted to.”

  “No, you never could.”

  “Yes I could! I was the one who did it, so I should know. And, look – ” I do a singular twirl, one of my legs extending, pulling back in towards myself as I get near the barrier that is so close, even my knee scrapes its insides, before turning again, to the front, stumbling a bit from the ever-shattering feeling of the barrier. “I used to be able to do that with my leg extended the entire time.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I could!

  “No.”

  “Yes, I – ”

  “No.”

  His voice is no longer arguing with me. I cannot tell when it changed, but suddenly, I notice that his voice is downfallen, stuck in some sort of horrific sadness as deep and as wide as the sky above me. He seems to have just noticed, or realized something – something that he knows will negatively impact us.

  All petty arguments are off. There is some sort of residual friendship between the two of us that is stronger than any momentary anger.

  “What is it?”

  “Ives – I’m sorry. I was hoping to turn off the viewer.”

  “No, you’re not turning off the viewer.” My eyes go to Screech and Freckles, continuing their quiet trek up, their conversation having died minutes ago, unaware of the fear that Thomas seems to suddenly have. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “Ives, I don’t want you to see this – ”

  “If it has to do with my charges, I am watching. I am supposed to be here for them. Thomas, what is it?”

  “Ives – please – ”

  I can hear the compassion, the love, the care within every thread of the quilt of his words, but I still do not care. I am watching them. It is my duty, apparently. And every moment spent with them, kept with them, might bring me closer to the mystery of finding out who, what, and where I am.

  And then – it happens. With no further warning than a single spine chilling screech that rips the air apart around them, causing the younger one to shiver and the older one to swallow uncomfortably.

  Suddenly there’s a blanket of liquid on top of them, as if it had tripped on top of them without their consent or even the slightest yelp. At no point is the rain, as it were, light – from the moment it starts, it is torrential.

  The rain is not clear, not light.

  It is heavy, it is dark, it is –

  blood.

  “What?” I whisper, the horror perhaps the only reason my voice can be heard under the sudden pattering of rain that is, most certainly, not rain.

  On the other side, however, the reaction is much more fevered. Screech lets out a shout as he jumps backwards, almost into Freckles’ arms, and she starts screaming, loudly, her hands come up by her head as she cringes, as if to attempt to shield herself from the water that is literally everywhere. It soaks the staircase, dragging holes into it, and soaks through their clothing – even the denim. The ferocity of the blood falling makes it bounce back up into their faces, and they both close their eyes and attempt to save themselves.

  Freckles believes to have found the most intelligent way to hide from the scaturient shower, and collapses on the staircase that appears to be wearing away at her very fingers. She can hardly lie down on it correctly, it’s so small, now.

  But Screech does not see this, and does not have the idea. He’s swatting at the rain as if it will obey his fingers, and he’s attempting to breathe, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as Freckles makes for herself an air pocket between her and the staircase.

  What I watch happen is something that, indeed, I did not want to see. Slipping and sliding, Screech loses the bit of foundation he does have in his feet and begins to tumble, backwards, off the staircase.

  No.

  I haven’t had enough time. He’s my charge – he needs to live for longer, so I can remember, so I can not lose my memory – he cannot fall now. It’s not his time!

  “It’s not his time!” I’m crying, up, to Thomas.

  “Ives, just let it be. It’ll all be okay.”

  “No! It’s not his time!”

  I know there is only one thing I can do. Only one thing that will make a difference.

  “Ives, no, he’ll be safe! Just watch!”

  But I do not have time to think. I do not have time to take into consideration anything other than the pull I have, deep in my chest, the need to see him through.

  His scream is broken, a cry that shakes the very foundations of the world around me to its core, one that even makes my soul shiver.

  “Ives, NO – !”

  But Ives still goes. Without heed to the voice – as normal – Ives still closes her eyes and pushes herself, shoulder first, into a barrier that she has never completely scaled.

  I wait for something to happen, breath held, body stiffened.
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  It is different, this time, in a way that makes it feel total and complete.

  I hear a snap!, a crack!, as if a bone has just lost its other half, merely because of my singular step. For a moment, that is the only noise there is, echoing against the constraints of my skull as my body stops its moving.

  And then there are new noises. Large noises. Continuing, swirling, ever constricting and calling. I feel closed in, as if I’ve stepped into the inside of something, and am caught there, unable to move, breathe, see. The floor beneath me begins to dance faster than my feet ever could, and I am continually looking for somewhere to be, somewhere to stand, something to have.

  I see myself, but I do not feel as if I am, in any way, out of my body. I feel as if I’m too in, too tethered to a body that I do not feel my soul has ever felt completely correct in.

  And then... I feel it.

  It starts on my head, and begins to slide down my body, pushing and pulling me. The temperature varies from area to area as I wiggle to adjust underneath the feeling, attempting to relax and understand and hurry to where a young boy is falling, is dying, where I am needed.

  This is that world Thomas was talking about. The world in-between. This is why Isaac was damp.

  It’s raining on me.

  Not raining blood – raining water. The water seems to be steadily focused on me, all over me, and I catch it getting into my mouth, making it hard to breathe. Waterlogged hair is weighing my entire body down as my locks begin to fall in front of my face, and I have to pull my left arm around, up, holding my hair up, just to see.

  Still, I cannot see. It is like there is some sort of shield, some white filter, making it impossible to ascertain anything. I can make out shapes and figures moving forward – to the left of me, to the right of me, in front of me, but I do not know what is what. They’re all just silhouettes, different colors, things that I can hardly distinguish in my fear.

  I need to move forward. To where Screech and Freckles are. But as I begin to attempt to will one of my legs to inch forward, the water begins to bite.

  It starts on my head, then trickles down to my neck, my back, my legs.

  A fire, seizing, burning, holding, controlling. A fire borne from ice, beginning to take my body and attempting to fashion my atoms into weapons, to kill me. The bit of water getting into my mouth is so freezing my jaw unhinges, opens, forces me to breathe in more of this liquid that haunts and hurts me so.