Encase Page 17

  I’ve risen, and I’m breathing heavily, my gasps staggered, quick, my hands in fists at my sides, my mind running and racing and reeling.

  “Ives, just think – ”

  “No, you listen here!” A single finger rises into the air, pointing at where I approximate him to be. “I am not yours to be owned. I can make my own decisions for me. I don’t care what you do or don’t feel about me. I am mine. No one else’s! Not ever!”

  “Ivory – ”

  “Ives! I am Ives! Not Ivory!”

  I am done. The tenuous threads are pulled too taut, ache too much to ignore, to shrug away. I have had it with him deciding what I can and cannot do, who I can and cannot be. I am exhausted of being told who I am, and what I feel, and how I think, when those last versions of me are not people I know nor can be sure of – this moment, who I am right now, is all I know.

  And it’s all I will allow myself to know.

  I turn myself back to the barrier, but remain still, as if waiting for him to stay something – or daring him to tell me something other than the truth. Perhaps I am even daring him to stall my tracks like he did last time, to ignite my body and meld my lungs.

  But he does none of these things. He stays in the words he has stopped himself from speaking, refused to allow tumble past the guardians of his lips, and seems to wait for the inevitable actions of my movements.

  Freckles reaches over and grabs Screech in a choke hold under her arm. A friendly fist goes to ruffling his hair, and he laughs, struggling, flailing, pushing her away with a singular, “You suck.”

  She releases him and for a moment they walk with no words, until she leans in, speaking only from the side of her mouth, and mutters, “Let’s see how much water we get.”

  Water we get.

  It cements every thought I’ve been harboring, every fear that’s been deep in me – even justifies the near uncontrollable anger I am exhibiting towards Thomas.

  And that is it. That is the final straw. The final betrayal. My gaze set and steely, my arms still crossed, I step through the barrier, the last sound of the previous world being Thomas’ voice beginning to form my name.

  I am in that other world again – one where the floor seems to dive deeper and deeper the longer I hesitate, and the walls dance and link in never-ending circles, and I am so aware of every centimeter of my body and, yet, completely out of me. I feel the water begin to creep over my head, trickling slowly before it billows into the likeness of a waterfall, covering my shoulders, shirking down my arms and legs. I lift up my hair with my left arm, my elbow bent as I do so, and see the haze that I have tried to train myself for.

  So many colors. It’s as if I’m staring into a kaleidoscope – which, like puzzle piece, is a word my brain associates with something I do not believe I have ever beheld. I’m beginning to walk forward, staring at the center, where all of the swirling, twirling colors intermix and turn into black.

  The further I walk, the more water is pushing against me. I seal my lips and flare my nostrils inwards, but the lack of oxygen is beginning to craze my mind further. I allow able legs to push faster and harder through what feels to be a consuming wall of water in every direction... moving, and beginning to jump, and running, little black and white dots joining in my vision in my search for air...

  And then, finally, I explode through. I break at the barrier of black and I am safe. The water ceases almost immediately.

  I notice that the world around me is not black because that is all there is to see – it’s because, somehow, when I entered this portion of my journey, my eyes automatically shut. I blink them open as my lungs gratefully lap up the air, and take in my surroundings.

  I am the stars. I am made of the stars and of a dark blue night sky that has the catch falls of white in them. I have never even seen a night sky of this color; and yet, staring at it, I know it is correct, and I know I am there.

  My body is the lines between the constellations, and below me is a dark world glittering pockets of light. Some part of my mind says home. Another part of my mind says strangers.

  I do not know which to believe, but I do not have time to contemplate. I attempt to move my numbed soul forward, not into the black and lights of civilization below, but forward, into the brighter stars that must, must symbolize Screech’s and Freckles’ existence. Though I have never met them nor spoken to them, it’s as if I can feel their essence in every shuddering breath I take.

  As soon as I pass through the invisible blockade before me, I find myself in the world of the Ashen Staircase, retaining what I was in the sky. I am lines and dashes, holding no similarity to my old form, dark blue with screams of light at my bends, and somehow, feeling more me than I ever was.

  I can see the staircase as if I am an angel, a cloud, above it, and I begin to move in to view the two dark dots that must be my charges. I make a single stretch forward...

  ... but something is holding me, pulls me back. For a moment I believe it to be Thomas, and find myself attempting to get angry, though no emotion seems able to come to me, and then I look back.

  There is a filter of white in the sky, and behind it, my body – as if awaiting my return. My hands are positioned on different areas of this form, for none of what I am now even resembles me, and as I look, I see I have dragged one of my hands and the better half of my forearm through with me. I pull myself out of it, and the limb crackles like burning foliage, and begins to float upwards, towards an invisible sky. Something in my mind wants to remember this scene, but I cannot – do not – and I turn to move on.

  The sky of red that I have been so used to pressing into my mind is turning dark, black, as it does at night. But as my old me has only just woken up, it cannot be nighttime yet. That is impossible.

  I move as quickly as I can down, falling to a planet that is not mine. As I move, I see beyond the plateau of soot, notice a sea as red as blood. The thing that they had always been staring down towards, in horror. I wonder if that would disturb me, if I felt anything.

  The lost soul is glowing, like one of the dots of light in the civilization I have just mused over. I dance through the sky, somehow still fair in my fall, before coming next to Screech and Freckles.

  They’re alive. They’re breathing. They’re here. And though some – or maybe all – of those thoughts should excite me, none of them cause any sort of reaction.

  In front of my vision, Screech reaches over and grabs Freckles’ arm. She tenses, glances over, and relaxes before her own fingers search his.

  So close. They’re so close. I question what kind of bargain this Madame Veneera made to make them do something that would so easily risk both of their lives.

  “It is time for your water, children.” Her voice sounds different, now that I’m here. It chills and frightens more effectively, as if I had been watching a movie without the background music on, and had only just found the switch to turn it back up.

  Two wooden cups are extended to them. I cannot help Freckles – I remember that, and the promise I made to Thomas no longer upsets me – so I move to Screech, who takes his with a glare. He looks inside at the dark liquid... cocks his head to one side, as if unsure...

  I look around. It is dark enough for none to see. I was told I could influence and change this world. Why keep him here, next to the danger, with something that could very easily maim him in his small hands?

  There’s no reason, that’s why. None at all.

  I pull away from Screech and higher – I see him, and then I see another spot, far away from them, one my very attention has lit probably to only my own vision. Freckles is asking a question, and Screech is still mulling over his options, nail pressed into the gauntlet – and suddenly, he’s been thrown miles and miles away, on another section, and Freckles is there alone with the woman.

  “Freckles!”

  The singular shout by the young boy shocks her, terrifies her. She pulls down the cup and begins looking around frantically for the friend she supposed woul
d be near her. For the friend that was supposed to never leave her side, as per arrangement.

  But Madame Veneera sees to use this fear as another thing entirely. Both are distracted – confused and alone – and so, of course, Screech is essentially open to be attacked solitary.

  In retrospect, I am unsure if separating them was a good idea. Oh, well. At least I believed he would be safer.

  Within moments, Madame Veneera is next to him.

  I move in towards the pair and linger behind Veneera’s back – Screech’s face is horrified, fighting to be brave in the face of an adversity that he hardly even comprehend. “What do you want with us?” He’s still holding his wooden cup, but it’s empty, held at his side. “Just – let us go!”

  I cannot see it, but I believe Madame Veneera’s smile fades, just by the look on Screech’s face. Confusion, and... near apology, as he studies her.

  “I wish it would,” I hear the slump of shoulders whisper.

  “What?” Screech returns.

  “Let us go. I wish it would. But we are all stuck here forever, hm? No escape. You get to die, and you think I’m the lucky one?”

  Screech is frozen. Blood cold, I can imagine, as the realization truly dawns on him. As the small flame of hope that, perhaps, she isn’t attempting to end their lives is effectively snuffed out. Eyes fall downwards, and something in his face is set.

  He raises his hand, everything in his expression dark. Everything in everything dark. So dark, in fact, I can hardly see cup released, hit against Madame Veneera’s face. Some residual liquid from the cup splashes at me, but I do not feel it.

  Madame Veneera backs up, feet edging into my incorporeal ones. I become her expression for a moment, just long enough to feel that it is stricken and shocked, and then return to spaces behind her.

  From behind me, I hear Freckles crying out for Screech. Not a single one of her consonants or vowels reveal her to be coping well with his disappearance. In fact, her voice sounds rather fever-pitched.

  Perhaps I can move her? Edge her closer to this arguing pair? Or perhaps I can move the arguing pair closer to her?

  But before I can decide, I no longer need to. Madame Veneera has chosen another tactic. She is gone from before me, and I turn, expecting to see her form retreat towards wherever Freckles is.

  When Screech leaps through where my form is and is not, I can nearly feel his hands as part of mine – shaking in its terror. Something in my shoulders feels small. Hurts. For the first time since I passed through sky and starlight, I feel feeling.

  Hot. Horrible. Heinous. It aches in my lungs.

  It reminds me of drawing my fist back and into Isaac’s face.

  It reminds me of walking through the barrier even as Thomas’ lips tried to form my name.

  It reminds me so much of me.

  Yet never have I had such anger, such fear, to help another. It has always been self-protection, has it not?

  Will I ever want to rage as a hero? For others?

  Is that what I’m doing here, or is it me effectively giving a Thomas a middle finger? Have I ever done anything with purely good intentions? Have I ever done anything that doesn’t benefit only me?

  The three that inhabit this staircase are selfish, however. As I am having my moment of self-reflection and discovery, they are fighting, arguing, dying. So, with the emptiness afforded to me from my cross, I turn to watch the scene, see if the spaces within my form have decided to interfere in any way.

  Screech has begun to run, at breakneck speed, calling out Freckles’ name as though he will locate her through that alone. I follow as everything and nothing. I am the ground his feet are beating on, I am the wind in his hair, I’m the hair caught by the wind, I’m the sweat on his face, I’m the mark on his hand. I am certainly not Ivory, certainly not physical.

  He is too slow, and I am bored, so I become his feet, force him to move desperately, quicker. The ground seems to disappear beneath me, us, him.

  “Screech?” she’s replying. The fervent hope and gratitude cannot go unnoticed.

  “Look out!” he’s yelling, as he’s moving, and as I’m tracing his steps. “Look out!”

  When we arrive, together, me humming and dancing around the young boy’s body, Madame Veneera has – quite literally – sunken her claws into Freckles’ body. She is fading, turning into nothing more than smoke, the figure of which is oddly similar to the figure that had run towards the pair alone on the staircase, that had scared them both senseless and, as I’ve only just fully recognized, that has scarred Screech’s palm.

  I watch the now red skin coil into a fist.

  I do not want him to go, but as I reach to stop him, I know that I cannot let either of my charges die.

  And so, I allow him to do a run up before he tackles her off of Freckles and onto the ground. The two struggle for a while, him shoving and her pulling, but finally he vaults off of her and jumps around, knees bent so his body can remain close to the ground, hands held out in preparation. The mess of red rises and begins to run towards him, but he merely seizes her tulle and throws her backwards, hoping to catch her off the edge, presumably.

  There is no edge there to be found. With a sweeping glance that shows me much more than any human eye could, I know that the edge is not for miles and miles.

  And yet – seeing him succeed is what I have been waiting for. It’s what I long for. And, so, with a consent, I move the entire assembly of people to the very edge of the staircase, over which Veneera begins to fly.

  She is not done, yet, though. Her body twists midair, and the nails that have been her champions dig into a young boy’s chest.

  His knees buckle and his voice lets out a howl at the contact of her claws. Freckles is frozen, unmoving, unsure, and I can see the future with a toss of my eternity – Screech is going down.

  I have chosen the moment to cross over that Screech dies in.

  I begin to move forward, unperturbed by that thought. The emptiness of me is eternal in a peaceful, relaxing way – I am glad to finally have shed the emotions that were beginning to weigh me down.

  This... internal numbness, as it were... would be better suited to attempting to sorting through a situation intelligently.

  And thus, so I do.

  I do not allow Screech to fall. Freckles is already moving in his direction. I pull Screech from the air, and see the momentary horror in the depths of the tulle clad woman – then, without much of a thought or fear, I place both Screech and Freckles on the same plane, next to each other, so one can collide within the other.

  Freckles flattens him into the ground and they are lying there, panting, shaking, the younger bleeding wildly, the older holding him as if he isn’t.

  And then again, I pull away, as easily as if I could change how much and how little I saw of the action. They were still on a field? It is time to afford them more – back to the staircase.

  Their bodies are far off originally from where the staircase was, so I will them back to the sooty passage. I picture and imagine it in my core, and I let my body ebb and grow towards it – and then they are there, back on the staircase, once again, stuttering to one another.

  “Y–... you just saved my life. Oh my God... what happened?” It only takes a moment to distract Freckles, before she calls, “We’re back on the staircase!”

  They’re still damp from their supposed bath as they cling to one another, still damp as they cry and bleed together. Freckles begins to question Screech on what’d happened, and he looks as if at a loss for what to say.

  “I just... you weren’t there anymore.” He seems to be considering how much to tell her, before, “And then you were, and Madame Veneera was going to kill you.”

  The repetition of the name sparked something, some sort of memory in Freckles, and her eyes begin to shine with this remembered, weighted knowledge. “We need to get out of here! Screech, Madame Veneera.”

  And that is all the reminding the young boy needs to follow his victor into
battle, once again. The two rise, and begin to race up a staircase with no light. I light myself, light I know they cannot see, but I am sure they can feel.

  They misstep, they stumble, they trip. I redirect each step accordingly, but I can feel my time growing shorter in a way that one can feel pressed for time when on a deadline. Physically, nothing may have changed – but there is something deep within, mentally, dragging one backwards.

  I stay with them until they stop running – until they collapse on the stairs, side by side, breathing, hands still intertwined for a few moments.

  The other world is calling me home, though, and I allow myself to float away, be pulled backwards through the filter that holds my body. From there, I merely float on the surface of water that once fought me until I feel my mind hit a bottom in a deep sleep.

  twenty-two

  When I was in the other world, I felt nothing.

  There were just the stars and my thoughts and the promise of saving a life I needed to save.

  It was all so peaceful, like I was in a dream with no responsibilities, no troubles, no pain.

  Everything was fine.

  It is opposite here, now.

  Nothing is fine.

  I feel sick. As I wake up, that is my first thought – as if I’d been asleep for so long, I’d forgotten bits of myself, bits that had to come back in ebbing, easing waves. My body felt hollow and pale – ill and empty. I did not want to see, or think, or speak. I just want the peace again.

  “Ives?”

  The voice is hopeful, piqued, realizing I’m awake.

  “Ives – thank goodness – Ives!”

  I’m moving, I’ve realized. The fog and mist, white and mysterious, has gathered beneath my form. I am floating through the air, bobbing slightly, presumably keeping up with the plane of my charges.

  “You’ve been out for a while.” Thomas’ voice is breathless with joy, relieved, I suppose, at my wakening.

  “Where – who – how...”

  “It’ll all come back to you,” his gentle voice is reassuring. “You are fine. You are safe. Do not be alarmed. Move at your own pace.”