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  But I do not enjoy “moving at my own pace”. I do not enjoy stinted, unsure relaxation. So I begin to unfurl myself from the state of mind I’m in. I begin to stretch the tendons of my back out, reaching my legs below and beneath me, allowing a gentle pop of my body. I crack my neck, move to my hands. I reach my right hand out, allow it to ease towards the sky, and move towards my left hand.

  I do not believe I have ever screamed louder in my life.

  The noise echoes off of the barrier.

  The noise cascades into the other world, the Ashen Staircase.

  It shakes the stars from their place and my mind from myself.

  My thoughts are racing, the world is spinning, pinpoints of white are obstructing and confusing my view.

  “Thom – I – you – said – ”

  “I did everything I could. There was no saving it.” His voice is sincerely apologetic, as if, for the first time, damage has been dealt to our group; and, truly, it has.

  My hand is gone.

  Not just my hand, but my forearm. Completely gone.

  My left arm reaches past the elbow, then stops only inches after that, skin as smooth and as pale as if there had never been an arm there to begin with, as if this is the way my body has always been.

  But it is not. It has not been. And, in horror, I cry.

  I have cried before. Angry tears have blinked their way from my eyes. But I have never sobbed – not in this life, at least. I am holding the stick of flesh I’m allowed and bent over it, crying so grossly and so hard I feel as if I’m injuring myself.

  I taste and breathe nothing but salt tears and pain. My arm does not hurt, but my soul is throbbing, screaming, as if it was that that had just been severed.

  I have nothing in this world. I own no one, and no one owns me. No one loves me, not truly – not Thomas, who would rather keep me in a cage, safe, separated from the world, than allow me to fall and stumble on my own – not my brother, who would rather possess me and others, who lost himself – not Screech, nor Freckles, whom I save and love, but who do not know me.

  All I had owned was myself.

  And it’s gone.

  “No! NO!” I’m screaming as if I’ve lost it all – as if it’s all been plucked, stolen away from me. I begin to thrash against the gentle constraints of the clouds that had been holding me to keep me from moving in my sleep – I fall onto a cold, hard staircase, the pattering of ache in my bones absolutely nothing compared to the violent turmoil of my soul.

  “Iv – ”

  I begin to thrash on the barriers, the mirror, with every piece of my body. It is as if not only my arm has been severed, but my entire form, my entire figure.

  How am I to dance with the lack of weight on one side? How am I to live? What am I to have?

  Nothing.

  It is a sour thought, as I collapse to the ground, hitting both my legs and the slippery surface.

  Nothing is mine. I am not allowed anything.

  Not even my own body.

  I’m still howling, so much so that I can feel Thomas completely back off, leave me alone in grief that I know I have worked hard to deserve.

  The solitude allows me peace in suffering.

  And, as I wrap myself around my stump of an arm, rock back and forth, and scream, I know it is peace that I needed once again.

  twenty-three

  Peace is impossible to find in this world.

  There is no such thing as peace. Just flitting moments of fantasy and fancy that enlighten and brighten a heart for the briefest of moments before it fades into the aching, outcrying pain of nothingness.

  Thomas and I haven’t talked since the encounter. He’s by my side, I feel, awaiting me to need him, but I do not need him.

  I needed me, and I no longer get to have a me.

  I do not dance up the stairs anymore. My steps are no longer light, swaying, graceful. Every step treads of angry fitfulness. I do not even allow myself to try to practice more with this disfigured body, get better.

  My charges have to fall off the staircase soon. Soon, I can be reborn too, and forget that I ever had an arm.

  Tears sting my eyes more often than I would feel necessary. Every day seems endlessly more tiring. I feel like I have been trudging up these stairs for eons, breathing in nothing more than my dissatisfaction.

  I want to forget.

  I would be happy to.

  I still enjoy listening to the charges I sacrificed my arm for. To them, I hold no animosity. It was my own self that began to drag my body out of the filter, even if I did not know what I was doing at the time. I wish I had – I wish I could have done something. Felt something. But there was an eternity of blissful nothingness, and that is the only thing I ache and wish to return to.

  Something in or about the air feels cold – nearly chilled – and I can feel bumps creeping up my arms and hand. I have not gotten used to the lightness of my severed arm, and I keep reaching out with one hand to meet a hand that will not be there. I try to put weight on it to lower myself down on a stair – slip instead. I gasp past my racing heart, ignore Thomas’ noises of concern.

  Instead, I listen to Screech and Freckles speak, idly, about nothing in particular, into the dark, as they always do before sleep finds them and me. About, I believe, stopping their walking, perhaps eternally, perhaps forever. I feel half asleep in my disinterest; not quite of them, but of life.

  And then I hear it.

  A voice. A singular voice. Perhaps the only voice that can remind me what it’s like to feel again.

  “Naw, Rascal, that’s ‘bout the stupidest goddamn thang I ever did heard you say. And I done heard you say some pretty messed up stuff.”

  My eyes widen, instant. My body stiffens. My lips part. In the darkness of nothing, I wish, wildly, that I could see.

  “Thomas, is that – ?”

  “Yes.” It’s the obvious hatred in Thomas’ voice that truly confirms it.

  “Oh my God!” Freckles is rising, I can hear, by the slight way her voice strains as she shifts her weight from her back to her feet. “I can’t believe it!”

  Isaac.

  I’m crawling towards the screen, now, one I can’t see – my hand and stump are pressed against the barrier, ignoring any nauseating feeling in my spine. My little brother. My little brother. He’s been gone for so long – I just presumed he must have... died, or fallen, or something.

  But he’s alive.

  Confused, messed up, broken as he is.

  He’s alive.

  “Ya cain’t believe it? Never thought I’d see nobody this far up! Let alone ‘I’m never gunna climb again’ you!”

  For some reason, Freckles is deciding to forgive Todd just as quickly as I Isaac. Maybe it’s the journey. It’s worn on us, and – the security of familiarity, no matter how lost and twisted, is something that we both feel like we need, for some reason or another.

  “I just can’t believe it,” she’s repeating, and I can nearly hear her will away the anger as she makes her way across the stairs to him.

  There’s a sudden girlish giggle that has me believing that Isaac has hugged her, and a light kissing noise that is obvious in giving itself up.

  “Wow. Thank the Lord God Almighty. My luck is just ta fantastic. I thought I were going to go out of my mind up here. Lack of people is rather... well... disheartenin’.”

  A soft, singular laugh from Freckles, before, “I know what you mean. Hey – ” as she seems to get some sort of realization “ – Screech, get over here.”

  There’s silence; total and complete silence. Though Freckles and I do not meet eyes, we both feel the same fear, and I am sure of it, especially when I hear the horrified inclination of her voice.

  “Screech?”

  He couldn’t have fallen off. No. Not while we were distractedly attached to the idea of another. Not for the five seconds our minds wandered.

  No.

  “Screech?” None of Todd’s voice is kind. “What kinda name is that?
”

  “It’s, uh...” She tapers off for a moment, as unsure as I feel, mind currently distracted with finding Screech in the darkness. “We don’t really know each other’s names, so we came up with them for one another.”

  His laugh is rude, nearly assaulting. “And what’s his name fer ya?”

  Neither of us mentally or verbally waste time answering his puerile question, but we do not have to – because Screech pipes up, and Freckles and I both release sighs in unison. “Her name’s Freckles.”

  “Freckles? Oh, I like that. Freckles.”

  “Yeah.” Freckles’ voice is almost unsure, almost offended. “We were actually just resting for the night.”

  “Restin’ for the night? Why?”

  There is a long pause. Neither Screech nor Freckles feels willing enough to offer a proper answer, but the correct one is reverberating into my mind. I remember the baby, who fell during the night, which daylight greeted me with nothing more than people losing their stomachs over the sight of the young child below, apparently in the tossing, blood red waves. He was there, then. He comforted Freckles with a hand pressed against the small of her back. Is his memory so fitful? It was once so sharp – grabbed universes that even Thomas grappled with. Or does he work to pretend he does not know about such things? Either way, I am not completely pleased with such turn of events.

  “It’s really dangerous to walk at night,” she finally responds. I reply with a sigh of my own, and yet, somehow, I’m starting to feel more alive and more excited by every turn of events in the other world than I ever have.

  It is true that it is dangerous to walk at night.

  But it is also true that the mind of the character we rely on is... much different than I can ever understand, imagine, cope with.

  “It ain’t that dangerous, honestly. The staircase go the same way – up – so there ain’t no problem.”

  It is so dark, and they are still passing around the idea of moving upwards like a burning stone, so much so that I feel the familiar fingers of worry wrap around and constrict my throat. I do not want to watch them die – especially, of course, if I can not watch them.

  I hardly listen to the rest of the discussion, allowing my ears to soak up quick murmurings in order to figure out their final decision – to climb, or not to climb, as it were. They argue over whether or not Screech’s name is Native American – they argue, some sort of scuffle or movement breaks out that deeply upsets Screech, and finally, the question I’ve been waiting for spills from Freckles’ mouth:

  “Listen, Screech and I are actually going to camp out the rest of the night here. If you’re not too antsy, will you stay with us?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately. Though I can not see, something tells me that he is pacing, back and forth, introspective and contemplative. The silence wears on not only me, but also the pair, and within moments, I can almost feel their own anxiousness, as if it were shared – which, incidentally, I suppose it is.

  “Aw, sure, Rasc. I’d do just ‘bout anything to not feel alone.”

  I can hear the relief in Freckles’ voice, and I feel it reverberate within my own body. Safe. At least for another night, I get to have both my charges – and Isaac, too, in tow.

  “Here, let me show you our stair.”

  And so starts another night – a night that should have been normal, and is wildly exciting and new, now, that everyone is back. When the sky starts lightening, the pink hues yawning against the blackness of the staircase, I take a moment to soak in the images I have been lacking.

  It looks like Isaac. The same face that I have grown accustomed to in the mirror is finally staring back at me. After all this time... all I have lost, and done, and who I feel like I’ve started to become... I never thought I’d see him again. Never thought it’d be him, still alive.

  A new part of wardrobe has been added to what he normally wears. A button down blue shirt fits over his scrawny shoulders, and I stare at it in momentary wonder. He’s never owned such a shirt before – all of his inventory is plainly visible. When did he gain that?

  “You should have slept last night, Ives. You won’t feel well today.”

  I haven’t felt well for a while, is what I want to say, but what I do choose to throw to Thomas is, “Is that a new shirt?”

  “What? Oh, yeah – cotton. I thought the purple hues really bring out my eyes – ”

  “Not on you!” His poorly executed attempt at what I can only presume to be a joke earns a lip twitch, and no more, from me. “On Isaac!”

  “Oh, I – don’t really pay attention to what he wears.”

  My sigh is heavy, but somehow, much more relaxed than it has been in a while. I near physically feel Thomas turn his attention to my brother, attempt to see whether or not what I’m seeing is correct.

  “I mean – I guess. Didn’t really notice it.”

  No, a part of my mind snaps, leftover animosity and anger. You don’t notice anything.

  Isaac expresses that it’s nice to see Freckles again, and, framed in the shifting shades of the early morning light, she almost looks flattered. I can understand such a reaction. I may have felt the same way, had he expressed the same to me. I relax, stretch out my body, bending my limbs over my legs as I watch the scene unfold in front of me with hardly withheld curiosity. They are speaking, but the words almost do not matter to me; my mind is set on another goal entirely.

  “I want to go through.”

  “Ives, no.” Thomas’ voice is what it always seem to be when discussing my safety: stern and worried. As if he knows that the slightest slip up, the tiniest provocation will completely ruin me. “If you go through the barrier again – you can be injured again. You can die.”

  “It’s my brother, Thomas.” I wonder what he would think of me, without my arm. “I have to see him again. I have to – have him see me.”

  “Ives – !”

  And now, the shock is somewhat more obvious to me, as I switch to extending myself over the other leg. I am not supposed to be substantial when crossing over. I risk a return. I can become like he is...

  ... a lost soul.

  But Isaac was lost when I first met him. He was gone the day I pulled him from the closed staircase. He had never been here, never existed with us. His face and eyes had always very simply told me that his life was not here; it was in another world, where, presumably, there was more to know, more to understand about both this world and the unnamed ‘other world’ we all seem to believe in, like some sort of central form of religion.

  Even now, on the other side of the staircase, Isaac and Freckles are arguing about the existence of something that hardly makes sense. Something about the inner workings and solidity of that world when, I have a strange feeling, that that world does not even truly exist.

  “If I want to go through, I have that right.” I am playing the card that my brother used to get away with, once, something I never seem to benefit from when Thomas is factored in.

  “You also have the right to safety, and life – ”

  “And I have the right to lay my life down for what I believe in, as well.”

  “Why? Do you believe in them?”

  Of course I do. And he knows that. They were my only form of worship, of reality in this world. Yet, still... there is no point to telling him such. He knew the answer to his question before it even formed in his mind.

  “Besides, you – can’t go over yet. You have to wait until Screech is involved. He’s your legal charge, remember?”

  I do not understand the point of legality in a world that has no central government, but I digress.

  Having stretched both sides, both ways, I lie out on my back, listening to the murmurings of a charge and a brother that I can do nothing to influence, allowing my hair to fall over the side of the invisible staircase. My mind wanders, finds another subject entirely. “You always seem quite occupied in listening to me, humoring me.”

  “It’s my honor.” It’s not the answer I was
looking for, and every inclination of his tone tells me he knows it, so I try again.

  “I do not know why you spend all your time, here.”

  “This is both my honor and my duty, Ives.”

  “Your duty? Am I your job?”

  His laugh was almost sad, but somehow honest, still. “Something – like that. More than that. I – it’s hard to explain.”

  “Perhaps if you used your words, it would be easier.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Can’t and won’t are two totally different things.”

  “I’m using my words correctly,” he huffs, somewhat. “It’s just – hard for me.”

  “Hard for you how?”

  The silence between us stretches on so long that I begin diverting my attention to the other conversation going on, where Freckles seems to be displaying her scientific prowess to Isaac, who is proposing some sort of idea about the mist and a food source. Perhaps he’s attempting to link both of them? Before I can get too far into the conversation, however, Thomas finally responds, as if another had asked him before, as if it hadn’t been me, and he was absolutely delighted to let me in particular know.

  “It’s hard – never being there. Watching over someone, and having them not really know you. Not really understand. And not really, completely understanding what’s going on down there, as well, because you’re not there, and you can’t ever be, no matter how much you want to, and...”

  He’s tapering off, but he has already caught my attention. I am sitting up, as though a string has pulled. The puppeteer has my complete concentration. What he is describing is strange and slightly wonderful and confusing and, for some reason, it jolts me, because it is exactly how I feel towards Freckles and Screech.

  And then the thought comes to me. One that has never crossed my mind, but has been so obvious, so very, very plainly visible.

  “Thomas... are you my Moderator?”

  The question is loaded and charged, and the simple syllables seem to find their mark. My heart is beginning to strike up a frenzied beat, and fear is beginning to pollute my mind at the mere thought.

  I am a charge. I am in this game just as much as Screech and Freckles are.