Encase Page 2

  There is mostly just white mist surrounding me, softly floating through the area. If I stare carefully, I can see the area they avoid, and can almost ascertain the figure of my invisible staircase, which lies ahead of me, curving slightly in a straight, upward fashion.

  I do know where I am. I am on an invisible staircase.

  ... But where is this staircase?

  I straighten out my back, bending slightly, being careful not to tip over an edge I cannot even see. I stretch out my fingers and wiggle them. My body cracks and pops in silent reply to my moving, but otherwise, there is no reaction that grabs my attention. Nowhere on my body hurts.

  This implies that however I got here, it was not forced. I did not fight. I was not scratched, or bitten, or clawed at. I begin to run my fingers over the blue and white fabric that rests on my body, looking for such imperfections.

  Perhaps I was drugged? I blink my eyes, though my eyesight seems remarkably clear, my mind unusually sharp. I suppose it is possible I slept off the effects of the drug, or that the crispness of the air instigated my awareness, but in all actuality, I find this conclusion rather hard to believe.

  Thus, I was not forced here, and I was well taken care of. Perhaps this is my home?

  Home. My mind immediately supplies an eidetic image of a white picket fence guarding bright green grass on which lies a soft yellow house with a brick-like red roof. Even as I view the image, I know that this was – or is – not my home, just merely an automatic picture associated in my mind with said word.

  I ponder, momentarily, why my mind would choose to give me something that was not my actual home. Perhaps because I am standing on it without even knowing.

  Another realization hits me, but this time, there is no picture – I merely imagine people. A home houses more than one, normally, does it not?

  “Hello?” I call out, unsure if I expect an answer.

  My voice does not even echo. In fact, it’s as if the sound never left my lips. It fades and dissipates, reaching none, extending to nothing.

  I suck in a deep breath of the cool air and turn the opposite way that I am facing, and am greeted with the same nothing that lies in front of me.

  Now what? an inward voice questions.

  “Indeed,” I murmur in reply to myself.

  I decide to address both sides of the staircase after a moment of contemplation. I reach my fingers out, searching – perhaps for another invisible something? – and of the first side, feel nothing. My body teeters dangerously, as if I am close to the edge and I back up, perhaps too hurriedly, only realizing that I may have overstepped myself on the other side after I step backwards.

  My back, however, comes up against what seems to be another invisible wall. Gently, I turn towards it, long, paled fingers sweeping the face of the wall in silence.

  This is much easier to see than the staircase beneath me. It reflects back to me, a glassy mirror, showing me the nothing behind me and my own form.

  I have long, blonde hair – a feature of which I was already aware – that falls to my waist and then is cut in short, light, wispy bangs that hang over sharp blue eyes that seem to be curved too small, too seriously. My face is protracted and smooth but bends almost awkwardly, almost oddly. Though I have a few freckles scattered on my neck, but my face remains pale and empty.

  I am wearing a simple white dress, soft and unattractive, with a denim shirt tied over, the sleeves folded over and bunched so it only comes to just above the elbows. I turn slightly, pivoting on my long legs, and examine my rather bony body.

  I do not appear attractive, I note rather emotionlessly before settling down on the balls of my feet again, though I am healthy as I believe my body can be.

  I raise a finger to the glass again before attempting to push through it, gently, not applying enough force to catch me off-balance should it be a trick of the light and unsolid. The glass near wobbles at my minor ministrations before settling but, since I cannot see anything on the other side at all, I decide that perhaps throwing myself head-first through may not be the best idea.

  And now, it’s silent. What’s more to discover and do? Gazing up and down the staircase, I can note nothing of importance either way.

  So... there is only one thing to do. To go boldly forward and see if I find anything.

  The one question left to answer, now, I realize, is ascending or descending.

  With a noncommittal shrug to the no one surrounding me, I turn and walk downwards.

  two

  If I had any pen and paper, I think I’d be the type to keep a diary.

  Pencil works too, actually. So does fine-tipped sharpie. Really anything that can make a mark.

  Perhaps I suffer from long-term memory loss on staggering levels, and so I was sent away to a never-ending staircase to “think it out”, or live the rest of my life out in peace. I seem to be a mere teenager, though, so I feel as if sending me away rather than trying methods of psychiatric help is a little drastic.

  Unless this is the method they tried, or the other methods didn’t work.

  However, I have found that I have been alive for quite a while, and I do not, in any meaning of the word, suffer from short-term memory loss.

  It could be because I’ve been obsessively committing every little detail to the depths of my memory in fear that I’m going to lose them all again and be started over, an essential “re-start”, out in the middle of nowhere. Loss of memory is never a fun practice, especially with nothing to associate one with but things that are near invisible.

  I sigh melodramatically as I move.

  If I were really prone to forgetfulness of this nature, I’d tattoo my name and address somewhere on my body so that I could find it. Not my hand or arms, as that would be visible... but most definitely somewhere like my legs.

  My walking hesitates for mere moments as I check my legs for the markings of which I speak – or, rather, think – but no ink is splayed over my body, just my plain skin stretched across a far too bony figure.

  “Well, this is rather pointless.”

  A staircase that seems to stretch into infinity with no meaning.

  Or, if there is a meaning, I haven’t figured it out thus far.

  Yet still, I continue forward, even with the thought that I’m going nowhere. Perhaps hope of finding something unknown? Perhaps the prayer of finding an answer? Whatever it is that drives me downward, only God could tell me, and he seems to be silent every time I call out to him.

  I know he’s there. Listening, watching. Guiding perhaps is a step too far, but definitely present in some sense of the word.

  But still, all is silent.

  I allow the fingertips of my right hand to trail against the seemingly invisible wall as I walk, half-enjoying and half-hating the odd sensation it emits. It wobbles when touched, like a jello, and sends somehow ground-shaking shivers down my spine.

  I had been walking for some amount of time in this silent descent, fingers tracing the strange wall, when I hear a noise.

  A noise. It is the first noise that I’ve heard other than the shuffling of my feet or the puff of my breath since my arrival, and it catches me so off-guard so wildly that I do not even process what the noise is.

  It’s downwards, where I’m heading, and without much of a thought, I begin to follow it.

  Following a noise could be illogical. There could be something in the depths of this staircase that wishes to swallow me completely whole and let me lose my sense of mind and sanity.

  And yet, here I go, into the descent from which the noise was emitted.

  Then again, is it truly following if my path does not change?

  I’m not sure what it is, was – the noise has fallen silent by now, of course – but there is something else that seems to be pulling me down, step by unsure step. Something that does not seem satisfied yet, and is growing in intensity, carefully and carefully down a cascading walk. I hold my breath, for reasons unknown to me, but keep my eyes wide open, looking for
whatever could be lurking nearby.

  I almost miss it.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself. A part of my mind tells me that I never would have missed it to begin with – because it is so omnipresent, so loud.

  It is a figure. Curled up against the mirror that I’d been scaling the perimeter of, shaking silently, as if in distress or tears. A figure shaking and breathing and moving and living, and I cannot bear to comprehend the calamity of the curve of its body. I sink on my knees carefully, ever so carefully, next to the small, nameless, voiceless, thoughtless shape.

  My fingers press against the mirror at it, but it does not stir. It does not hear me, or see me, or think of me, as I am it. I’m not sure if I should speak to try to raise its awareness of me – as, of course, I cannot hear its crying.

  I question, then, how I heard the sound earlier, if I can hear none now.

  And then, the first phrase I will ever hear from this world places itself into the stark air.

  “I’m sorry.”

  three

  As I feel like I often will be, I am minutely surprised at my own reaction.

  I do not jump. I do not tense. I do not reply automatically. The voice that reaches my ears sounds familiar, as if I have heard it many times before – but I cannot place it.

  The sound does not come from the form by me. It’s disembodied and yet, somehow, ubiquitous. I breathe evenly and carefully before attempting my own speech.

  “Hello?” My voice does not shake, does not wobble, does not start. Perhaps I am a bold spirit.

  “Yes. Hello. I am sorry.”

  So the being, then, can hear me. But what is it apologetic for? Not speaking to me sooner, when I called out? Or is there another meaning to the apology that my memory lacks knowledge of?

  “I don’t know what you could be sorry for.”

  “I know you don’t.” Though I cannot see the form, I can hear a smile in the tint of its voice, one that fades almost immediately. “But, I – I had to say it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I don’t understand. Did you say something previously that you think could have offended me? I do not know you.”

  “I couldn’t do that to you.” The voice continues on, talking to me and yet, somehow, having a conversation with someone else. “I know that’s what you wanted, but... you never really did know what’s best for yourself.”

  “No? Am I often at a loss for the proper etiquette?”

  “Oh, no.” The laugh seems somewhat haunting. “You always have proper etiquette. It’s... one of your strong suits.”

  “I regret to say that I do not know you as intimately as you know me.”

  “That’s very true. But I don’t think you truly regret it.”

  “Do you doubt the validity of my words?” There’s something like a spark of anger in me, already, as my hand continues to search the figure collapsed on the other side.

  “No. Oh, no. You’re always perfectly correct.” He’s laughing again, at me, which only seems to strengthen the anger lurking deep within the depths of my soul.

  “I request you identify yourself.”

  “Let me find it. Just give me a moment, I... I always seem to misplace it.”

  “Misplace it? What are you talking about?”

  “The text. The... soul greeting. I always lose it. But it’s protocol, you know?”

  “No. Truly, I don’t.” I blink up, though the voice sounds as if it is coming from eye-level as much as it does from the sky.

  There’s a few moments of silence during which I revert my attention to the figure next to me – calm, still, unmoving now – until finally, the voice returns by a clearing of the throat.

  “Hello. And good morning. Welcome to the staircase. My name is Thomas.” He pauses, and I blink, and finally he presses, “Say, ‘hello Thomas’.”

  “Em... Hello, Thomas.”

  “Good. Very good. This is your home. This is the only existence you have ever known – and this is the only existence you will ever know. Here, you are safe. You are warm. You are kept contained and complete. You are happy here.”

  I turn away from the figure and pivot upwards, anger beginning to heat my face. “How dare you tell me what I – ”

  “Please, let me continue the text. I’m sorry. It’s just protocol, you know?”

  I don’t back down my stance, with my fists clenched at my sides, my teeth gritted, but I do cease speaking.

  “You do not need to eat, or drink, or sleep. You are complete in your existence.”

  “If I do not need to do any of those things, and this is the only existence I have ever known, then why do I have concepts of such – ”

  “Please, Ives.”

  “Ives?”

  “I – ” Now he’s stuttering, bumbling, frozen in his words. “We’re not there yet. Just let me finish.”

  I glare upwards, but speak no more. I am a curious fellow, indeed.

  “I understand that you do not remember your existence, and do not know anything beyond what you can see, but don’t worry – I have crucial information about you that I will share with you momentarily. I think, uh – I should cross you two over, before I go any further.”

  “Cross us over?”

  “The boy.”

  I turn back towards the form behind the glass, bent and broken on their own stair. “Him?”

  “Yes. He’s very vital to everything. You are allowed to pass through the glass, and so are certain objects allowed to pass through with you. But this is the only time I will allow you to bring a human through the glass. Please, reach your hands in and pull him out.”

  My eyes assess the boy that had drawn me so, somehow begging and somehow silent and now completely unmoving. Much like me, I suppose, because I am just watching him, not inching a centimeter towards the goal the faceless voice named Thomas has laid out for me.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, yes. I heard you.” I sway backwards, slightly. “I just do not understand why I am required to follow your wishes when I know nothing about you and nothing about this world. And nothing about him, either. He could lash out. He could kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t kill you! I’d never hurt you.”

  His voice is piercingly honest – as if upset that I’d even consider such a thing.

  “But, by inaction, would you allow me to become killed?”

  “No! No. I’d never put you in danger’s way.”

  Interesting. “And why is that?”

  “Everything will be explained to you, once you pull him through.”

  “And I am supposed to just... take your word for it? Take the word of a faceless entity that does not even have a last name?”

  “No one has a last name.”

  “No?” I consider that. How do I know what a last name is, if no one has one? “But I have a first name. Ives?”

  “Something like that. Just – pull him through the glass.”

  “Tell me my name, at the least. Do I not get that dignity?”

  “I can’t – I don’t want to get into personals yet. He’s... he’s part of it.”

  “He’s part of my name?” I cock an eyebrow, though my gaze has not moved from his form.

  “No! No. Just – part of you.”

  “I do not feel like the type to take a lover.”

  “No.” His laugh has returned, but somehow, it’s sicker, sadder than it has been the previous times it’s echoed through the air. “No. You are not the type to take a lover.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “Pull him through. And... and find out. Find out everything. Who you are, what your purpose is... who he is.”

  I do not want to listen to him.

  I know nothing more about him than his name.

  But, truthfully, there is a silent statement hanging over my head that he has not used against me yet.

  I have no other choice.

  If I decide not to follow his whims, what then? I am just trapped, silently, on an e
ternal staircase, with no way to escape. With no knowledge. With no name.

  So I kneel by the figure and brace myself.

  Perhaps it will not hurt. Perhaps it will be... just what I need to find my identity. Perhaps it will help steel me to this world that I do not know fully enough to make any accurate claims about.

  These are all lies.

  When my hands shove through the mirror with purpose, the feeling that had been tickling my spine overcomes my bones, my body, my soul. I lose my breath. My head begins to spin and tumble beneath my legs and over my feet and around my arms and I am screaming, unintentionally, lost and dissipated, the body that I had always counted on as being my true form, my substance, falling away into nothing more than something I grapple with and keen at. I keep trying to find myself in this swirling vortex of unusual sensations and emotions, but I find only non-answers, only more pain, only brokenness.

  I feel like nothing. Like a single drop of water that had once held a form, suddenly dissolving into an ocean of uniformity. I cannot find my shape. I cannot find my person. I cannot... find... any... thing...

  And then, from the darkness, I pull the young boy out. I don’t even remember locking my fingers onto his shirt and shoving him close to me. I don’t even remember what having fingers feels like. But somehow, moments later, I’m back on my invisible staircase and the sensation is dying in the back of my head and there is a slightly damp boy sitting next to me, and I’m staring at the mirror I’d just gone through with wide, horrified eyes.

  Or... not.

  No. No, I’m not.

  I’m looking into the eyes of the other next to me, and he looks so alike to me, I believed his face to be mine.

  Poor fellow.

  “You!” My voice explodes from the depths of my suddenly scratchy soul, and the boy cringes away from me, but I pay him no mind as I struggle with a vertigo that seems to have shaken my soul from its place. “You! You – didn’t tell me – ”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you just – like saying those words, or – do you like – doing something about – them?” I can hardly find my words through a dizziness I’m fighting. I’ve stood to face the faceless, to scream to the stuttering skies.