Encase Page 21

  She said you two were invincible, I add in my head.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to be invincible without her. She was gonna help me... and I was gonna help her.” Teeth meet, almost uneven, and one of his toes plays at the ground, as if tearing it apart barefooted will relieve some of the heartache. “She was my best friend... and I didn’t think we could have any friends here.”

  He kicks some ash over the edge. I watch, count my breaths, weigh the fire in my bones. When I close my eyes, I almost do not wish to open them.

  “I guess... nobody really turns out what you think they’ll be, huh?”

  The sigh that falls from me is so heavy, I am shocked it does not weigh us both down to the ocean.

  “Yeah,” his hoarse voice mumbles. “Me too.”

  twenty-eight

  I’m so tired.

  It’s as if I’ve been running a marathon for a year, without any stop.

  The insides of my legs are crafted from lead; my bones have hardened, turned to metal.

  Every step is agonizing.

  Every thought takes centuries to form.

  I am old,

  I am weak,

  I am dying.

  Screech notices, tastes disbanding bones and withering skin and holds me. Holds my head, holds my neck. There’s a sort of fear in his eyes at the mutual understanding that I am dying.

  I know what I’m doing wrong, and I know how to make it end.

  I need to leave this staircase.

  I had believed my crossing over had changed me. That I had become like Isaac, like the red-haired one Freckles often referred to as Creep, like Madame Veneera. I believed my devotion here would make me lost.

  But it did not. This world did not accept me, just as the other may never. It did not allow my throw-through. Whatever I am is dying, and aching, at a deeper level than merely physical. There is something scraping every inch of my soul into tatters, eating at it, gnawing like sharp-toothed predators.

  Plainly put, this world was not built for me. As Thomas said – I could not stay for too long.

  I had been foolish to believe emotion could ever close the gap of logic. It never would.

  I consider first, of course, remaining. I would die, and it would end. I would finally leave my life and no longer risk re-starts. Pain, surely, would crush me, and surely, it would end for me.

  And then I recall Madame Veneera’s words to Screech, about how he would be fortunate to die, about an implication that she couldn’t, and I feel cold. Would I truly be lost if I died here? Would I become like them? Torturing the same people for whom I’d crossed, sworn to protect? Would my fury and emptiness be able to rival even my brother’s possessive grasps?

  Or, if not – would my death turn me back into the skin that I’d had before? Would my body fall through with me? Would Screech see me for what I am? Would he be afraid, and die knowing that I am just another trick – that I had been somehow linked to the sibling that shared my features?

  Either outcome is unfavorable. It’s far worse than returning to the staircase for whatever may await me there. Thus, I decide, singularly, that I must return back to the other staircase. I may not even be able to do so, as I shattered my filter to bring this form here, and with the amount of time I have been here. With how weak I have been here. But I must attempt. I must find some sort of... logical way.

  If only I could think. If I only I could remember how to. If only did not hurt so much to cloud me from it.

  We are moving much slower than we did in a group. We are inching along. I know this is because of me and my weakness – and I need it to end. I want to collapse and never come back. When the morning brightens the sky and Screech urges me up, somewhat insistently, I want to lie down and not move.

  And then... my opening comes.

  It’s a long, thin line stretched from our side of the staircase to the other. It goes on, and on, and on, into mist, past what we cannot see.

  Perhaps I can get across it safely. I am a dancer. Perhaps I would be able to report what’s on the other side.

  I watch Screech examine it as I begin to make my way towards it, slowly, as if hindered with heavy cargo.

  Perhaps I can make it across safely... and perhaps I can’t. And if I cannot... perhaps I will fall back, return to my old staircase. After all, I float down. Perhaps if I fall another Moderator on another staircase will send me back.

  “No way around it,” Screech murmurs, behind me, not hearing, not understanding – rarely, for just a moment, out of sync with me. “Not that I can see, anyway.”

  I know, is my mental reply. A singular paw presses down on the singular filament.

  Now he sees. “Wait, hang on.” Screech holds out his hands to me. “We don’t know anything about this thing. Let me look at it a bit first.”

  I turn, head over my shoulder, staring beyond fine hair and into eyes that are wildly unsure of me. I wonder if I look as crestfallen as I feel.

  Screech, if you can hear me, I hope this reunites you with her. I hope this helps you, somehow. I hope my actions have kept you safe.

  “Shadow, come here.” He’s waving a hand to beckon me near, beginning to bend, to lower himself at the ground. Something in his face is colored horrified. Voice expels tremors. “Here, girl.”

  I turn my head away from him and attempt another paw atop of it, shift my weight.

  “Stop!” Voice cuts through the air, clear and high and desperate and everything I feel my exhaustion could never be. “Shadow, come here. Get off of that thing.” His voice comes closer, as if hoping he can inch near enough to grab me back, pull me towards him without ensuring my demise.

  The beam begins to rock back and forth, sway, and quickly, before my fear freezes me or my charge chances a capture, I pull both of my back legs onto it with me. I let my gaze go even into what appears to be gray mist around us, and move as though I can see a destination to set my attention to. Beneath me, the beam jostles, protests at my weight. My nails grip at it.

  “Shadow – that’s enough, now! Come on, girl! Come here!”

  He’s crying, I can tell, even without vision. His voice is desperate, total hysteria.

  “Please... come here, Shadow!” A beat, then, “Please!”

  It is almost as if he is not asking for me back, but merely the connection we shared – that silent gaze of understanding. I decide if I am to die now, today, I may as well afford him the luxury of knowing the goodbye. I pause, stare backwards.

  It was the slight turn in the look back that was my mistake. My emotionalism, for once, was the root of my failure, and not my logic. I feel nothing, weightless in my gut, and I am horrified, even though I endeavored to do this from the beginning. I am flailing, attempting not to howl, all aches washed clean by the fear of death.

  He’s clinging to the edge of the staircase, screaming wordlessly, voice mingling with the screeches of the wind, scarred hand shaking as it reaches out towards me, the last thing he had had in this life.

  Part of me, even through the haze of horror, is almost glad, in a way.

  I’m glad that I will not die... without my charge knowing me.

  I close my eyes.

  I feel myself in my body – the one I was given, the one I’ve always had. With two hands, and a scarf, and a long, silver white braid by my side. I’m lifting the gun to my ajar mouth, awaiting for my own confidence to squeeze the trigger.

  I hear a gunshot, and I hear screaming, and I feel no pain.

  I open my eyes.

  Beneath the stormy skies of this world is a large group of people, gathered together tightly on the gray ground. People are openly weeping, holding each other – children are being shielded and rushed away – one person in black waves civilians back while another grasps at a radio attached near his shoulder.

  On the ground, bleeding, are two civilians that I apparently shot.

  I walk towards them, gun still wielded in my right hand as my left shakes.

  One of them ha
s a tan shirt and brown pants. Her hair is short, brown, and her green eyes stare open, unseeing, at a sky, still bright in color if not with life. Her most prominent feature, however, are the freckles quite literally littering her face.

  Next to her, on the ground, hand just inches away from hers, is young taupe boy. His eyes are closed, and the bullet wound that hit between his eyes is oozing blood onto his bare body. He is only covered with denim pants – nothing more – and now, of course, red.

  “No.” I whisper it first, though I mean to shout it. I mean to unhinge my jaw and scream until the skies themselves bleed with this indignity. It’s quiet! It’s too quiet, it’s too still, it’s too gray, and my legs give way, are too warm and soft and nothing and can hardly account for the ache in my stomach. “NO!”

  The crowd begins to back up, as rightfully frightened by my anguish as they should be; the police begin to call the crowd away and get ready to tackle me to the floor I have already tackled; the sky above us churns uneasily.

  “I’m so sorry,” I’m calling towards them, my voice low, broken. I want to reach out, to staunch blood, to give them my own, to split my soul into two and give them each new life again, but I cannot! They are gone and empty and I am here and full and cracking and careening! “I never meant to hurt you two! I’m so sorry!”

  They were everything to me. Everything.

  I sniffle in a gasp, fumble with the gun in one of my hands, still. I can hardly feel it, can hardly hear anything over this buzz in the air. The next bullet – that is the one that is going into my mouth. I have killed my only friends... and thus, I deserve to be killed as well.

  I close my eyes quickly this time, shove the still-warm muzzle into my mouth.

  I don’t count this time. One and done.

  “Ives.”

  I start.

  Whatever was in my mind between the moment I fell and this moment disappears as if it had been called away. Now there is nothing but the darkness behind my eyelids, the flimsy wear of my body, and Thomas’ voice.

  “Ives, please, please wake up, it’s me, Thomas.”

  My throat aches like I’d swallowed something burning. I grapple with it until I can force out words. They’re hoarse, but distinguishable enough. “I know who it is.” I wish I had the energy to lace my words with acid. “I’m glad you’re talking to me again.”

  “I never wanted to stop. Not ever.” He sounds hurt, as though my actions have somehow killed him. I wouldn’t be surprised. A Moderator in love dies with their charge, right?

  I sigh, soul-sufferingly. It only hurts.

  “Oh. Oh, my God.” The relief is so palpable I almost feel it in some hollow between my lips and my throat. “Oh, thank God. You are alive. You’re going to be okay. Oh, oh my God.”

  His concern is almost amusing – even though, of course, here I am, dying. “Is it really any surprise?”

  “When you broke through the barrier? Shattered your filter? Fell off their staircase?” He’s laughing. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a surprise, Ives. Oh – oh my God. Ha – oh my God.” Everything echoes strangely here, wherever we are. Giggling coming back as gasps. Or perhaps that’s because he’s sobbing through whatever fit of laughter he’s having. “Oh, my God. What would I have done without you?”

  “Watched someone else, I guess.”

  “Don’t say that. Please, don’t ever say that. You’re the best thing in my life.”

  And I’m not even that good.

  I think that I thought it, but I must not have, based on how much harder he laughs. It’s the most desperate noise – clogged and choked and catching as it tries to come up. I wish I could see him. I’ve never wished it more.

  “What’s – ha–ha – what’s wrong with you?” He doesn’t sound mad. He’s laughing through tears that feel as though they’d be sloppy, groaning through them. Voice comes muffled as though he’s holding his face through it. “I could have lost you, Ives. I could h – have lost you. I almost did.”

  “I’m still alive, Thomas.”

  “Oh my God. G – God. Oh my God.”

  “Alright. Okay.” It’s my attempt at comfort. I feel genuine concern and speak as though he’s a pest. Something hurts there, an itch at that thought, but I suppress it. I don’t have time.

  “Am I back on my staircase?”

  His laugh is somehow melancholy – his answer preceded by a long sniffle. “No. I can’t get you through the barrier yet, you’re... too injured.”

  “So, you just saved me, then.”

  “Yes?” An unsure voice, an unsure titter. “H... ha, uh... w... was I not supposed to?”

  “You can intervene on that staircase?”

  “No? Not really. It’s, uh...” He blows out air, slowly, long. I can almost feel it. I wonder if he’s nearby, and if I reach out, if I’ll feel him, for the first time. Maybe this is where he lives. “Hard to explain. But I got you back because... it wasn’t your staircase. You weren’t meant to die there. You hadn’t lost yourself, you just... lost your way back.”

  “Pity.” I’m mumbling.

  “W – what?”

  “Nothing.”

  He only lets me my silent introspection for a moment before he’s on me again – weariness and water in his throat. “Why? Why did you go over, Ives? Nothing bad was happening, they weren’t in immediate danger. I don’t understand. Were you trying to get away from me?”

  I don’t have time for this. Something is telling me that. And that thought translates to a harsh sigh, that I try to amend with gentler words. “No. I knew they were in danger. Isaac was with them.”

  There is a guilt, deep in my stomach, forming over the small pebble of my words. For the danger is still there, right? Isaac is still there, Freckles and Screech are still on the verge of being lost. I have handled everything so poorly. I always fancied myself as better than all else – stronger and smarter – and yet I lie unable to move after a disastrous miscalculation. I am no better than Thomas, or Screech, or Freckles, or the other Moderators, or the people who once walked with Freckles.

  I am no better than anyone.

  Not even Isaac.

  “But Ives – ”

  “I need to go back.”

  My sentence is rewarded with a high-pitched laugh – which stops abruptly when my expression hardens. “You’re not joking.”

  “Just for a few moments. I don’t need any of my powers. I don’t need to be seen by anyone. Except... for Isaac.”

  “Ives, stop it.” No trace of laughter. “I know he’s your brother, and you love him, and I’m so sorry, but... you can’t. You hardly are making it out of this one. You’re not going to be able to make it out – ”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Are you sorry?”

  There’s a silence. I am frightened it’s another miscalculation on my part. But then he sighs, and it’s the noise of a balloon deflating, of pressure seeping out.

  “Yes.” He sounds more tired than even I feel. “Of course I am.”

  “I need to see Isaac.”

  “You need to stop wasting your life on him and learn to live yourself. You are literally going to die if you go – ”

  “I don’t have a life, Thomas!” He stops, obviously a bit perturbed by my interruption, but allowing it. “They are my life. And I hurt them. I left them with him, and he may kill them and... I need to fix what I wronged. I need to go over there, and – ” My body chooses this moment to seize, and I begin to recoil from pain in my knee. “ – make... sure... he...”

  “You can hardly speak! How do you think you’re going to get over there?”

  “I’m stronger – than – I seem.”

  “Not that strong. Not this strong! No one is. Please, Ives – ”

  “Just – a few minutes – Thomas.” I’m panting, even through the words. “Just let me there for a few more minutes. Please. I promise – it’ll be worth it.”

  He’s so silent for so long, I fear I have fallen aslee
p again, or he has denied me without a word. But finally, he does speak, and his voice is shattered, broken.

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  I expel a single sigh, slacken my body. I choose my words carefully.

  “Then let me go.”

  The next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes next to a fire pit that Isaac and Freckles are sleeping next to.

  twenty-nine

  “Isaac.”

  I know he can hear me. Though I am as insubstantial as the wind – though I am not solid in any fashion – though I do not breathe or move my legs – I know he can hear me.

  And he does. He starts next to his sleeping companion, whose eyes are closed above freckled cheeks, light reflecting off eyelashes and drawing further lines down her face. Slowly, tentatively, as though afraid to break some tenuous link he rises and stands up to greet me. Blue eyes jump in the light of the fire, and the half of his face that is framed darkly and yet brightly seems to stir something in the heart I do not currently have.

  It’s him. My brother.

  Who I once thought was my first friend.

  “Ivory.” And he’s using his real voice – without the fake accent. I relax, somewhat.

  My eyes drift over to Freckles again. Her belly is enlarged. I raise a singular eyebrow.

  Isaac’s eyes follow mine, and then I hear his laugh. “Oh. That? You can see that, too? The...” He gestures at his belly, and though my eyes only narrow, it seems to be enough of an affirmative for him. “Yeah, just a trickery of the mind. It looks real enough though, doesn’t it?”

  “How can you think that’s alright to do?” is what my murmur ends on. He decides to ask another question, however, gesturing to me.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  I jump, because I’d sworn I’d felt my old hand against my side, cradling at my clothing. I hadn’t even recalled I didn’t have nothing there before his comment. I cross the stub behind my back. “I didn’t come to talk about me. I came to talk about you.”

  He nods, but doesn’t seem to get the message, as he epilogues my answer with, “You were the wolf. Weren’t you?”