Encase Page 5

  I suppose, then, I am the opposite of him. I need my face and my body to offer the slightest provocations of my emotions. Even with my body, I feel as if I often act... emotionless. Void, almost.

  Perhaps I am. He said I can’t love, after all.

  The dark screen takes a form. Black, rigid lines of a staircase erupt between the folds of emptiness, and a drop of dark red, shifting between it all. An empty staircase. No other signs or forms of life exist. There’s nothing.

  This is the Ashen Staircase. If I can take Thomas’ word, I’ve spent my life scrutinizing something like thousands of lives, happening out in front of me as if I were in a cinema. That’s why I’m still here, after all. A reach of my mind believes it’s merely a movie, nothing more. A reach of my mind believes that living, breathing humans are nothing more than props in a play.

  I do not know why my mind has attached and attacked that ideal since Thomas has released it. He’s said a great many insanely inane things since I arrived, and yet that I do not question the validity of.

  Just, perhaps, the validity of myself.

  Still... as I stare at the staircase, jaw set and eyes squinted, bending in towards the glittering, glistening partition, I cannot recall ever once seeing this world.

  When the darkness begins to breathe, my mind is captured, and I turn slightly, on the balls of my heels, examining.

  A sort of figure begins to emerge from one of the stairs, as if a mass growing atop of the singular surface. Dark, almost formless, beginning to gain and capture nearby stairs as well, until it finally molds into a long oval shape, and details begin to crease into the expanding, moving mass. Curled legs and arms and a tucked head. Features are grown into it – light skin, hair the shade of murky water, a nose and a mouth and two pairs of sealed eyes. Clothes grow on her like she was born with them, beige, baggy pants made of a soft, reflective substance and a simplistic top with no straps that’s paled yellow and captures a part of the pants to run along its top. The cloudedness of the mass fades and, as I stare, captivated.

  For many moments, she doesn’t move. She’s completely motionless atop bent legs and arms that cradle her against the stairs she’s grown to encompass, not even the rising and falling of her breathing indicating life.

  Suddenly, it all changes.

  She wildly gasps and sits up, staring wide-eyed at the world around her. Her chest inflates and she’s coughing, immediately, trying to catch breath that it seems she’s only just now been given. She’s fighting to breathe, and fighting through hacking, wild and raucous, and as I watch her, I wonder if she’s going to die.

  But she doesn’t. She just finally regains her composure – or gains it, as she’d never had it before – and begins breathing, slowly, evenly, scanning the skyline and the staircase around her.

  As she stops to contemplate her new home, I stop to contemplate her.

  Short, jagged, light brown hair.

  Piercingly bright green eyes, somehow light and near glowing through the darkness.

  I think her most notable trait, however, are the freckles that are littering her face and body.

  seven

  A young soul she is, I decide.

  All alone, here.

  Today is the first day of her life, to my non-knowledge, just like a few days passed was the first of mine. We are but babes, but our skin is roughened, coarsened and old, our souls damaged and broken, as though we’d been alive for many more eons than our memories can capture.

  Perhaps, I reflect, if I were eons old, I would not want to remember each day either.

  But I am not eons old. That is physically and humanistically impossible.

  Some say the soul never die.

  But, as I stare at a stranger, beginning to become fervent and fevered in her attempts to figure out where she is, and I feel nothing but the cacophony of eternal emptiness, I muse that perhaps, the soul never lives.

  It isn’t for me, at least.

  Her jagged hair falls over her face as she turns, in a frenzied eagerness, glancing over the side of the staircase before paying homage to the sky. A hand comes to rest at my bottom lip, messing with it almost thoughtlessly as I watch her.

  “Do we know anything about her?” I finally voice to Thomas.

  “Nothing more than what you see.”

  “Nothing?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes slightly.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s odd,” I voice. The young girl is crying to herself, now, collapsed into her lap at the horrific world that surrounds her. “You know near everything about mine and Isaac’s. And not even a word of hers? Not even her name?”

  “No. Especially not her name.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s... very clear that we’re not supposed to know.”

  The exact phrasing of his statement perplexes and intrigues me. “Very clear? By whom? To whom? Are there more of you? Is there someone who watches over you, and voices this information you feed to me?”

  If there were an answer to be had, Thomas would not give it.

  I watch the stranger cry for a time more before she finally sits up, wiping her arms and back of the sooty substance that the stairs seem to be made of. She shivers and meets a gaze with the sky again.

  She’s gaining perspective, or strength, or something. There’s a set determination in the lines of her body now, as she settles down onto the stair upon which she’d been borne.

  “Hello?” she tries.

  No one is there to answer. Not a word. Not a thought. Nothing but an everlasting silence, one that I recall greatly from before Thomas and Isaac barreled into my life.

  “Hello! Somebody – is somebody – help?”

  Nothing. As expected, and yet, still –

  “Please! Hello? Hello!” her voice screeches through the air.

  I suck in a breath. “Does she have someone like you, with no form and a voice, who will respond?”

  Thomas seems surprised, to say the least, by my question. “Someone like me? Um... no. Not... not particularly. All she has is Isaac.”

  I nod, though I’m unsure how well he can see me. Pretty well, I suppose – his conversation seems to lend to the fact that he can see me. And he knows I brought Isaac through the glass.

  ... But perhaps that was more due to Isaac’s sobbing than any vision.

  The young stranger is not particularly fascinating to watch. She bends over herself, staring at a distant point on the staircase, unfocusedly, breathing in quickly through her nose, near as if she is about to faint, about to collide over an edge already and never be seen by me or any other again.

  I shouldn’t judge her so harshly, I know. Her staircase is much more macabre than mine had been. Yet, still, I can’t help but feel... almost frustrated... by her outcry at the world around her.

  It becomes even worse when I hear her frail voice start up again.

  “Pull it together.”

  It’s just a murmur, whispering against the throat.

  “Pull it together. It’s just a bad dream – or – something like a bad dream.”

  Thomas catches it. The spark of interest in my eyes. He’s so deft, and quick, and his words pour from his mouth: “Hey, Ives, I think that’s enough for – ”

  “No.” I wave him off with a hand behind me, as if I believe him to be standing there, and continue contemplating the girl on the other side of the glass.

  “Pull it together,” she repeats. “Come on.”

  “Ives, this is really a personal thing, for a charge and their – ”

  “If it’s personal, perhaps you should stop watching.” I bend in closer.

  A dream, huh?

  Alright, freckle. Tell me what you know about the real world.

  But she cannot hear my thoughts.

  She cannot hear my voiced words, either.

  Despite her repetition, it’s clear that she’s getting more and more frightened, staring down beneath at what, supposedly, is something horrible, and she dissolves into
pathetic tears again. It causes a collapse against the stair she’s been on the whole time – the stair that’s not moved her, and presses her palms to her forehead in some sort of defeat.

  “Abel,” she moans, beneath it all. “I’m sorry. Abel...”

  “Abel?” I ask.

  But she only fades to a too-soon sleep.

  It’s the epitome of alone, I recognize, with a melancholy musing.

  Laying abandoned in a place where you are not even sure of your own existence, calling out a name that had used to mean something to you.

  We are all so, so very alone.

  eight

  “I hadn’t wanted you to see that.”

  “That was obvious.”

  It’s been night now for a while. Not that the sky has darkened, nor that the world has shifted into an appropriate measure of time that would signify as “sleeping” and “waking” – just, Isaac’s charge was asleep, and so it was night, and thus, I was walking.

  Down the steps, as I had always intended. My purpose is to find my twin. I had noted, some several hours ago, staring at the form of a sleeping girl and an empty sky, that I was bored, and perhaps the solace of my little brother would bring me some comfort.

  “It’s not good – it’s not right – some people, when they get here for the first time – ”

  “They start remembering the life you are fervent I forget.” I’m pleased with my answer, and perhaps only the uncustomary relaxation of my features portrays that.

  “No. No. Just...” There’s a stench of suppression in the air, and I shrug him off, continue down the staircase with a long, cavorting gait.

  As my steps are invisible, I find myself questioning where the edge actually is. Perhaps I can balance on the end of it without being thrown off. I walk a few sets of stairs on my tip toes, then on the heels of my feet. My legs and body seem to react almost expertly to the change, and I near dance a decline.

  “Be careful,” Thomas is quick to warn.

  “Shut up,” I’m quick to retort, in the same lilting of the warning he had offered me.

  My fingers no longer enjoy exploring the barrier, a fact which I found out within seconds of walking down the staircase. It brings a shuddering memory to my body, the patter of rain reminding of the once hurricane. It’s no longer welcome, not even to satiate my numbness. A torrential downpour is not worth it.

  It seems like metaphorical ages before I finally begin to sense Isaac – in that same pulling, that same neediness, as if his mind was searching out for someone to suck in.

  I find him quite the way I found him the last time; in a ball, wrapped in on himself, shaking silently. Something like concern bites at my toes, and my once gliding stroll turns tense, serious.

  “Isaac?” I sink on my knees next to him, one hand hovering over him, unsure if I should touch. “Isaac?”

  He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t respond in any known language – he just wraps his body around me, the sudden weight of him near flattening me to our invisible floor.

  “Isaac?” I repeat.

  “I’m scared,” he whispers into his neck. “I’m scared, Ives. They’re so loud... and so quiet.”

  “What are?” My grip instinctively fastens to his back, pulls him closer towards me.

  His breath is warm on my neck, and I’m unsure if it’s the feeling of the air or a sudden fear that’s sending chills down my spine. “I didn’t want to – I don’t want to. I’m scared.”

  “I can’t know what you mean, Isaac.”

  “I’m just scared. I’m just scared.”

  I nod, but I do not know what to say. I do not know what words can justify this knot in my stomach, what words can ease the shaking fear of my younger brother.

  I have this strange instinct, deep inside, as if I am to protect him.

  So why can’t I?

  Why...

  can’t...

  I?

  You’re analytical, Ivory. Start at the beginning. Ask simple questions. Get to the bottom of this.

  “What are you hearing? What is quiet, and loud?”

  The shaking begins to subside, slowly, reminiscent somehow to the breaking of a wave on the sand. I continue pressing questions – “When did it start? Do you remember any events leading up to it?” – but he does not answer, only uses my questions as some sort of anchor to latch himself back on reality.

  When he pulls away from me, his face is dry of tears, but his eyes are not empty of a subdued pain. He acts as he had when I had last seen him – as if nothing, and everything, were ill.

  “Hey-a there, Ives.” The glint to his eyes is almost mischievous. “When’d you decide to come around?”

  Sitting there, my arms empty, I blink in surprise. “I’ve been here for about a minute.”

  “No – I mean – when, why, did you think you should come around?”

  “I was bored.” I am not enjoying the way he rapidly switches between frankly frightening and refreshingly relaxed. But he’s not done throwing his own questions at me, so I stay silent, allow him to do what he will.

  “Did you bring Thomas back with you?”

  I tilt my head, and my long, silvery hair follows me. I note that I should get a tie for it. “I don’t understand. Thomas doesn’t leave us, he’s – he’s always here.”

  Isaac stares back at me with eyes that match my own, bright blue and the shade of a mirror. I hope mine are less reflective of the soul than his. “I haven’t heard him since I left.”

  “Yeah – sorry.” That’s Thomas, the silent guardian, finally come to break his unspoken vow. “It’s hard to switch back and forth between the two of you – to be on one, and then the other – so I just – I thought – ”

  “Thomas!” My voice has the scalding nature of a fire sparked in accident, or a woman rightly angered – each metaphor is equally accurate. “You left him here? Alone?”

  My hands, becoming more liberal, start to search my younger brother’s shoulder, pat him lightly in an apology. “I didn’t know you’d be left by yourself. I was under the impression someone would be going with you.” The words come out more heavy, hard and enraged than I intended them, and Thomas appears to be too frightened to reply.

  He should be.

  “It’s okay.” The smile that he offers me is more like a grimace, and he seems to cringe away from the very conversation we are having.

  “Don’t worry, Isaac. I won’t leave again.”

  “T... thanks, Ives. Thank you.”

  I release his shoulder with another pat, and he keeps his head ducked, staring at fumbling fingers and breathing rather raggedly.

  “Besides, y’know – I wasn’t alone.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I wasn’t alone.” There’s a sort of hope that I’ve never seen glistening on the contours of his face, lifting his voice to a near melodic pitch. “I had my charge.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course.”

  “You’ve not seen her yet!” His face lights up, his rather limp body gains life. “When she wakes up, and the screen’s back on – I gotta show you! You’ve gotta see. You’re gonna love her!”

  I doubt it, says my mind. “Thomas allowed me to watch her awakening,” says my mouth.

  “Isn’t she beautiful, Ives?”

  “Surely a sight.” My lips are tight, as they must be, for I’m keeping the words behind them sealed. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so jubilant – perhaps, best not to break his spirits automatically.

  “Exactly! My thoughts! Sight for sore eyes!” He hits my arm, playfully, and then turns back to the reflective barrier, in which we see ourselves. Same small nose, slightly downturned. Same high cheekbones, pressing into our ears. Same long, thin lips, extending and breathing over our face.

  And yet... we look so different.

  The glow in his face is not present in mine. If one were to take into account this fervent joy he’s suddenly grabbed hold of, and then stared at my face, absent of such, they’d say I were the loser
in this pair.

  And yet, if some were to look at the ghosts that swam in his eyes, and saw mine to be cloudless, they’d proclaim me to be the lucky one without even a breath of a doubt.

  “You are quite excited about your charge,” I note. My mind goes back to Thomas’ comment, the one that has been swirling in my head. Could he have been wrong about my brother? Does he throw himself into relationships and attachments thoughtlessly, finding love easier than I found him?

  I cannot tell who would be the most benefited – me, for not caring as a default, or him, for not knowing how to do anything else.

  “You bet I am. She’s...” He seems to lose his breath at the mere thought of her. “She’s something else, Ives.”

  “Right.”

  “I... I think I... well... I’m sure I love her.”

  My reaction is more knee-jerk than anything else; I start at him and just stare, speechless, eyes widened and face taut. He doesn’t notice, as he’s already turned to where we both seem to automatically imagine Thomas to live, and calls out to him.

  “Thomas – ! Can I – can you put her back on?”

  “She’s asleep, Isaac.” His voice is chilly, as if there is some unresolved issue between them.

  “Yeah, but I – I still want to see. I don’t want to miss anything – if she wakes up – ”

  “Trust me, Isaac, I will alert you if – ”

  “No, no! No. Please. Just put her back on, Thomas.”

  “I’m sorry, but – ”

  “I get that right!” His voice cuts through the air. “I get that right. I get the right to see her. She’s my charge.”

  Thomas’ silence feels as stiff as steel as the image slowly careens onto the wall. The ragged staircase, the ragged girl, and my ragged brother, all painted before me, a person captured in muteness.

  She’s still sleeping, lying on her back, a hand slung over her eyes.

  His fingers trace her form on the barrier, and I lie down, slowly, unable to continue watching him, unable to speak, unsure what to do.

  If this is love... true love... who am I to tell him to stop, even if it does send shivers of confusion down my spine? It is not as if I understand love, apparently.