I wake in waves, consciousness bathing me slowly. I break the surface of sleep, gasping for air before I’m pulled under
another current another current another
Memories wrap around me, bind my bones. I sleep. When I sleep, I dream I am sleeping. In those dreams, I dream I am dead. I can’t tell real from fiction, can’t tell dreams from truth, can’t tell time anymore it might’ve been days or years who knows who knows I begin to
s
t i
r
I dream even as I wake, dream of red lips and slender fingers, dream of eyes, hundreds of eyes, I dream of air and anger and death.
I dream Emmaline’s dreams. She’s here.
She went quiet once she settled here, in my mind. She stilled, retreated. Hid from me, from the world. I feel heavy with her presence but she does not speak, she only decays, her mind decomposing slowly, leaving compost in its wake. I am heavy with it, heavy with her refuse. I am incapable of carrying this weight, no matter how strong Evie made me I am incapable, incompatible. I am not enough to hold our minds, combined. Emmaline’s powers are too much. I drown in it, I drown in it, I
gasp
when my head breaks the surface again.
I drag air into my lungs, beg my eyes to open and they laugh. Eyes laughing at lungs gasping at pain ricocheting up my spine.
Today, there is a boy.
Not one of the regular boys. Not Aaron or Stephan or Haider. This is a new boy, a boy I’ve never met before.
I can tell, just by standing next to him, that he’s terrified.
We stand in the big, wide room filled with trees. We stare at the white birds, the birds with the yellow streaks and the crowns on their heads. The boy stares at the birds like he’s never seen anything like them. He stares at everything with surprise. Or fear. Or worry. It makes me realize that he doesn’t know how to hide his emotions. Whenever Mr. Anderson looks at him, he sucks in his breath. Whenever I look at him, he goes bright red. Whenever Mum speaks to him, he stutters.
“What do you think?” Mr. Anderson says to Mum. He tries to whisper, but this room is so big it echoes a little.
Mum tilts her head at the boy. Studies him. “He’s what, six years old now?” But she doesn’t wait for him to answer. Mum just shakes her head and sighs. “Has it really been that long?”
Mr. Anderson looks at the boy. “Unfortunately.”
I glance at him, at the boy standing next to me, and watch as he stiffens. Tears spring to his eyes, and it hurts to watch. It hurts so much. I hate Mr. Anderson so much. I don’t know why Mum likes him. I don’t know why anyone likes him. Mr. Anderson is an awful person, and he hurts Aaron all the time. In fact— Now that I think about it, there’s something about this boy that reminds me of Aaron. Something about his eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper, and turn to face him.
He swallows, hard. Wipes at his tears with the edge of his sleeve. “Hey,” I try again. “I’m Ella. What’s your name?”
The boy looks up, then. His eyes are a deep, dark blue. He’s the saddest boy I’ve ever met, and it makes me sad just to look at him.
“I’m A-Adam,” he says quietly. He turns red again.
I take his hand in mine. Smile at him. “We’re going to be friends, okay? Don’t worry about Mr. Anderson. No one likes him. He’s mean to all of us, I promise.”
Adam laughs, but his eyes are still red. His hand trembles in mine, but he doesn’t let go.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “He’s pretty mean to me.”
I squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll protect you.”
Adam smiles at me then. Smiles a real smile. But when we finally look up again, Mr. Anderson is staring at us.
He looks angry.
There’s a buzzing building inside of me, a mass of sound that consumes thought, devours conversation.
We are flies—gathering, swarming—bulging eyes and fragile bones flittering nervously toward imagined destinies. We hurl our bodies at the panes of tantalizing windows, aching for the world promised on the other side. Day after day we drag injured wings and eyes and organs around the same four walls; open or closed, the exits elude us. We hope to be rescued by a breeze, hoping for a chance to see the sun.
Decades pass. Centuries stack together.
Our bruised bodies still careen through the air. We continue to hurl ourselves at promises. There is madness in the repetition, in the repetition, in the repetition that underscores our lives. It is only in the desperate seconds before death that we realize the windows against which we broke our bodies were only mirrors, all along.
