Kyle watches enraptured as the barn burns, as Angel cradles Gabriela, struggling to hold her as she thrashes, screaming Daniel’s name.
“What the hell happened, man?” Angel yells over his shoulder.
Kyle says nothing, gasping for breath, fingers buried in the dust as ash rains down around him.
“I’m calling 911.” Angel struggles to hold Gabriela as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. She’s still sobbing. As Angel makes the call, her dark gaze rests on Kyle.
“You’ll burn in hell for this,” she says.
I’m on my knees, pressing my face into the mud as the fire rages in my memory, as the wind and rain beat against my back. It takes me a moment to realize that the hiccupping sobs and mournful wails are coming from my own throat.
Footsteps squelch in the mud as someone approaches. Gentle hands pry me from the earth. She smells like Mya and sounds like Amy.
“It’s OK, Kyle. It’s over now.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Danny and Shira are dead
July 5.
Perhaps I’m supposed to feel different now that I know, now that I remember everything in excruciating detail. I don’t feel much of anything really.
I’m a murderer. There’s no going back, no magic planet bending the space-time continuum, letting me correct the mistakes of my past. The Now is all I have. Orange pajamas and chains.
“How do you feel?” Miss Aym asks, nudging the tape recorder a little closer to me. She’s wearing the same expression Amy the psychologist used to, part concern, part maternal affection under a veneer of professionalism. A lawyer, she’s all buttoned up in a pin-striped suit complete with a brooch pinned to her pocket. Looks like a squirrel, or maybe an otter, crusted with blue gems.
“How should I feel?” I ask.
“Different.” She taps her pen against a page in the open file spread across the table. We’re in a visitor’s room, sterile and unfriendly. Miss Aym’s been trying to prove that not only am I unfit to stand trial, but that the fire wasn’t even my fault on account of me being crazy. Three cheers for psychiatry.
“Why? Because now I remember?” For a moment, I forget my fractured ribs and breathe too deeply. My body aches all over from the recent beating. Nicholas the Badass and his crew of criminal miscreants have designated me the resident punching bag.
“They do this to you again?” Miss Aym gestures to my face.
I prod my swollen lip with the tip of my tongue and taste blood. “I deserved it.”
“Did you?”
“You think I don’t?”
She says nothing.
“I did it. I killed them.” Admitting it leaves me feeling empty inside like the bones of roadkill picked clean by coyotes. It’s the first time I’ve said it. The words hang in the ether, taunting me with their truth. No escaping now. The world could end, but it wouldn’t change what I did.
“Do you know why?”
“They betrayed me and I like making things burn.”
Miss Aym nods and makes a note in her file.
“And you’re going to serve time for that, in here with this bunch. Is that what you want, Kyle?”
“I’ve had worse,” I say, thanks to Dad.
The strawberry burn scars on my arm start to itch under my shirtsleeves. Cigarette burns, self-inflicted. I’m no longer some deep-fried melted monstrosity, for all the good being pretty will do me in here.
“You don’t belong here, Kyle. You should be in a psychiatric facility.”
“Drugged up and strapped down? At least here I’ll still get yard time.”
“You’re only eighteen. You don’t have to live the rest of your life behind bars.”
“The world’s better off without me.”
Miss Aym closes the file with a sigh. She gives me a long, hard stare, the kind Mya used to give me when I was pissing her off. “I’ll be back next week to discuss your options.”
“They never existed, did they?” I ask as she smooths her skirt, getting ready to leave.
“Who?” She flicks blonde hair from her dark eyes.
“My friend Mya and Amy, that psychologist.”
Miss Aym sighs. “No, Kyle, they didn’t. They’re manufactured, figments of your imagination. Coping mechanisms. Evidence of a damaged mind.”
I tug on the chains in vain. Wanting to escape is instinctual.
“So none of it was real?”
“Your mind was just trying to protect you from the harsh reality of your actions.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“What?” She arches perfectly manicured eyebrows.
“They were real. Obscura’s real too.”
“There’s no such planet, Kyle.”
“It wasn’t a dream. It was real. I felt it, saw it.” The bruises pull taut on my face as I frown. There’s no way it was all just some symptom of psychosis.
“In my opinion, you’re not fit to stand trial.” Miss Aym opens the file and scribbles a quick note before heading for the door.
“So what does that mean? No trial, no sentence? Meds and a padded cell?”
“I’ll do my best to help you.” She smiles and taps on the door for the guard. “Take care of yourself.”
* * *
Niyol’s still snoring in the bunk above me. Niyol, my cell mate, doing time for knocking off some liquor store with a bunch of cholos. He fancies himself a philosopher and traditionalist, says it’s in his blood, says he’s blessed by his Navajo ancestors. Wish his ancestors would bless him with a new nose so that I could get some sleep.
Moonlight slices diagonally through the tiny, barred window, illuminating the drawings tacked to the bunk. Tattered images from my comic book dream.
My hero, not so wrongly incarcerated after all. I tear the pages, shredding the story of Scarface, ending his false reality. He never had any chance of escaping. A naive hope for the impossible.
All this time, I thought I was creating fiction. Memories, distorted and warped, spill across the frames; I rip them into confetti chunks. Drawings destroyed, I turn to the next reminder of that other life.
The prom photo of the three of us. Danny, Shira, and me, all wearing smiles. I’ll never know how long they’d been screwing each other behind my back, how long Shira had hated me, wanting Danny for herself. And Danny? I’ll never know who he really loved or why he wanted both of us. I guess we weren’t really friends at all. Shira wasn’t the glue; she was the wedge driving us apart.
I’d like to remember the good times, Danny’s kisses and Shira’s fingers in my hair, but the sound of their screams reverberate inside my skull as I imagine the flesh peeling from their faces.
No amount of therapy or medication is going to change the fact of what I did. No amount of repentance, no matter how many times I say sorry and mean it; I’m still a murderer.
I want to tear the image, rend their faces, but just can’t. I shove it out of sight beneath my pillow instead.
Niyol snorts in his sleep, rolls over, creaking the springs and dislodging the remaining postcard from its moorings above me. A picture of Shiprock, the one Shira gave me a lifetime ago. Red sunset above red rock with a gold border. Red like blood or fire.
I’ll probably never get to see it again, to stand on the hogback and look out over the scrub toward Arizona, watching the storms roll in across the mesa.
The moonlight changes, a subtle shift from silver to blue as I turn the card over in my hand. The poetry and Shira’s handwriting taunt me.
The light spilling through the bars is glowing brighter now, casting an azure glow across the sheet. A thin stream of blood dribbles out of my nose.
Barefoot, I slip from bed and shuffle backward, peering up at the window until I have a clearer line of sight.
There’s a familiar face behind the bars: Obscura, blushing blue and grinning down at me. Obscura. If the planet is real…pain skewers my brain, blurring my vision. Snatches of conversation come back to haunt me. I should’ve listened t
o Professor Cruz. Or maybe this is it, the quantum event to end the entanglement.
I wait to feel different, but minutes shuffle past and nothing changes.
I try to blink Obscura away, but she remains tethered in the sky, a symbol of hope. If the blue rock is still up there, then maybe this reality isn’t fixed in stone, isn’t the only universe in which I exist…if I exist at all.
I try to recite the words of the poem, but they catch in my throat as the postcard shrivels in my hands. Paper margins consumed by blue flame, turning to ash, and pouring through my fingers. The bars across the window ripple, becoming liquid drips like melted candle wax. Obscura overwhelms my senses, drenching me in blue.
What was it Mya said? The agony of a bursting supernova inside my head makes mincemeat of my thoughts. That maybe I didn’t have to choose…that maybe I should let the right reality choose me.
The world beyond my window draws closer, a portal to another self. Flames lick at my fingertips, burning cold fire through my skin, igniting my veins.
I don’t know where this’ll take me. My flesh turns to dust. With a final breath…I shift.
~ About the Author ~
Suzanne van Rooyen grew up in the concrete jungle of Johannesburg, South Africa. After a brief stint in Australia, she felt most at home in the forests of Finland. As a freelance writer, Suzanne's publications include articles on music, travel and Finnish culture published across three continents. She is also the author of the cyberpunk novel Dragon's Teeth and several short stories. She is also a Pushcart Prize nominee. Despite having a Master's in music, Suzanne prefers writing strange tales and playing in the snow with her shiba inu. She is repped by Jordy Albert.
Find out more about Suzanne van Rooyen
Website: http://suzannevanrooyen.com/
Blog: http://suzannevanrooyen.com/blog/
Twitter: http://twitter.com/Suzanne_Writer
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Suzanne-van-Rooyen/304965232847874
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5306442.Suzanne_van_Rooyen
~ More YA Fiction from Etopia Press ~
Feedback
D L Richardson
Listening to your inner voice can get you killed.
Ethan James, Florida Bowman, and Jake Inala are three teenagers who receive much-needed organ transplants. Two weeks later they are inadvertently recruited by the CIA when a spy dies halfway through his mission. Three bacteria bombs are set to detonate, spreading illness and death across the planet, and it’s up to Ethan, Florida, and Jake to deactivate them.
Except that they have no idea where the bombs are located.
Kidnapped for information they can’t possibly know, and fuelled by the spirit of a dead CIA agent, Ethan, Florida, and Jake must look deep inside themselves if they are to finish the mission and save millions of lives. But they’re being held captive in a strange place by a man who believes in Feedback, the theory that information is retained in the memory of organs–in this case those of a certain dead CIA agent donor. And their captor will stop at nothing to get the information retained in their newly transplanted organs.
Dodger
Amanda Hash
First love wasn’t supposed to be this hard...
Sixteen-year-old Dodger was raised to be a thief. He’s always been good at it too, until he’s caught red handed robbing one of the most expensive mansions in the city. The kid who lives there isn’t much older than Dodger, and things get weird when the kid seems more interested in talking than calling the cops. When he tells Dodger not to forget his loot—it’s only money, and his parents have plenty—Dodger’s sure the guy’s playing him. But the cops never do show up...
Dodger’s suspicion of the wealthy Augustine Dante makes it hard to face his growing attraction. Not to mention that Dodger’s “family”—the band of thieves who took him in as a child—would freak if they caught him hanging with the “enemy.” Dodger knows he can’t keep Augustine a secret forever. The time will come when he’ll have to make a choice: follow his family, or follow his heart?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Obscura Burning Page 22