by Tony LaRocca
Sigma kissed him, her lips soft and warm. She looked into his eyes, and caressed his face with soot–covered hands. “I’m not pretending,” she said. “Please, I need you to believe me. You’re a blessing in my life.”
He stared into her eyes, took his left arm in his right hand, and ripped down in a twisting jerk. It tore off with an explosion of light, writhing. It took the form of a serpent, and slithered into the black billows.
His point of view shifted as the world slowed, focusing to a fine, crystal detail. He was the snake again, and it felt good. Raw energy surged up his knotted spine, like eruptions of flame. The glassy obsidian rubbed against his belly as he squirmed across the mountainside.
Hatred, like shards of ice, slashed through his heart. For his mother, for being unstable and dependent, for his grandfather, for stealing him from his true family, for Jaeger, for his manipulations, for Sigma, for loving him, but most of all for himself, for feeling so powerful, yet powerless.
The transformation felt different from before. This time, he was not a mindless beast who only wanted to devour. He was not a spiked maw that would blindly masticate whatever crossed his path. He was cold, driven, and cunning. He was a scalpel, wielded by a calculating—
His focus shifted again. He was the amputated man now. He knelt, bracing himself on one hand, while gravel cut into his knees. Something shook in front of him, a mass of swirling flesh and eyes. The creature grabbed his face, shouting in gibberish through the haze. He punched and clawed at it.
“Matthew!”
He had a moment of clarity. Sigma cradled his face in her hands as she stared into his eyes. He gasped for breath, feeling her anchor him as his arm slithered across the face of the mountain. Then she was gone, lost in the smoke and molten fire.
He was the worm once more.
Sleep had eluded Alyanna for most of the evening. She stared at her handiwork. She had not so much painted as waged war against the canvas. She had rendered a sea during a thunderstorm, forks of violet lightning raking and churning the waves. Bodies clung to wooden debris—charred, blackened skeletons. The result did not look like a painting at all. It looked like a vengeful explosion.
God, she wanted to drink. She needed to drink. She forced herself to paint, to pile color upon color until it dribbled down the cloth, and onto her easel. It did not matter anyway, it was not real. Nothing here was.
She crept down the stairs. She listened at the closed door of her son’s room. Was that breathing, or snoring inside? It might be, but checking on him would definitely wake him, right? She put her palm against the stained wood, and whispered his name.
Bananas waited for her in her bedroom, chasing her tail in circles. Alyanna sighed, and rolled her eyes as she scratched her dog behind the ears. It was impossible for the joyful idiot to stay still for a few seconds, much less sleep. It would be nice to feel the golden retriever’s hairy warmth against her, like in the old days. At least she no longer had to take the mutt for walks.
She crawled into bed, stroking her belly with her fingertips. Was she showing? Her breasts had definitely grown, and she had put on some weight.
It would be better if she had some money, and no legal issues hanging over her head. At least then, she would be able to take her daughter, and leave all of this. She did not want to abandon Matthew, but she knew he was no longer hers. By the time the baby was born, he would be an adult. He sure thought he was one now.
She pushed the thought from her mind. “Stay away from me, Sigma,” she whispered into the empty room. “Stay away, or I’ll kill you.”
He was only four. She did not care what they said, how he talked, or what he looked like. That cunt had raped her four–year–old son. Even when he looked ninety, he would still be four. No, she realized, she could not leave him. He needed her, whether he wanted to or not.
Her chaotic thoughts fumbled around and over each other. She needed to have a drink, just enough whiskey to make her eyes close. “You can do that for me,” she said to the darkness. “You can make me sleep as if I’m drunk, without hurting the baby. You can do anything. You can play me like a violin, so why won’t you do that?”
There was no reply. She curled on her side, and cried herself to sleep.
She dreamt that she stood on a field of jagged, black rock. Her belly was swollen and bloated, as if she had been pregnant for nine months instead of two. Thunder echoed across the sky, as sheets of violet lightning rippled through iron–gray clouds like waves on an ocean. A blistering wind tugged at her nightgown, and she pulled her arms across her chest. Every searing breath tasted of charcoal and eggs. She gagged and spat.
The ground shook. She leaned forward with her arms outstretched, struggling to keep her balance.
Thunder cracked and rang in her ears, but this time, it came from the earth. With an explosion of dirt, rock, and sand, a monolith a half–mile wide burst through the ground, and climbed towards the sky. Its surface was craggy, but polished to a glass–like sheen, as if it had been fired in the world’s largest kiln.
She heard laughter.
For a moment, she saw her son. Not the sullen teenager that she had dealt with that morning, but her real son, four years old, and laughing. He wore his favorite pajamas: white, spotted with yellow, happy faces. He looked at her, smiled, and ran towards the newborn mountain, his bare feet padding across the igneous plain.
“Matthew, wait.”
She tried to cry out, but her voice would not work. It came out as a frightened gasp, as if the sooty air had sucked the words from her lips. She ran after him. Her breath came in pants, her distended belly swaying from side to side.
She felt a heavy, furry mass collide with her legs, almost toppling her. She looked down. Bananas darted back and forth between her calves. She shivered, her head between her paws.
“What’s wrong, Girl?” Alyanna asked. The dog just whined, pressing her nose into the rock.
Matthew’s giggly laugh came faint across the night air, as if from miles away. She looked up, and saw her son climbing the face of the monstrosity, his tiny hands grabbing onto its spiked outcroppings for support.
She climbed after him, the sharp, burning rocks scraping her bare feet and hands. She cried her son’s name, but her vocal cords refused to make a sound more powerful than a whisper that raked her throat.
The cliff leveled off at a path that spiraled around the edge of a crater. She peered into the scarlet fires of a volcano, squinting against the heat and sulfurous air. Her stomach ached, the weight of the baby pulling at her abdominal muscles. She wrapped her arms around her distended belly, cradling her daughter. Her legs shook under her as if they were made of rubber. She sank to the polished rock, gasping for breath.
“Mommeeeee!”
She wiped the grimy sweat from her eyes. Her son stood at the crater’s edge, on a ledge of obsidian. I’m being baked alive, she thought. She whispered his name as she pushed herself to her feet.
She heard the beat of paws thudding on the rock behind her. She turned as Bananas leapt towards them, landing in between her and her son. Matthew faced the dog, his eyes wide.
Bananas—sweet silly Bananas who could do nothing but laugh and dance—growled from deep in her throat, her eyes glowing with blue fire. She lunged for the boy, her growl rising into a bitter snarl.
Matthew’s innocent gaze squinted into a sly scowl. Half an instant before the dog reached him, he twisted to the side. Bananas tried to stop her attack, but she could only slide, her nails clicking and scratching on the glassy surface. She seemed to hang in space for a moment, then plummeted into the fires below.
Alyanna shrieked, clenching her hands into fists. She looked about her as panic surged into her throat. Her son had vanished.
“Matthew?” She backed away from the crater. Her calves collided with a jutting slab, and she fell on her backside, cursing.
The rock rippled beneath her.
It swirled around her hands and feet like running wax. She
squirmed, but it hardened just as quickly as it had melted, immobilizing her limbs. She thrashed, unable to make a sound.
She heard a hissing noise.
She whipped her head from side to side, trying to find the source. She lurched until her arms almost popped from their sockets. Something lurked amidst the shadows. She knew, with the precognitive sense of dreams, that it was a snake.
The thought gave birth to form. The serpent appeared at the far edge of the slab, as if it had slithered from the volcano itself. It squirmed across the rocky table towards her, and she saw that she had been wrong. It was not a snake; it was a gnarled worm. The muscles that wove around its glistening, scarlet body throbbed and pulsed as it advanced. It reached her distended belly, and stopped. It reared, its lips peeling to display rings of needle–sharp, black teeth.
It struck.
She woke screaming, her throat raw.
Matthew ran into the room, his four–year–old eyes wide on his face. “Mommy?”
Alyanna blinked, her heart pounding. She lay in bed, but not in her bedroom within the Sage. Cobwebs adorned the corners, amidst peeling, eggshell paint. The dresser was piled high with papers, books, shirts, pants, and underwear that had not been put away. Then it struck her. This was not a virtual representation. This was her home, her real, untidy home.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
She sat up, and took Matthew’s face in her hands. She ran them over his smooth, pink cheeks. She kissed his forehead. It was cool.
“I—” she said. She pulled back the covers, and stared at her belly. It was flat. She felt lighter, as she had before being pregnant. “I think I had a horrible, bad nightmare.”
He frowned, his lips pouting in exaggeration. “Oh no,” he said. “I hate nightmares.”
“Me too,” she said. She felt a tickling sensation, just below her navel. She looked down.
“What’s wrong,” he asked.
“Nothing.” She rubbed her stomach. “I’m fine.” She clutched his tiny arms. “You’re okay? You’re really okay?”
“Yeah,” he said in a singsong voice, his face scrunched into a confused grimace. “Have you gone cuckoo?”
“Yes,” she said, “I think I have.”
He kissed her on the cheek. She felt a wave of happiness flow through her, and she giggled. “Your kisses make me feel silly.”
There was a sharp, prickling sensation in her abdomen, as if her stomach was a limb that had fallen asleep. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
“No, please, stay here,” he said. He kissed her other cheek, and she felt a sensation of almost drunken euphoria. “Oh, Matty,” she said. “Everything is good. Everything is going to be fine. It just… it all seemed so real.”
“I know,” he said.
She raised her eyebrow. She almost felt lightheaded. “You know what?”
The joyful look on his face fell for a fraction of a second—
She felt cold and pain. She tried to gag, but something that tasted like rubber pressed against her tongue, and snaked deep into her throat. She could not move her limbs. She lifted her head, and the world spun around her.
Her stomach was open, her bloody flesh peeled back, and pinned. She lay naked, within a room of harsh, white light. A silvery arm swiveled from the ceiling to hover over her open body. It had two hands. One wielded a scalpel, the other was a claw of rubber–tipped fingers. It entered her, filling her abdomen with fire as it pulled and clamped her innards aside—
Matthew kissed her face repeatedly, and she gasped. A fist of ice squeezed her heart, but every kiss made the rising tide of terror ebb. A sense of joy flooded over her.
What had she been thinking of?
She could not remember.
Her son seemed to be moving while he sat still. It was as if he were an image that had been sped up, and then chroma–keyed into her vision, creating an imperfect special effect.
“My stomach,” she muttered.
He lifted her nightshirt, and zerberted her belly with a loud, wet brrrrap. A feeling of warmth and pleasure flooded through her. “Stop it,” she said, giggling. “That tickles.”
He did it again. She pulled him to her, and held him tight, enveloping him in love.
“You’re a good mommy,” he said. “You’re the best.”
“No I’m not,” she said, slurring her words, “but thank you.”
He kissed her forehead, and the feeling of self–recrimination dwindled. “You are,” he said. “You are, you are, you are.”
She sighed at herself. She was here, with her healthy son. Why did she have to shit on everything? They were together, and everything was fine, just as it once was.
She heard singing. It reminded her of a Gregorian chant. The distant, female voices sounded like angels, the harmonies of their unintelligible words dancing and weaving around each other. The song came from the ceiling. She looked up in wonder.
Matthew jumped off the bed, and offered his hand. “Come with me,” he said, “I need to show you something.”
“What?” She rolled off the mattress, and planted her bare feet on the carpet.
“Come on,” he said, and ran out the door.
She followed. She felt lightheaded but euphoric, as if she were floating. She caught sight of his feet as they turned the corner, and climbed the stairs to her studio. She felt disoriented. Hadn’t she seen this before, or something very similar? She bit her lip. She could not remember. She followed, her sense of inebriated joyfulness dwindled. Remembering felt very important.
As she reached the stairs, she found herself humming. She knew this song, didn’t she? All of it was familiar, the melody and the harmonies. It was all within her, somehow.
“Mommy, hurry up.”
Matthew’s head peeked from the doorway. She climbed faster, until she reached the top.
Instead of her studio, she found herself in a hall of white marble. Rows and columns of pillars stretched to the horizon in every direction. After about fifty feet, they disappeared into billows of glowing fog. The singing was louder, and clearer. She realized she was chanting along. She looked up, but could not see any angels—only luminescent haze.
Matthew took her hand, and pulled her. When he touched her, she felt her doubts and nagging pricks of confusion recede. He was healthy, strong, and happy, but more importantly, he was himself again.
“Come on, Mommy.”
She followed, still singing. The fog smelled sweet, tinged with honeysuckle and wisteria. It felt cool and moist against her skin.
A structure appeared in the mist. At first, it looked like a harp, its gossamer strings reaching to the clouds. But as her son drew her closer, she realized that what she had taken for an ornate sound box was in fact, a woman.
She was naked, her skin pale and translucent, like that of a fish. Her breasts and belly had been flayed back, the strings of the instrument spun from the phosphorescent cobwebs of her innards. She lay with her back arched. Her hands and feet had been molded into the marble, swaddled in wet–drapery. A golden pattern, like integrated circuits, branched out from them across the tiles. Forks of emerald lightning shot upward through a mesh of throbbing, knotted cords that snaked from the stone and into her vertebrae. Her head was tilted back, her long hair caressing the ground. Her lifeless eyes stared, unfocused, her pale lips parted, but silent.
The face was hers.
Her son led her to the woman. He let go of her, and walked to the other side. He held his hands to the spiderweb strings.
“I need you to teach me,” he said.
Alyanna studied the gleaming fog, as she sang along with the heavenly tune. “I don’t know how to play this,” she said.
“Please, Mommy. I know you can.”
She took a deep breath, and placed her fingers on the strings. They were sharp and cold, and stung her fingertips. She plucked at one.
The woman sang a note. It was a clear, high pitch, but without any diction. Alyanna plucked at another string, a
nd then another. The tones were in tune with the ethereal song.
Matthew’s eyes were wide and intense. He shimmered where he stood, fringed by a deep blue aura. “More, we need every note. You can do it.”
She smiled. She knew she could, and deep in her heart, she wanted to. Her hands flew across the silky, translucent strands, and the flayed woman sang, matching the harmony that surrounded them note for note. A drunken euphoria filled her.
His tiny hands reached forward, and plucked at the strings with her. He played with precision, pulling and releasing each string at the exact same moment as she. They played together, her blanched, glowing twin singing in perfect unison with the ethereal chorus.
Her son looked at her, and nodded. A wave of exhaustion crested over her. She slumped to the cool marble. He continued to play, his fingers dancing across the gossamer strings. He looked into her eyes.
“Always know,” he said. “You were a very good mommy. I’m sorry it has to be this way. I love you.”
The words were confusing, especially since they reached her through sensations of love and bliss. Sorry for what? she wanted to ask. But the question was lost as a sweet, peaceful sleep, a type she had not felt for years, enveloped her.
Chapter 11
Alyanna’s eyes fluttered open. Her ceiling lamp was on, but it was not the dust–covered globe that had illuminated her real bedroom; it was one of the stock light–fixtures of the Sage.
0800 and General Jaeger stood next to her bed, their faces grim. She bolted up, bunching her cotton sheets around her.
“Please, try and relax,” said 0800.
The world spun. Her stomach ached and burned, as if she had performed a day’s worth of calisthenics.
“My baby,” she asked, her voice a whisper. “Oh God, is my baby all right?”
“I’m afraid you miscarried,” said Jaeger, the glowing eyes above his ever–present rictus swimming with compassion. “I’m sorry.”
“You.” She spat the word at 0800. “You told me that it would be safe, that I would be watched all the time.”