Transcend

by Christine Fonseca

  “Mr. Montgomery.” Sister Agnes’s rough voice cut off his thoughts as she pounded on the door. “Mr. Montgomery, are you decent?”

  A younger man, a different man, would have smiled and plotted a furtive reply. But there was nothing suggestive in her words; they were not about modesty.

  “Just a minute,” Ien replied as he grabbed the linen bandages. His face still hurt at his touch.

  Perhaps it always would.

  He wrapped the rough fabric around his head with great care, cringing whenever his finger brushed again the skin. He had to hide the mangled mass of flesh and bone, the truth of his existence. The shame.

  “Almost,” Ien said as the last of the cloth mask was tied into place. “There. You may come.”

  Sister Agnes opened the door, avoiding Ien’s gaze. Mask or not, she could never bring herself to meet his eyes. No one could. Some things you just can’t hide, no matter how thick the material.

  “Your breakfast.” Sister Agnes put the meal, a bowl of something Ien had no desire to try, on the wooden desk before moving the basin to the floor. “I trust you are feeling better.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And your face?”

  Ien did not know what to say. Lying would be of no help. She would only examine him and discover the truth herself, a truth that worried him. “No change.”

  Silence grew in the space between them, deafening in its emptiness.

  Sister Agnes swallowed hard and turned away.

  “How long has it been, Sister? Since Mother brought me here?”

  “Six weeks. We are out of time.”

  “Where am I, exactly?”

  “Where your family wishes you to be.”

  “And may I leave now, since the pain is tolerable?”

  Sister Agnes walked to the door without responding.

  “Has she come to inquire about me?”

  “Not in the past few weeks. I suspect she will come. Soon.”

  “And then?” Ien knew what Mother expected. He even suspected that the sisters would honor her request. But, he needed to hear it for himself.

  Sister Agnes turned and looked at Ien, pinning him with her stare. Her actions startled him and he turned away, unable to handle the scrutiny.

  “We will do what is required, Mr. Montgomery.” The cold timber of her voice infused his skin with an icy terror.

  She left the room before Ien could respond. He wasn’t ready to die. He had worked too hard to stay alive. He stripped off the tight linen mask and allowed his fingers to roam his face. Every curve and indentation, every texture and sensation painted a mental picture of his deformities. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. Maybe there was a hint of improvement. A tiny speck of hope bloomed. Until he felt his bones and tendons and a familiar sinister laugh echoed in his thoughts.

  Who was he kidding? He was cursed.

  And he would die in this place.

  “You’ve run out of time.”

  Ien whipped around, spying Erik in the shadowy corner of his room. “Get out!”

  “You can’t control me. Besides, I’m here to help you, and this time you really ought to listen. You wouldn’t want another unnecessary tragedy would you?”

  “You are not real!”

  “Can you really be so sure? With your mind in such a state? How do you even know what’s real anymore?”

  “Get. Out!” The walls rattled from the intensity of Ien’s voice. “I am Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.” He whispered his mantra, his heart pounding in his chest.

  Erik’s laugh sent a chill down Ien’s spine. “It won’t work, little brother.” Erik’s breath seared Ien’s neck. “Not this time.”

  Ien pinched his eyes shut. “I survived the fire. I’m alive. I will survive…survive it all.”

  “I’m still here, Ien. You can’t hide from me.” The words came from everywhere, coiling around Ien like a snake.

  His heart beat wildly out of control, his breath coming in rapid bursts. “I am not insane. I can control this.”

  “You’ve never been able to control me.” Erik’s words hissed through the shadows as he faded into nothing.

  “I am not insane!” The shriek echoed throughout the room. “IamnotinsaneIamnotinsaneIamnotinsane.” The words repeated over and over, louder and louder.

  Ien paced like a caged animal, smashing his fists against the wall. “You’re dead, Erik. You. Are. Dead!”

  The door to his room swung open. “Mr. Montgomery! Mr. Montgomery! You have to calm down. Ien!”

  He barely registered the other voices in the room, continuing his assault on the shadows and walls of his room.

  “I’m still here. Always here.”

  Erik’s words ensnared Ien’s thoughts until the only thing he could hear or think about was him.

  “Get out of my head!” Ien yelled. A stream of fire rushed through his arms, his legs, his body. Hands steadied his frail body as he felt himself fall.

  And his mind splintered again.

  14.

  “O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven:

  Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!”

  ~William Shakespeare (King Lear)

  ~~

  Fire burns through the whole of me as my nightmares take over what’s left of my mind. I fight against the images and emotions crashing into me, stiffening against the onslaught. A warped and distorted terror coats my senses until one by one the pictures begin to retreat and I fade back into the nothingness I crave.

  I take a breath.

  And another.

  There are no more thoughts in this moment. Nothing of the fire or ash. Nothing of Erik or Mother. I am at peace.

  Or maybe, mercifully, I am dead.

  Why am I here?

  My respite is cut too short as questions spring from the darkness.

  Why have I stayed a prisoner, too scared to reclaim a life, my life? Why do I indulge in fantasies that can never come true?

  The questions come faster and faster in the dark, carrying their own type of silent torture.

  Why has my brother come back from the dead to haunt me once more?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  The questions push me further into the space in between, the place where my madness lays waiting for me. I struggle with each inquiry, determined to extract some sort of answer, an explanation for everything that has happened so far. But no answers come and I’m forced to acknowledge the feeling lodged between my two worlds

  Terror.

  It is the only explanation for my complacence. Terror for the monster that hides in my dreams, whispering in my ear until I almost believe the voice to be real. Terror for the images the monster brings, heinous acts committed by me. I’m not capable of such violence, I can’t be. And yet, I fear the monster is real; a precursor to a life that lies in waiting.

  Just for me.

  Here, in my waking prison, my home, I pretend that I’m whole. Here, my fantasies stay in my mind. But what will happen if I leave? Will I find Mother and Father and make them pay for all they have done to me? Will I hunt James and take Kiera back? Will I become the thing I fear most of all?

  The madness grows too fast now, the constant noise too hard to quell and the delusions too difficult to deny. I dream of Kiera and our love, weaving a lifetime within the parts of my mind that are still whole. In that space, we have a life together.

  Until darkness descends there as well.

  The truth bleeds into that fantasy and she no longer sees me as Ien. My death mask is no longer hidden. Kiera screams in my thoughts.

  Always.

  She cannot see the me behind the mask, cannot remember anything but the horror facing her.

  Even in the calm spaces untouched by madness, Kiera is not mine.

  My thoughts spin the landscapes around me and I imagine I am sitting again at the piano, playing Kiera’s song. I watch my fingers float across the keyboard and cling to the sounds emanatin
g around me. I let the notes caress my thoughts, hoping it is enough to satiate the longing I have for her.

  It’s no use. All I hear are the gaps within the duet, places left empty just for her.

  My mind abhors the void the music has created. Kiera shapes from my thoughts, filling in the pauses, completing a song that can only be ours. I will myself to pull away, resist falling into the vision, the myth.

  But I can’t, won’t. My fingers continue and I am again trapped within the maze of my thoughts.

  Kiera plays with me, matching the cadences. We play every pause, every pulse, slowly becoming the music we create. For a moment I lose myself to the fantasy.

  But only a moment.

  Kiera eventually opens her eyes. Screams.

  The moment is shattered and the scene vanishes. I’m engulfed in darkness once more, forever waiting to see where my mind will take me.

  Am I as cursed as Mother believes?

  No.

  I am worse. Much, much worse.

  Confused images emerge and coil around me, overlapping in a collage of pictures I need to forget. Fire. Kiera and James. Mother and Erik. I wake with a start, clinging to the truth of the small room. Sweat beads from my brow as I fight the blankets covering me.

  A haunting melody invades my ears. It feels real, this song that should not exist outside of my nightmares. The kaleidoscope of thoughts and images continue to swirl and turn, tossing my stomach. I grab the bed, begging for respite.

  My room, being awake—they offer no solace.

  The music grows louder, punctuated by an occasional pounding foreign to the melody. I strain to focus, pushing the madness aside. Again the pounding comes and again I reach for it. There is a wood timbre to the sound, like an object striking something hard.

  More pounding, louder this time. It drowns the sounds of my melody. Over and over the thuds repeat, coming closer. It’s mixed with something new, soft, light, breathy. Like a whisper.

  The horrific visions fade as the knocking continues, until finally my world goes black. I blink my eyes once, twice. My room comes into view.

  The bed.

  The wooden table.

  And the incessant knocking on my door.

  “Ien. Ien. Let me in. Please, Ien.”

  I don’t know the voice coming from the hall outside of my room.

  “Please, Ien. I will explain everything once you let me in.”

  The woman sounds much older than Sister Agnes or the others that bring my meals and collect my linens.

  “Now, Ien. I must see you now.” Her pleadings are punctuated with coughs and wheezing.

  I rise from the bed, still unsure if I am awake or lost in another dream. I open the door, revealing a woman at the threshold, old and frail. Her eyes are milky-white, unusable. Her skin resembles parchment. I’m certain she’ll turn to dust at any moment.

  “Thank you,” she says, pushing her way past me. She walks as though she can see every inch around her.

  Was I wrong about her eyes?

  “Who are you?” I ask. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Sister Agnes said—”

  “Sister Agnes holds no dominion over me.” Her voice rattles with phlegm. But there is strength hidden beneath the excess fluids. A strength that reminds me of Mother. “I’m Sister Anne. I’ve come to help you.”

  A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “There is no help for me,” I say a little too loud.

  “There is always help for those in need, son.” She speaks with such endearment that I’m tempted to believe her.

  “The only help for me lies six feet under the ground.”

  A smile plays on her face. “Your death is not what I had in mind.” The sister sits on my bed and faces me.

  I know she cannot see; there is no terror reflected through her one good eye. But her gaze leaves me feeling exposed, and I walk to the table to grab my linens.

  “There is no need to cover your face for me. In fact, there is no need for you to cover it for anyone. Not anymore.”

  My brows pinch together as I recall the horror painted in the eyes of everyone who has ever seen my face since the accident. Everyone except Jenna. And this woman.

  “Trust me,” she says, again reading my thoughts.

  She can see me. It’s the only explanation.

  “Please, come sit with an old woman.” She motions for me to join her.

  Her voice pulls me to her. Is this another dream? I stab my nails deep into the fleshy parts of my palms. Pain radiates up my arm, too real for a dream.

  “Come,” Sister Anne says again and I comply. “Let me.” She touches my face before I can respond. Her fingers pass over each contour. The bone, the hardened skin and pieces of tendon. Nothing escapes her. “Oh, you aren’t cursed, Ien Montgomery. Not even close. You are striking. I think you have simply forgotten.”

  My eyes fill with water, my heart with relief. Her words reach inside my soul, nurturing a part of me long since dead. I wish the words were true, fantasize that they are. But I know better, her truth is as blind as she.

  “Do not mistake blind for unseeing, Ien. I have more clarity than most.”

  “How did you—?” Again I scratch at the flesh of my palms. This is one strange dream, so palpable.

  “The world needs to see the real you if you are to survive. Not the mask you wear, but the person who composes such beautiful music and risks so much for love. Make everyone see, Ien. Then you will be free.”

  Her words cut me to the quick. How can she know what lives in my heart? How can she see so much of me?

  Only one answer makes sense…

  This isn’t real.

  “You doubt your five senses now? Here, touch me.” Her frail hands wrap around my own. She guides me to her face. It’s soft and warm. “I am as real as you.”

  I recoil, my mind riddled with confusion. So much has proven false these last few months. So much I don’t understand. She must be an aberration, a phantom sent to confuse me further. I glare at her, searching for proof. She seems so solid, so real. My hands begin to shake and the tears overflow my eyes.

  “I assure you I am real, sent only to help you heal. You do want to heal, don’t you, Ien? You do want to get out of here, yes?”

  Before I can process her questions fully “yes” escapes my mouth. She smiles and for the briefest of moments I feel more than see something sinister within that smile.

  I pull away, trying to decipher my emotions. I’m warmed by her concern and chilled by whatever it is I feel behind her eyes. All at once I am consumed by this frail, slight woman in front of me. I want her to be real, want the optimism she brings to mean something.

  In truth, I need it.

  I force my misgivings aside, giving into the hope I covet.

  “Tell me about your mother, Ien. Tell me why she has sent you here.”

  A new flood rushes through me, unleashed by thoughts of Mother. Answers rise up from the hatred kindling in my heart. Should I tell this stranger that Mother has no capacity for love? That I am nothing more than a failed project, sent here for disposal. Do I speak of the fire that took my face, or the days I writhed in pain as layer upon layer of skin peeled away?

  Or maybe I should describe the look on Father’s face when he ordered my death. Or the sound of Mother’s voice while she prayed for it.

  “Mother condemned me the day I was born.”

  Sister Anne opens her mouth to say more, but her voice fails. There is nothing left to say, no way to heal the truth of my words.

  To Mother, I am but a cursed shadow.

  15.

  “Love seeketh only self to please,

  To bind another to its delight,

  Joys in another’s loss of ease

  And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”

  ~William Blake (The Clod and the Pebble)

  ~

  Ien watched Sister Anne, waiting for some sort of reaction to his words. There was none. “We will talk more tomorrow,” she said as she rose and l
eft the room.

  He stared at the door, a strange mixture of sadness and hope swirling around him. She did not come back the next day, nor the day after that. But she did visit sporadically over the next few weeks, bringing seeds of hope in her words that bloomed in Ien’s chest. Maybe there would be a way through this yet.

  Maybe.

  His face still wasn’t healing. Sister Agnes still refused to tell him where he was. And Mother—Mother never visited. Not once. Every day that passed brought Ien closer to death. Even Sister Anne’s visits couldn’t change that.

  “Why do you focus so much on dying?” she would ask whenever Ien lost himself in thoughts of Mother’s threats.

  “It isn’t that. I just know Mother. She doesn’t say anything she doesn’t intend on carrying out.”

  “You are wrong this time,” she always responded.

  Ien prayed she was right. And knew she likely was not.

  Time passed in that slow monotonous way it does when nothing changes, one day bleeding into the next without meaning. Sister Anne’s visits became more frequent, and always in the afternoon. She asked Ien questions about his life, never answering his. They talked about Mother and Erik, Kiera and the accident. She never judged his actions or words, never insinuated disappointment or fear. Nothing like the reactions from Mother.

  The visits with Sister Anne never lasted long; she always left as abruptly as she came. And he always waited with anticipation until she came again, desperate for the hope she represented.

  More than hope, she gave him a normalcy he craved. Even Ien’s nightmares seemed to abate with Sister Anne’s presence. As did Erik’s taunts and Kiera’s screams. Sister Anne had proved to be more than someone to help him pass the time, she became a reason to stay alive.

  “Come, I have something to show you,” she said one afternoon.

  Ien hesitated at the door. “Don’t you have evening prayers? Sister Agnes said—”

  “Trust me.” Sister Anne pulled on his hand, guiding him from the room. He did trust her. Completely.

  Fear and excitement set Ien’s nerves on fire as he walked down the long corridor. It felt like he was in a dream, pulled by an invisible cord attached to Sister Anne’s voice. They walked past gardens and endless hallways. Past dining areas and great rooms. Stone wall after stone wall passed them. Ien had never seen such a large facility, bigger, even, than his family’s estate.