Transcend

by Christine Fonseca

  “I have nothing to offer Kiera, not now. Mother took that away too.”

  “She only yearns for one thing. You. Alive. Go to her.”

  Don’t listen to her. Kill Mother, it’s the only way. You can have Kiera afterwards, when you have proven yourself worthy of her.

  Erik made sense. So did Sister Anne.

  “Ien, don’t lose your soul. Don’t listen to the voices in your head. Or the guilt and pain.” She reached her hands out to him.

  He shook his head, Erik’s words still battling inside.

  “You aren’t a killer, Ien. You have a choice.”

  “But what am I supposed to do? Stay here and die?” Ien turned away from the sister. “What do I do?” he whispered.

  “Leave this place. Leave your pain. Go home. See James and Kiera. Embrace your Mother as her son. Live.”

  Her words pressed into him, penetrating the mask of hatred that was his face. The world slowed as Ien’s thoughts calmed. Erik and Mother no longer spoke. Stillness again permeated the whole of him.

  …more to the accident…more than you dare believe…

  The words sprang from the silence. He looked to Sister Anne as time ground to a stop.

  …more to the accident…more than you dare believe…

  Drowning in a myriad of thoughts, chaos blossomed through his mind. The pictures layered, one on top of the other, until he could see nothing save the images plaguing his thoughts.

  Kiera.

  The explosion. The fire.

  Mother.

  A cloaked figure concealed in shadow.

  Over and over they replayed, contorting into madness. Nothing, everything, felt real.

  He reached out for Sister Anne. “Help me,” he breathed.

  The onslaught continued. Sister’s words continued. The chaos advanced and retreated in rapid succession. Nausea flooded his senses as his mind struggled to grasp something solid, something real; anything to orient himself.

  “Sister Anne,” he half screamed. “Sister, help me.” The only sound in the room was that of his voice echoing off the empty stone walls.

  Ien looked around, his pulse dangerously fast. Fear seized his throat, cutting off his oxygen. The room was empty. Dark. Nothing filled the space, not a bed. Nor a chair.

  I am Ien Montgomery, he whispered. I am seventeen years old. I am alive. The words brought him no comfort, no solace from the madness surrounding him. He backed out of the empty room, confusion the only certainty in his life.

  Panic wove through his senses as he opened door after door in the large hallway, desperate to decipher where he was. Where had Sister Anne gone? Every room looked the same, empty spaces devoid of light.

  Hallway after hallway, the scenario repeated: Ien reciting his silent mantra as he opened every door he could find. Each time the room was empty and dark.

  Pieces of his sanity fell away with every step.

  Until finally, he opened the last room in the last hall.

  Slowly the door moved, groaning as it strained to open. A pungent stench greeted him, similar to death but somehow worse. Like a body that refused to die and merely insisted on decaying.

  Unlike the previous rooms, this one had modest furniture, a mirror reflection of his own room. Ien approached the bed, desperation replacing any form of rational thought. A guttural cough emanated from the slight bump in the bed. It sounded like she—he assumed it was a she by the tenor of the voice—was trying to breathe underwater. There was too much fluid in the tones wafting from her. She was choking, dying.

  He moved closer, anxious to help the small frame of a body into a sitting position. The woman was old and non-responsive. He lifted her with no more difficulty than fluffing a pillow. As she sat up, the light caught her face and Ien let out a slight gasp.

  Sister Anne.

  But not the sister he knew; a mere wisp of what she once was. Older. More frail. Her skin like an onion, transparent.

  Her eyes were opaque, milky-white orbs. There was no life in her face, nothing to indicate that she was anything more than a corpse, except the watery sounds of her breath moving in and out.

  He swallowed hard, confused.

  Terrified.

  Carefully, he laid her back down. The guttural cough increased as her lungs flooded with her own fluids. She grabbed him, her useless eyes pinning him where he stood. “Go!” Her whisper filled the room.

  For a moment he couldn’t move, trapped in his own horror.

  “Go. Now.”

  Ien pulled away, scared. He watched as the old woman arched her back in one last gasp before falling back to the bed, still.

  Dead.

  Bedlam broke out around him. The door swung open. Sister Agnes and several attendants ran in yelling.

  “Murderer,” Sister Agnes yelled. “Get him. Don’t let him leave.”

  Ien pushed past the crowd at the door, wiggling free from their grasping fingers.

  Go. Run.

  Erik and Sister Anne’s voices merged, screaming instructions through his thoughts. Ien ran through the halls, his ears filled with their voices. The ground vibrated with sounds of feet trampling toward him and gaining speed. His heart beat furiously, his lungs struggling for air.

  Only a little further. Hurry

  The door, an exit he hoped, stood at the end of the hall, pulling out of reach as he ran.

  Arms pumping, feet pounding, Ien crashed into the wooden door. Fingertips pinched the spaces behind him, grasping. He screamed and threw open the door. The night air bit his face, sending a fresh wave of pain through him. He poured out of the monastery, spun around and slammed the door tight, catching a set of bony fingers.

  Horrified, he slammed his body against the door. The fingers snapped with a crack and a loud scream.

  Go. Run.

  Ien did as he was instructed and ran into the engulfing darkness, the ever-present sound of his pursuers unyielding.

  19.

  “Fantasy, abandoned by reason,

  produces impossible monsters;”

  ~Francisco de Goya

  ~~

  Brambles and shrubs prick at my legs as I run, sending warm blood trickling down my skin. I can’t stop. I have to get away. Fast.

  Everything weighs heavily on my mind, a yoke slowing my pace. I think of the dying woman, so old and frail. That couldn’t have been Sister Anne. And yet, I know it was. The visions of her, the conversations, everything—it was all an illusion. Something concocted by my mind to join the rest of the lies that now define me.

  Sister Anne, an aberration. The phrase settles around me like a noose. She said I wasn’t cursed, convinced me that Kiera could still love me and Mother didn’t want me to die. The sister had said everything I wanted to hear. She’d given me hope.

  Where’s that hope now?

  The truth of my delusions knocks the breath from me, and I fall. Thorns and branches slice my body further. I scream before I remember that I am being pursued. The sound rips from my throat, filling the spaces in and out of me.

  A lifetime of misery is contained within that sound: pain over the loss of my salvation, anguish over the realization that I will never escape my fate. And rage, hot and furious, for the person that is responsible for it all.

  Mother.

  I pull myself up, brushing off the pieces of shrubbery still clinging to my cuts. There is no sign of my captors, no indication that anyone is chasing me now. So I walk, traveling deeper into the forest that surrounds me. Everything is dark. Ominous. The trees tighten around me, as small ferns wind around my feet, grabbing at my ankles. Strange light filters through the trees, bending at odd angles. Just like my thoughts.

  I don’t know where I am exactly, and I don’t care. I’m alive and for now, that’s enough. I take a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow.

  …keep your promise. Kill Mother…

  My mind, clear.

  …find Kiera. Make her yours again…

  The voices of Erik and Sister Anne are relentles
s. They continue absent of my will. With new clarity I understand they are nothing more than illusions, tricks conceived from the depths of my mind.

  I think back to the explosions, the fire.

  Maybe none of it is real.

  The thought sends chills down my spine. I push myself to remember everything I can about that night:

  The feel of the ring in my hand, the metal burning against my flesh in anticipation.

  Kiera’s lips on mine as she breathed ‘yes’, leaving the taste of her promise on my tongue.

  The smell of ash and fire as my skin ignited.

  Was this all a dream?

  I touch my face, expecting to feel the boney remains of truth. Instead, nothing but smooth skin greets me. I gasp, unable to comprehend what’s happening. Everything I knew to be true, is false. Everything false, made true.

  What’s happening to me?

  Tears spring to my eyes. My mind lies. I cannot trust my senses. Nothing is as it should be.

  I am lost.

  My clarity shatters as I break into a sprint, not caring about the pain in my legs, or the aching in my lungs as I force myself to move faster and faster. My stomach cramps, sending nausea through me in waves. Still I continue on. I have no food, no shelter, no path to follow.

  “Good. Keep running. I’ll lead you home, Ien. Trust me.”

  The voice is not in my head. It comes from the trees and branches around me. I tremble when I hear her.

  “No,” I say in a panic. “You aren’t real. You aren’t real!” My screams are absorbed by the density of the forest around me. I continue to run, desperate to outrun the impending chaos.

  “Trust me, Ien. I am as real as I was before. That woman, the one who died, she was the illusion. Not me.”

  Sister Anne voices every wish. But, I cannot give into her or the madness threatening to undo me.

  “Believe in me, Ien. In your heart, you know that I’m real. Let me help you.”

  I ignore the voice and continue to forge a path through the thick trees. My pace slows, as I climb over fallen tree trunks and duck under low branches. This forest is old and untraveled, overrun with ferns and vines. The sun falls in the sky, casting long shadows through the canopy. It all feels like something from a dream.

  The voice continues to beg, tempting me into believing her truth. I wish that I could. I’m desperate to cling to some explanation for the voices and visions; something other than my madness.

  There is none.

  Once more I reach to my face. Once more smooth skin is all I find. The world around me erupts into a series of flashes and images, playing too fast. They swirl and jump in a dizzying dance. Faster and faster the world spins. I walk, tipping and swaying. A loud ringing fills my ears as my stomach lurches into my throat.

  I grab the nearest tree, attempting to slow the inertia. But it only makes things worse. Lights blaze across my vision and I slide to the ground, my head in my hands.

  “Stop, stop, stop, stop.” My voice mixes with Sister Anne’s. She coos to me, whispering for me to calm down.

  I can’t. My mind is lost, fractured. My world ripped apart.

  I don’t know what’s real.

  I don’t know who I am.

  I don’t know…

  ~~

  A combination of fire and sulfur invades my senses, pulling me into sharp focus. I am once more on Main Street, standing in front of Clinton House. The silence steals the life from my veins. Everything is exactly as it was that night, the moment before my world exploded.

  …more to the accident…more than you dare believe…

  Sister Anne’s voice is still with me. I’m too tired to resist, so I let each word, each syllable seep into my thoughts.

  …more to the accident…

  The images around me slow to a halt, advancing one frame at a time. I am the observer this time, watching myself.

  …more than you dare believe…

  I smell the bourbon from the nearby bars, hear the music pouring from open windows. Cold air pinches my skin. The world is dark and bleak, save the promise of a better time reflected in the hotel windows. Rich fabrics adorn the windows, revealing opulent architecture and indulgent furniture.

  I see myself stop at Clinton house, hands pressed against the glass as I remember the fantasies of that night.

  The music, the harsh odors, the anticipation—it all weaves together into a frantic climax.

  Until everything stops.

  No frames advance. No sounds continue. I’m thrown back into that terrifying silence which defined that night. It reaches deep into my soul, wrenching my loneliness from its depths. My entire body clenches as I hold my breath and wait.

  Thump-thump.

  The ground begins to shake and the scene advances.

  Thump-thump.

  A sharp sound, like the crushing of glass underfoot emanates from a nearby alley. I turn to steal a quick glance.

  Thump-thump.

  A shadowy figure ducks down the long corridor. I squint to see where the shadow goes. And the scene erupts into chaos.

  Fire.

  The explosion.

  My skin, melting from my bones as my body is hurdled across the space. I hear my screams. And something else. Something new.

  Laughter, familiar in its cold timbre.

  The sound comes from the alley and I run to follow it. There is something recognizable in the way the shadow moves and the maniacal tones of its laughter. The figure flits quickly through the alleys, ducking in and out of corridors and buildings. I can’t get close to it, no matter how hard I pursue.

  The world around me shifts and changes. The darkened streets give way to the family cemetery. The buildings transform into tombs and mausoleums. The figure is in front of me, alone. I tiptoe towards the ominous figure, noticing two crypts lying open.

  Erik’s.

  And mine.

  …I am not dead…I am not dead…

  Fragments of the mantra repeat over and over until the silence returns, once more choking the air from my lungs. I reach out to the shadow in front of me, almost surprised when I feel substance to the form. My fingers wrap around its arm and spin the figure around. It wears a similar cloak, shrouding its face in complete darkness. All I can see are its eyes shining through the night. This is no aberration, no phantom.

  I reach for the hood, unopposed, and wrap my fingers around the woolen cloth. A tremor crawls through my skin as I slowly push the cloak away and expose the truth.

  My arms and legs shake. Bile swirls up from my stomach. I am overcome by the person staring at me, laughing. Always laughing.

  “No!” I scream, unable to fathom what I see. I shouldn’t be surprised. I suspected it was her all along. But this, seeing her now…

  It’s more than I can endure.

  There is more to the accident, repeats Sister’s voice. My mind collapses as does my body. I fall to the hard ground, unable to breathe.

  “I told you to stay away from her, but you were too weak to comply. So I did what a mother must do. I protected my son.” There is no apology in her voice, no sadness or regret. “And I would do it again without hesitation.”

  Mother laughs as I back away, unwilling to grasp the reality standing before me.

  Mother set the fire. Mother caused the explosion. Mother is behind everything. She, alone, tried to

  kill

  me…

  20.

  “If the present world go astray, the cause is in you,

  in you it is to be sought.”

  ~Dante Alighieri (The Divine Comedy)

  ~

  The morning sun filtered through the trees, warming Ien’s face. Startled, he sat up, banging his head on the branch above him. “Ouch!” Rubbing his temple, he stood and stretched his cramped muscles.

  Last night’s dream clung to his skin.

  I would do it again. You didn’t listen to me. It was for your own good. Mother’s voice coiled through him, chilling his blood.


  Scenes repeated in the haze of his thoughts—the fire and explosion, the way the shadow moved in the twilight, the face that greeted him as he lowered the hood. He couldn’t escape Mother’s face. She appeared on the trees and in the shadows that danced around him.

  “Why?” he whispered. “Why!” His voice bounced off the leaves.

  Ien screamed until his voice cracked. He kicked the shrubs and hit the tree trunks, pouring a lifetime of pain and anger into the world around him. His arms and feet thrummed with agony. Small splitters lodged in his hands. Brambles tore the flesh from his ankles. He ignored all of it, relentless in his need to release the anguish filling his cells.

  Ien continued his battle with the thicket until Mother’s voice no longer dominated his senses, and her face no longer inhabited his mind.

  Exhausted, he slumped to the ground. Secretly, he had always suspected that Mother hated him, that he would never be good enough for her. He spent his childhood pretending that she really cared, that her incessant demands and nagging were all signs of her love for him.

  He was wrong. So terribly wrong.

  Ien took a deep breath and looked around. As his mind settled, the forest began to lighten and appear less ominous. He took stock of his surroundings: trees so dense the sun could barely filter through the canopy. Old stumps, overcome by moss, dotted the spaces between the woods. The floor was littered with ferns, wildflowers and a thick bed of leaves and needles. I know this place.

  He glanced in every direction, taking stock before forging a path through the overgrown landscape. His pace increased as he passed small ravines that curved around the trees. The thicket thinned and in the distance he could just make out a clearing. He knew what lay beyond the familiar meadow…

  Home.

  “I told you to trust me.” Sister Anne appeared through the filtered sunlight, leaning on a tree in front of him. She looked like Erik often appeared, ethereal and ghost-like.

  Ien’s eyes widened. He swallowed down his shock and pushed past her.

  “You know this forest, don’t you? You played in it as a boy. Some of your fondest memories are here.”

  He kept walking.

  “But not just fond memories,” she continued. “Horrible memories too. Your brother’s death.”