by AJ Steiger
I keep walking until I come to a park, an expanse of green amid concrete and metal. A low stone wall surrounds the rectangle of grass, which is larger than a football field.
It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, that this is where IFEN headquarters stood. What was once a prominent and easily recognizable part of Aura’s skyline is now an empty gap. There was talk, for a while, of erecting another building in its place, but the new government decided against it.
A marble sign near the front reads ELIZABETH BRANDEN MEMORIAL PARK—named after Steven’s friend, Lizzie. Beneath the words are listed the full names of all the children who died in the St. Mary’s experiments. There are others, too, below them. Hundreds of tiny names, some living, some dead, all people who suffered at the hands of IFEN, victims who remained unrecognized before now. Rhee’s name is there, lost among the others.
Standing before me, rising from the center of the neatly mown expanse of grass, is a work of abstract art—a huge, glittering silver ring with a gap near the top, as if it were forcibly pried open. Closer examination reveals that it’s actually fashioned out of thousands of discarded collars. The sunlight strikes it, making it glow like a beacon. On a silver plaque set into the base of the statue are inscribed the words: Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander. It’s a quote from a long-dead historian named Yehuda Bauer, referring to another dark time in human history.
I sit on the sun-warmed grass and stare at the words.
The public still doesn’t know that Steven and I were the ones who triggered the bombs that wiped out IFEN. There’s been endless speculation and investigation, but it remains one of those great unsolved mysteries for the ages. Reporters have approached me—my friends, too—but we’ve refused to speak about our time with the Blackcoats. We all want to be left alone, to heal in private, not to be the focus of a media circus.
I’m a hypocrite, I know. After all, I’m the one who exposed the truth about St. Mary’s, and here I am, hiding my own sins from public scrutiny. But if there’s one thing I can say for myself, it’s this—I wasn’t a bystander. When I had the choice to act, to strike a blow against the system, I acted. I can’t regret that, no matter the cost. But I can’t shed the guilt, either.
“Hey… are you Lain Fisher?”
I look up. A girl, a few years younger than me, stands there looking at me curiously. She’s dressed in a school uniform, and she wears her hair in pigtails, the way I used to.
I pick myself up, brush the loose bits of grass from the seat of my jeans, and reply, “I’m nobody.” Before she can respond, I turn and walk out of the park. I feel her gaze on my back, and panic builds in my chest, pressing against my lungs. I hurry down the street until I’m out of sight, then lean against a rough brick wall. I count my breaths, keeping my mind blank, and the rope around my lungs loosens.
I’ve gotten good at staving off the panic attacks. Sometimes, I think that’s the only thing I’ve accomplished in the past three years. I start walking again, keeping my head down, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window. My hair is a mess, my skin too pale, and there are purplish bags under my eyes. I’m wearing old jeans and a faded, oversized T-shirt with a stain near the hem. I’m amazed that girl even recognized me.
At some point, I’ll have to start doing something with my life aside from merely surviving each day and giving myself a metaphorical gold star every time I make it through another twenty-four hours without having an emotional meltdown. I should probably at least finish high school and take a few college courses so I can get a decent job. I’m not going back to Mindwalking. I refuse to touch anyone’s mind with these bloodstained hands. I’ll be a dental hygienist or something. Wouldn’t that surprise everyone. Lain Fisher, the girl who exposed IFEN’s dark deeds to the world and fled to Canada to join the rebellion, cleaning people’s teeth.
But even if I did get a job, I’m pretty sure it would just feel like going through the motions. The government gave me a good-sized chunk of money in recompense for all the hardship I’ve been through—a PR stunt, mainly, but still appreciated. Numerous other survivors, including Ian and Steven, received compensation as well. I don’t need to work. But now I fill my days with long, aimless walks and painting.
I make my way toward the Underwater Café and seat myself at an empty booth, where I drink cup after cup of chai and absentmindedly read through emails on my cell phone. There’s one from Ian: a picture of him holding up his new puppy, a Shiba Inu with large, quizzical brown eyes. I think he looks like you, says the message.
A faint smile touches my lips. Ian’s doing well, it seems. He has a minor position in the new government. During the war, he stepped up and made some tactical suggestions that earned him a lot of points with the higher-ups. We still have lunch together sometimes, but there’s a distance between us now, unspoken but unmistakable. He doesn’t know what I did. I could never bring myself to tell him.
I scroll down. There’s another message from earlier in the day, also from Ian: Are you ever going to show me your paintings?
I send a reply: They’re pretty ugly.
A response comes almost immediately: I bet you’re better than you think.
I actually have gotten pretty good, but it’s not about my skill level. The paintings are ugly because they represent what’s in my mind—amorphous swirls of red and gray forming screaming faces, angry, jagged black lines slashed in a chaotic frenzy, buildings exploding into orange blossoms. Scenes of fire, of death. I keep them locked in the secret room that once held my Gate, which I now use as my studio.
I started painting soon after the war. When the depression set in, I saw a psychiatrist, who recommended a hobby as an outlet. At first, I did it grudgingly, but as time went on I found myself spending hours each day in my studio, losing myself in the thick swirls of paint.
“Have I ever told you that you look good in black?”
I look up to see Steven leaning against the booth, arms crossed over his chest. A faint smile tugs at my lips. “Have I ever told you that you look good in white?”
He glances down at himself. “I still feel weird wearing the robe. Like I’m dressed up as a monk for Halloween, or something.” He makes a face, tugs at the collar of his Mindwalker’s robe and sits across from me. “I seriously think more people would join this program if the outfits were cooler.”
I let out a tiny laugh. I’m surprised that I can still laugh, after everything. Some days, I’m surprised that I’m still breathing. “If a Mindwalker can’t handle looking a little unfashionable, they’re probably not tough enough for the job.”
“Touché.”
I tuck my phone into my pocket. “So, how’s your training coming along?”
“It’s… hard.” He exhales a careful, controlled breath. “But I’m holding together.” A smile quirks at one corner of his mouth. “I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with bad memories.”
Still, I can see the toll it’s taking on him, the lines around his eyes and mouth. I know, firsthand, how brutal the immersion sessions can be. I still remember the shock I felt when Steven announced that he wanted to be a Mindwalker. Given the horrors that IFEN put him through, it seemed like the absolute last thing he should want to do with his life.
Or maybe it’s not so surprising. After all, it was a Mindwalker who accepted him when no one else would. And he’s not working for IFEN, since it doesn’t exist anymore; he’s with a company called Healing Springs. One of the better places, definitely.
Of course, something like this wouldn’t have been possible for Steven under the old order. He would have been ineligible for the job because of his Type. Now, everyone gets a fresh start. People who previously would have been barred from becoming doctors, lawyers or politicians suddenly have the chance to pursue their dreams. Most people had their collars removed after IFEN’s computers were bombed, rendering the technology ineffective—and now, people can only be collared after comm
itting a violent crime. The collar is removed after a certain number of years, unless they commit another crime in the interim. No one wanted to go back to the old system of prisons, so this was the compromise. It’s not perfect, but it’s an improvement.
“I wonder what Rhee would think of all this,” I murmur.
Steven places a hand over mine.
Though I can sense pressure, heat and cold with my artificial hand, it’s not quite the same as the original. The computerized nerves, however sophisticated, are only an imitation. I can feel the shape of his fingers, but not the texture of his skin.
A lump swells in my throat, and I choke it down. “It’s strange. While she was alive, I never felt close to her, except for that moment at the end. I mean… she was always so distant, like she didn’t need anyone. I think I was jealous of her, more than anything, because I thought she was stronger than me. But now that she’s gone…” I don’t have to finish the sentence, because I know Steven feels the same way. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about her, at least for a moment or two.
He wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulls my right hand to his mouth, and kisses the artificial knuckles. The sensors register pressure and warmth. “We’re alive,” he says. “That counts for something, right?”
“Yes. It does.”
As long as you have a purpose, you can keep living, no matter what horrors you’ve endured. That’s what the Blackcoats have taught me—what Rhee taught me.
What is my purpose, now?
“Hey,” Steven says, “I’m starved. Want to order something?”
“Maybe a tuna sandwich.”
Right now, I decide, my purpose is to have a good lunch, and then to finish the painting I started yesterday—a blood-red sunrise over a forest of naked white trees.
Keep living. Keep moving forward into the future, step by step, toward the hazy silhouette of a better tomorrow. It’s all we can do.
It’s all anyone can do.
*
That night, we lie together under the covers. We’ve been living together for almost a year now, though his schedule is so busy that I often have the house to myself for long stretches of time. His warm, naked skin is pressed to my back, his leg hooked over my waist, his breath soft on my neck.
“Will you marry me?” he asks, his lips moving against my cheek.
My breath catches. It’s not the first time he’s asked, but I’ve never been able to answer. I don’t know what holds me back. True, we’re still young, but we’ve both learnt how short and fragile life is. And I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone other than Steven.
I can feel his disappointment at my silence.
I look around my room—our room, since he sleeps here too. It hasn’t changed much since I was thirteen. In some ways, despite everything I’ve been through, I still feel stuck at that age. Maybe I never really got over Father’s death. My artificial hand clenches into a fist.
There’ve been times when I’ve thought about asking Steven to erase it all. All the struggles, all the pain. But that would mean forgetting him as well, and that’s unacceptable.
“I’m not well enough yet,” I say. It’s what I said last time too. “Right now, I’m not living, I’m just surviving. You’ve got enough problems of your own. I don’t want to saddle you with mine, too. Before I make that sort of commitment, I want to be totally healed.”
He breathes a small sigh. “No one is ever totally healed, Lain. Do you think I am?”
“You’re doing better than me.” It comes out sounding like an accusation. “I’m not—” I swallow the words good enough. “I’m not ready. I have to focus on myself right now. On getting better.”
There’s a long silence. “It’s your choice,” he says at last.
I wonder how many years I’ll continue giving him that line. And I know it’s stupid, because we’re already living like a married couple. It’s just a matter of signing a piece of paper, yet somehow, I can’t take that final step. I can’t chain him to me. I can already see our future. He’ll become a pillar of the community, respected by all, and I’ll be the crazy wife hiding out in the basement with her crazy paintings and having conversations with her holo-cat. I’ll be the one people whisper about at parties, shaking their heads sadly. Such a shame… but she’s so lucky to have someone so selfless to take care of her. That’s not what I want us to become.
And then I wonder, suddenly, if that was how Steven felt back when he was the crazy one. Was that why he spent so much time pushing me away? Because he didn’t want to become my obligation?
When will we learn?
“Steven…” I stop and take a breath. “Yes.”
His muscles stiffen against me. His heartbeat speeds. “You mean…”
“Yes. What the hell. Let’s get married. If you’ve decided you want to spend the rest of your life with a certified lunatic, then who am I to deny—”
He presses his lips against mine and kisses me deeply and thoroughly, as if we’re kissing for the first time. We come up for air, gasping and flushed, and then kiss some more.
Later, we lie together, bathed in cooling sweat and floating in a sweet daze. Steven’s hands move through my hair, and I smile. For the moment, at least, it’s good to be alive. I think that maybe I want to start showing my paintings to people. Or at least one or two of the best ones.
This is how healing happens—bit by bit, in moments so small and ordinary, you almost don’t notice them. It happens every time you wake up and decide to stay alive for another day.
Maybe we never get better, not completely. But we keep healing.
A Rock the Boat Book
First published in North America, Great Britain and Australia by Rock the Boat, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2017
This ebook edition published 2017
Copyright © A. J. Steiger 2017
The moral right of A. J. Steiger to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78074-926-6
ISBN 978-1-78074-927-3 (ebook)
Typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Oneworld Publications
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