Edge

by Serena Sallow

  “I've had this strangest thing, though – gotta tell ya 'bout it.”

  He's pulling at this strap I didn't notice on his arm, made of leather, and he produces a waterskin – pretty large for a waterskin, my mind says, though I don't remember ever seeing one. It's about the size of his head and, when he shakes it with a grin, it sploshes, as if half full of water.

  My tongue is itching suddenly, but I swallow down my spit as a silent substitute, suddenly wary. “Where'd you get that?”

  “Right after the two of us stopped walking together” – that's a nice, rather blame-free way of putting that incidence – “I meet this other gal. Really, really fascinatin'. And she teached me all these things I never really thinked about.” A singular hand came to gesture at his temple, before falling back down into his lap. “Like, why dun' we never eat or drink or nothin'?”

  I shrug, rather emptily. “We just don't.”

  “Aw, come on, Rasc! Where's your scientific drive, that strive for knowledge?” His eyes always look alight, but now they seem to be full of excitement, of energy, of an odd sort of passion I never really have known him to have. After all, we're stuck on a never-ending staircase, most likely wasting our lives trying to remember pictures from worlds that aren't even factual. What is there to be passionate about?

  “It died when I had to start climbing the staircase,” I decide.

  “Aw, damn, Rascal. Ya're lettin' the staircase beat you.”

  “Am not,” I argue. “I'm still climbing it.”

  “Yeah, but psychologically. S'all a mind game too, ya know. The staircase. And you're letting it beat ya!”

  I don't reply, just sit there. It's only just occurred to me that I'm petting Screech's hair lightly, and I'm grateful Todd hasn't mentioned it – knock on wood (or staircase ash. Whatever you have around).

  “Okay. What did you learn?” I finally prompt, kind of wanting to get away from my many failures and onto his passion or whatever.

  “Glad ya asked!” He gestures to the world around us, a bit fervently, then looks back at me, questioning, as if asking, Isn't that awesome?

  So I chance a glance around. The sky is getting bright, but there's no sun. Ebony clouds swirl at the heavens. Somewhere far below is the red sea of death, but it's hardly visible from the fog that is in a constant state of completely surrounding us. The staircase goes up, the staircase goes down. Rickety, long, unceasing.

  I turn back to Todd, not any more enlightened. “I don't get it.”

  “Whas not ta get?”

  “What's to get?”

  He looks at me, incredulous. Like surprised that anyone could be this stupid. “Ya really dun' see it?”

  “I really don't see it.” I mentally defend myself – technically, he didn't see it either, not until that other girl showed him, but I don't say anything aloud because it's pointless and I don't want to upset him again.

  Screech murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep before Todd goes on.

  “So, we dun' eat, we dun' drink, but sometimes, we get hungry and thi-y-sty, mhm?”

  “Yeah,” I repeat, cautiously, feeling as if on ground more uneven than the staircase.

  “It's 'cause the world is feedin' us!”

  There's a long silence in which I can't decide whether to laugh hysterically or awaken Screech and tell him Todd's lost it and it's time to run away at top speed. Instead I merely look at his face, which is expectantly excited, as if awaiting for it to click.

  “The world is feeding us?” I think I've scrunched my nose speculatively at such a foolhardy statement.

  “Yeah!” He points to a horizon I can't see because of the mist.

  The... mist?

  It clicks, slowly, realization lighting my face, though I feel my eyes still holding on to the fact that he has legitimately lost all of his marbles down a metaphorical drain. “The mist?” My voice is flat, disbelieving.

  “The nutrients of the world!”

  “The mist?”

  “The food and water by which our lives are sustained!”

  “The mist?”

  “It's partly water, yeah,” he consents, “so if it makes ya feel better to call it mist... then, yeah, the mist.”

  I blink at him, then chuckle once, lightly, unsure of how much teasing I should go into – but this is such a ludicrous idea, and I do need to beat it out of him. “Did you find this girl of yours in a strait jacket?”

  The excitement on his face fades, slightly, and for a moment I'm apologetic until I remember what he's trying to get me to believe. “It's true, Rascal! I mean, think about it, okay? Really think about it.”

  I blink, attempt to think about it. To think that the mist, the very one that Screech believes is made from the blood of fallen humans, is feeding us. Nutrients in the air, enough to sustain us without a meal.

  “What kind of nutrients are we talking about?” I chance, my eyes narrowed.

  “All the essential ones – I think she said, uh, stuff like, carbohydrate, protein, fats, and stuff.”

  “Actually, carbohydrates are not essential. All of the body's energy can be maintained solely through proteins and fats,” I say, without really realizing what words leave my lips. I blink in surprise when I'm done speaking, because I have no idea how I know this information, and Todd laughs, a bit wryly.

  “See? Ya shouldn't be askin' me about this. I should be asking you.”

  “But that's not all we need to survive,” I quickly interject, more coming to mind. “Vitamins, nitrogen, calcium, iron, sodium, linoleic acids, and... much more, actually.” For some reason, I don't know all of them by heart. “A lot of the elements on the periodic table, of course.”

  “It's all there,” he says, still grinning. “All in that there air 'round us.”

  “That's impossible, though.” Despite my oddly scientific outburst, my mind is continuing working, looking at his proposition from every angle that I can. “Liquidized forms of proteins and fats can be manufactured... but that would require them to be, obviously, manufactured. Meaning there'd have to be some factory or something putting them out. Besides, they'd be heavier than water, and wouldn't hang in the air like mist. And it wouldn't be enough to sustain our energy.”

  “Wouldn' be enough?” He gestures around to thick clouds surrounding us. “S'always seepin' into our bodies, continually, through the sky and stuff.”

  “I guess,” I say, but I'm still far from convinced. “Still. They'd be too heavy.”

  “In vapor form?”

  “Well...” I pause.

  “Besides, this atmosphere is probably totally different from what ya're imagining.”

  “No, it's not,” I brush away. “I know what I'm dealing with.”

  “How d'ya know?” There's a pause, and the boy beside me pushes closer. I notice I've stopped petting Screech during all my thinking, and though I hate that fact, I feel too awkward to start up again. “How d'ya know how the atmosphere you learned about compares ta this one?”

  “I...” Don't, honestly. I don't even know what he means by 'learned about'. “I never learned about anything, Todd.”

  “Then where did all these crazy ideas come from? About protein and fat and hydro stuff?”

  “Carbohydrates,” I correct.

  “Yeah! Where did that come from?”

  “I...” I shrug, uselessly. “It's just like how you know certain colors exist. You just do.”

  “No,” he forces, shaking his head. “No, no. Just like ya once learned how to identify and recognize different colors, taught by your parents, ya learned about carbohydrates and fats and proteins and physical and atomical biology.”

  “Anatomical.”

  “Whate'r.”

  “Why would you even say that?”

  “Because ya used to talk about it. All the time.”

  “What?” I feel my eyes widen, and I almost want to wake Screech up for the rest of this conversation. When he doesn't reply, I egg him on. “What? What did I talk about?�
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  “Your 'life before'.”

  “Life before?” I repeat, almost breathlessly, reverently, surprised. I've never had a life before. I've always had the staircase, and it's always had me.

  “Yeah. Always how... 'before ya started getting trapped here'... 'before your life turned down this corner and ya'were pushed here'... that's what ya said, like, a lot.”

  “A lot?” I cue in hopefully. “Like what? Come on, Todd, like what?”

  “Like... all your science garbage. Ya said ya'were studying to be something like that.”

  “I did? I am?” He goes silent again, which is bothersome and I nearly reach over and kick him. “Todd! Tell me more!”

  “Well, I dunno!” he says defensively, holding up his hands to call a truce. “I never really listened to ya. Why, ya cain't remember?”

  “Of course I can't remember!” Who can remember their life before? “Nobody does, Todd!”

  He stares at me, bright blue eyes caught between confusion and amusement. “Nobody does what?”

  “Remember their life, y'know, before!”

  He blinks, once. “But I do.”

  “What?”

  “I remember. I'ma twin. The younger one. I look just like my sister, but she's... colder. Detached. Her eyes are sharp and intelligent, while mine are... well, anyway. We lived in England. Birmingham, to be specific. We lived nearby Victoria Square, in Symphony Court. We were lucky to get that flat. We were lucky.”

  His voice seems different the longer he goes on – his accent almost wears away, in favor of another one. It's precise, and sharp, and his as are different from me. I can feel curiosity bubble and brim behind my eyes.

  “She's a dancer. A ballet dancer. Half of the room is mine, she says. She studies astronomy. She wants to dance. That's all she wants out of life, really. To dance. To dance and dance and dance.”

  I wait for him to go on, but his pause stretches and stretches, encompassing us. I swallow a bit, sit forward. One hand begins to prematurely edge towards Screech, deciding whether or not I should rouse him. Watching the red of the sky temper his color, I finally try words. “And... what about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is all about your sister – what about you?”

  “It's harder for me.” His voice is a ghost, and his eyes seem to lend himself to far, far away, as if he's drifted, caught into another universe. “I'm not supposed to be there. My story is shoved in with hers... and I'm not supposed to be there.”

  I'm beginning to doubt whether or not he really does know his story. I edge forward, sit straighter. “What are you talking about, Todd?”

  The name seems to jolt something into him. He shakes his head. His eyes, swimming with futures and pasts that aren't available to me, clears and brightens. He smiles at me, that same, strangely lopsided grin that he always keeps in his back pocket.

  “Sorry.” His voice is back to himself – back to regular. “What're we talkin' 'bout?”

  “Your life.” My voice is calculatedly patient. “Your past. You say you remember it.”

  “Ah! Yeah. I 'member. I'm a kid from a ranch in Indiana. Washington County, specifically, but before that I lived in Louisville. My ma and pa were married fer fifteen years. I had two siblings, I think – a kid brother and a big sis. My bitch ma left my paw just because he liked his brandy and she packed me and my brother up and took us to grow up on that god-awful ranch. I wanted to do something with my life, so I left after high school and did a few courses of college in Virginia. I runned into some trouble with the law – which isn't true, by the way, because I totally had permission – and after serving time I went back to live with my lil brother in Indianapolis. He's getting some major er something, wants ta go into advertisin', but I ain't doing classes right now.”

  “What about the one with your twin – your twin sister?”

  “What twin?” His eyes are sparkling, and the certainty in his words makes me suddenly all the more certain of this new story.

  It leaves me aghast. Not at the words specifically, but just the fact that he knows so much. In fact, I'm so dumbfounded, the hand that was itching towards Screech starts shaking him, without thinking, just needing someone share in my shock.

  “Hey hey!” Todd stops quickly with a sharp wave of his hand. “The hell are ya doing?”

  “Getting a witness to this!” I cry. Screech moans, shifting beneath me, beginning to come to.

  “No, no, stop.” The contours of his face are gravely upset, as if he'd been betrayed. “This conversation... it's private, Rasc. Just us two. Y'know, we were talking about the mist, right? The mist.”

  “The mist doesn't matter! You remember your entire history!” But I've stopped shaking Screech, because I don't want to anger anyone, Todd most of all.

  “Shit,” he curses, before running fingers through his hair. “Damn. I'm sorry. I shouldn't've told ya all that. Not that you, with your perfect memory and what 'ave ya, will ever remember any of it.” His smile is both sad and kind of mischievous.

  “Of course I'll remember it,” I fight instead. Now that my hand is stilled, my voice crusades, shocked by his words. “Why wouldn't I?”

  “I told ya all this before,” he admits. “And ya forgot your own history. Besides, there's always this.” He holds up his waterskin to the air and grins tauntingly, before twisting the cap off and offering me a sip.

  “Not thirsty,” I say, but even to my ears, my voice sounds distant. I hardly care. My mind is busy running over what I've been told. He's expressed this to me all before? Why didn't I remember, then? This is all very important, almost as key to our survival as the apparent nutrients in the mist are. This is the only thing that could tie us back to our lives before, that could save us, and I start to feel antsy and almost sickened by the fact that my mind could throw such information so carelessly aside.

  I decide, with a sudden surge of strength, that I'll never forget. I need this information. I need the identity of myself and of those around me. I don't know where I am – I need to at least know who and what I am. I need to. There's no substitute for such simple self-knowledge.

  “Nothing's going to take this away from me,” I tell him, firmly. “I'm never going to forget, and don't you say I will!”

  “I ain't sayin' nothin', Rascal.” I hate the smile he gives me. It's almost a simper, far too jovial and jesting, as if he's speaking to an infant, and assuring them that Santa Claus really does exist.

  “I'm serious,” I try, attempting to level a glare at him. He doesn't need to be so cocky. It's my mind... I should be able to control it enough to remember a single thought.

  My eyes flicker up and away from him, staring at the sky around me with hardly contained animosity. Who cares about him? Remember me. Me, the scientist. That's what I'm studying to be. A scientist. Who deals with biology, apparently. Biological science. My field of study.

  But my mind can hardly wrap itself around the new information I'm feeding it. Me... a scientist! An actual, real, intelligent, scientist! I've always had this subconscious feeling that I'm going nowhere, doing nothing in life... but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps that's only staircase anxiety, and isn't actual when mirrored to the other world. Perhaps I really am smart, just like Screech believes.

  “Just a sip, Rasc,” he says, his voice bright, buoyant, but underneath it is a current of firm resolve and seriousness that I've never heard before. “It's painless, I promise,” he assures with a slight wink.

  The next I remember, Screech is waking me so we can begin walking for the day.

  twelve

  “So, turns out, Screech, you're not the only one who has special ideas about the world around us.”

  It's a rather bright morning, and we've taken a definite line from smallest to largest – Screech, then me, then Todd. We walk in a straight row up the staircase, carefully, silently, though every now and again Todd sighs heavily, as if something's wrong. For some reason, I don't want to ask him about it.
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  “Really?” He's obviously pretending to be curious, but he's doing quite a bad job of it – his voice is low, empty, almost toneless.

  “Yeah,” I say, attempting to spark his mind with what Todd had to tell me when we were waiting for morning to come. “He thinks that your blood mist is really food.”

  “Blood?” Todd questions.

  “Food?” Screech queries.

  I glance back at Todd for a moment, as if to ask him whether or not I can explain. He seemed pretty adamant that I not tell Screech anything. But when I direct my gaze towards him he smiles brightly and shrugs in allowance. I give him a small smile of my own before turning back front.

  “Yeah. He thinks the mist actually has all these fats and stuff to keep us alive. Like, food and drink. And there's just so much of it in the air that we're able to survive on that alone.”

  “That seems pretty far-fetched,” I hear him mumbling, but Todd obviously didn't hear the same thing, because he's rather calm and silent. I poke Screech's back with my elbow, a bit in warning to show him how rude he's being to our friend, but he doesn't reply in any fashion, just continues propelling his small body up the staircase.

  I notice by his stance that he's unhappy. His shoulders are hunched, his face is drawn tight, his elbows jut out, he stomps slightly. He's, all in all, not a very happy camper. But I don't stop him and question him on what's the matter. He's an eight year old boy – it's probably just stupid stuff, anyway.

  “So what's this I hear about blood?” Todd asks.

  I wait for Screech to explain, but after a few moments left alone in silence, watching his shoulders bob up and down against the canvas of red sky, I sigh and plunge into it myself.

  “Screech believes that the surrounding mist is made out of blood.”

  “Now, why would ya say that?”

  Screech doesn't seem too keen to reply to any of his questions. Either he's very determined on getting up the staircase, or very determined on staying tight-lipped against Todd.

  I can't tell what that reason may be. Todd, so far, has been nothing but kind and compassionate to us. And walking in a group is a good thing. Perhaps Screech is just not used to this kind of contact. Maybe having another person here is awkward after being alone with me for so long. After all, he did seem very distrustful of me in the beginning. Yeah, that has to be it. I try not to get too worried, since it's stupid to fret over things that can't be changed. I know they'll warm up to each other soon.