by Dea Poirier
The edges of my vision blur. My breaths are shallow, hollow.
“This will help,” she says as she pets my face. “It’s okay.” She slips a dagger into my hand. “Don’t let him take it. Don’t even let him know you have it.”
The last thing I see before I die is Olivia giving me one last kiss on the cheek.
Before
Date unknown
“Run,” She screams at me as she looks back, but the darkness hides her face. Her dress billows behind her, like a ribbon seized by a squall.
She runs fifteen feet ahead of me. It’s so dark, I can barely see her. Sandwiched between stone buildings in an alley, we’re so deep in the shadows I’m not sure I’ll see light again. I’m lagging behind, my shoes slip on the slick cobblestone streets. The night envelopes us. As we run, the alley seems to close in. But it goes on forever. I’m not sure we’ll ever reach the end.
It’s the footsteps in the distance, only fifty or so feet behind me, keeping me going. My heart beats so hard, it hurts. Pain spreads to my ribs, my legs, its claws digging in. Each pump seems to propel the agony further through my body. Beneath the pain, I feel the slightest prickle of excitement—not fear, like I expect.
Ahead of me, the alley opens into the street and spits us out. The gas lamps are so bright, my eyes burn. Her eyes are wild, she’s searching behind me. Her long, brown hair is tangled. The skin on her face seems to contract, like it’s pulled tight. In this light, how wild she is, I barely recognize her. She thrusts something cold and metal into my hand. The footsteps grow louder behind us. They’re close now, in a couple seconds, they’ll be on the street with us.
“Hide it with the book,” she says as she turns to run. She flashes me a look, but it’s not one I recognize. Whatever she’s trying to say, it’s lost on me. My body turns away from her automatically. I weave around light posts; flickers of gas flames send dancing bursts of light across the wet cobblestones. Each post makes the smell of gas grow stronger, my throat tightens. Moths gather around the light, forming shifting otherworldly masses. My feet slip over the stones, and I slam into the door of a row house and it shudders under my weight. I push off, my breath caught in my throat. Cold mist stings my face as I run into it.
This city may be unfamiliar to me, but it’s not unfamiliar to my body. Expertly, I work my way through alleys, stick to the shadows, and disappear when gathering voices grow. As the crowded streets grow sparse, I slow. On the outskirts things seem to huddle, trees, people, even the fog gathers around the light posts. As the pounding of my heart slows, the sounds of a trumpet far away sweeps through the streets. It’s slow, sad, a lament.
As I walk, I stash the blade in my coat. I feel exposed, but I don’t stop, even for a moment. The symbols on the hilt of the knife seem to hum with energy. I feel them, but I can’t look at them, not now. He’s too close. His footsteps quicken.
Beside me, a stone wall forms a perimeter around an ancient cemetery, I slip through the open gates. Marble statues and mausoleums are built so closely together here, there isn’t even room for grass. There’s barely room for me. The dead are as crowded as the buildings in the city. The only living thing here is me. But somehow, I know I won’t be for long. Each breath I take is on borrowed time.
I weave in and out of the rows of mausoleums and finally find the one I seek. The one I’ve seen in my mind a thousand times. The door stands out to me. An intricate bird is woven in the wrought iron. As I reach for the door, something grabs me, and I feel cold bite my neck. I reach for the blade as the steel slices my flesh.
After
“Asher, put down the knife,” Sayid pleads, his arms are out in front of him, palms facing me.
It takes several seconds of blinking before I realize where I am. The boards of the creaky back porch bow beneath my feet. Darkness edges on my vision, his voice is impossibly loud. His pleading calls to me, calms me. A few moments ago, I was frightened, but now I can’t remember why. The fear disappears like a whisper in the wind. Goose bumps trail from my neck down my arms, I shiver. My heartbeat is uneven, like I’ve been running, or fighting. My thoughts are thick, slow, like my mind is filled with molasses.
My hand moves to my throat, but I’m not sure why.
“Asher, please,” he says, his voice slow and even. Sayid steps closer, the wood creaking beneath his feet. His brown eyes are wide, almost panicked.
Though I look at him, I still can’t make sense of the situation. I have no memory of coming to the back porch. My thoughts are disjointed like they’re foreign to my own mind. Darkness surrounds us, stars twinkling in the inky sky above. Fear hovers in his eyes. Sorrow wells inside me. I can’t stand for him to look at me like that. I can’t stand for anyone to look at me like that.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice is thick, and sounds strangled.
“The knife.” He points toward my left hand. After he points, his hand returns so that both his palms are out, facing me. Like he’s surrendering.
I look down and find a small silver blade with what looks like runes and symbols etched in the handle, I’m so engrossed by them, I almost miss the blood dripping from the point. Where did I get a knife? Unaware as to why I’m holding it, I point the hilt to Sayid, and surrender it to him. A shuddering breath slips through my lips as my heart quickens. Panic tightens my throat. Another knife. More blood. Who did I hurt this time?
“I’m sorry,” I say, my insides twist. My mouth is drier than month-old hay. I try to swallow, to clear the dread pooled in my throat, but it doesn’t work.
Sayid is the only friend I’ve got. The last thing I want to do is scare him, to make him look at me like a rabid animal. He takes the knife from me and inspects it. A few times, he rolls the blade over in his hands, looking it over before he speaks.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I have no idea.” I shrug. I wouldn’t even know where to look for a knife here, even if I wanted one. If I had access to a knife, chances are, I wouldn’t be standing with it on the back porch.
“You don’t know where you got the knife?” His head cocks to the side as he asks.
I shake my head.
“How can you not know where you got the knife?” There’s an edge to his voice, his brows are furrowed in disbelief. “You can tell me, it’s okay,” he says as he takes a step toward me.
Frustration flickers inside me. “I don’t know where I got it. I’ve never seen that knife before. I don’t even know how I got on the porch,” I snap, and regret it immediately.
Sayid looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t push it.
“Any idea whose blood this is?” he asks, shaking the last bit off the tip. He then walks closer, and inspects the small red pool next to my foot.
I shake my head, and step back. I look down, there’s blood soaked through the top of my shirt around my neck. The knife’s proximity makes me recoil. I never want to wake up with another knife in my hand. My pulse quickens to a frenzied gallop when I look at the blade. I reach for my neck, but there isn’t so much as a scratch lingering there. It couldn’t be my blood, I’m not hurt. What if I killed someone? What if it’s like last time?
Maybe the three sets of footprints were a mistake. That would mean I really did kill her. The realization nearly knocks me over, and I grab the wall to brace myself. It crushes me. I could have done it. I could have. Guilt digs at me, slowly winding it’s cold fingers around my mind. The thoughts rush in, the vision of her pale face, her blue lips.
What if I had hurt Sayid? What if he’s next?
He’s only been nice to me. I don’t deserve his friendship.
“What’s going on Asher? You can tell me,” he urges.
“If there was anything to tell, anything I remembered, I’d tell you,” I say, and my voice falters.
“If someone tried to hurt you, if you were just defending yourself, I’d understand. It’d be okay.” There’s an edge to his voice that flickers anger inside me.
Why would I lie?
When I don’t speak, he says, “I’m going to hide this, if you don’t mind.” The way he says it, I know there’ll be no arguing. Good thing I don’t plan to argue. He steps off the porch, and disappears into the darkness.
My thoughts are unsettled, they swim in my mind as I walk upstairs and collapse onto my bed. I close my eyes, my mind turns the thoughts over and over again as I sink into my mattress, hoping that the next time I wake up, it will be without a knife in my hand.
After
The tray in front of me looks like a buffet, it’s stacked so high with bacon and pancakes, I’m not sure where to start. The food is stacked so precariously, I’m afraid if I take a bite, it might come crashing down onto the table. Sayid is friends with every single kid who works in the kitchen. Since we go through the line together, that means I get enough food to feed three of me. Luckily, they’ve also started giving me the cast-off vegetables and fruits. I’m always well stocked on treats for the horses.
“So, I still haven’t heard back from Eden about the next meetup,” Sayid says as he chews a bit of his breakfast.
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. Why would I want to meet up with Eden again so soon? I didn’t want her to come again for another few weeks. It’s too risky of a venture more often.
“We agreed that I’d try to coordinate with Eden and Blake for them to come back. It’s been almost three weeks since the last meeting, so I figure now would be about right,” he says, his brows furrowed. “It might take a week to figure out the timing.”
The words get stuck in my mind, it takes a long time for me to process them. “What do you mean it’s been three weeks? We met with them last night.”
“It’s definitely been about three weeks.”
I shake my head. “That’s not possible.”
He stops chewing, and sets down his fork. It takes him a long time to speak again, “What do you think today’s date is?” he asks.
I shrug, I’m not certain. I guess, “April 6th?” I haven’t exactly been keeping my eyes on a calendar.
He shakes his head, “It’s April 27th.”
I may not have been watching the calendar closely, but there’s no way it’s almost May. That just isn’t possible. That would mean that I’d been at Dozier almost two months.
I rack my brain for the memories I know must be there. Last night I saw Eden, I know it. Then there are pieces of a memory, something with Olivia. But that couldn’t be real. I remember her, and a knife.
No. That wasn’t real.
I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. My mind churns, every thought clogging my mind feels frayed, broken, damaged.
What’s wrong with me?
Frustration strangles the questions that rise up in my throat. What else did I miss? There’s so much that could have happened in three weeks. I could have hurt someone else.
“There’s no way, why can’t I remember the last few weeks?” I ask.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
The knife and the dream. But I don’t want to tell him about the dream. I look crazy enough as it is. “Waking up on the porch with,” I scan the room, and lower my voice, “the knife.”
“That was last night,” he confirms. “What do you remember before that?”
“Seeing Eden.” My eyes drop to the table, and my mouth goes dry.
“You seriously don’t remember anything else?” Sayid asks as he shifts on the seat and pulls away.
I shake my head. There’s a fragment of a memory that lingers in the back of my mind. But it can’t be real.
“That’s really weird.” He points down at the two pills on my tray, the ones prescribed by Dr. Lennox. “Could it have something to do with those?”
I shrug. I push my tray away, pills and all. My stomach is uneasy, filled with questions. I trust Sayid, but he has to be wrong. I saw Eden last night, didn’t I?
What if it happened again? What if I can’t remember because I hurt someone?
Out of habit, my eyes scan the room. I try to see if anyone is missing, but it’s no use. I don’t know the faces well enough yet.
There are a thousand questions I want to ask Sayid. And by the way he eyes me, I know he’s got questions of his own. But before I can even open my mouth again, a kid from the lunch line comes over and sits across from us. He pulls off his hairnet, and hunches over the table, blue eyes locked on Sayid. The kid has a shaggy mop of startlingly blonde hair, it’s nearly white. His face is serious, and he looks at Sayid like he’s about to lay into him.
“I wanted to give you a heads up,” he says to Sayid, while looking toward the end of the table at the guard posted there. I’m not sure why he bothers, none of the guards in the cafeteria ever pay attention to us. His voice is low but even. “They busted me with contraband yesterday.”
Sayid’s jaw tightens, just long enough for me to notice. He doesn’t look worried though, his fork is stuck through a large clump of scrambled eggs. He pops them in his mouth before he speaks. “And why should this concern me?”
“I didn’t say nothing.” He presses his lips together, and shifts uncomfortably. “I swear it, I’d never rat you out.”
Sayid sets his fork down, and leans against the table, eyeing the kid. “Brandon, what has you spooked? Why are you even telling me if you didn’t spill?”
He looks down. “Lately, they’ve been taking kids to the white house for practically nothin’. They knew before you left last time that you were supplying. I think they’re on to you again. You gotta to be careful. You need to find a new place to hide your stuff.” He glances at me, just long enough to give me a slight smile. “They’re going to move in on the laundry soon. Maybe today.”
Sayid nods. “Thank you, I’ll do that. Don’t worry, I’m not going to raise my rates on you or anything. In fact, the next one is on me.”
Brandon’s mouth drops open, then he smiles. “Thanks man, you’re the best. You’re going to get a full pig’s worth of bacon tomorrow, promise.”
“If you keep this up, I might die of a heart attack before my next shipment,” Sayid laughs.
I’VE BARELY DUG my way through one of the stalls when I hear someone walk up behind me. My heart skips a beat, and my throat tightens, expecting that Becks and his cronies have returned. Instead, Sayid nods at me, sweat clinging to his brow. He carries a stack of horse blankets nearly as tall as he is. His arms shake under the weight. Sayid’s eyes are narrowed in an unusual way, they flick from one stall to another, searching.
“Hey!” I call out, and prop the shovel against a wall.
His eyes go wide when one of the horses pops their head out of the stall, I see him swallow, and the way he looks back, I can tell he’s seconds away from running. I step back into the stables, brows furrowed as I wait for him. What has him spooked? Once he’s nowhere near any of the horses, he lets me help. I’m not entirely sure why he’s bringing these over, it’s eighty degrees outside, none of the horses will need a blanket for another six months.
“Everything alright?” I ask.
“No, the guards are moving in on the laundry, I need to hide most of my shipment somewhere else. I had to get it out now. I’m looking for a good place to hide everything, at least for a few weeks.” He drops the blankets onto the ground, and takes a deep breath as he rubs his arms. When the blankets hit the ground, I hear the muffled clink of bottles hitting one another.
“It’d depend on how much you have in there.” I point to the blankets. “But you should be able to hide most of it in the hay bales up in the loft. I’m the only person who ever goes up there, if you hide the stuff in the back, no one would ever find it,” I offer, trying to discern how much he actually has bound inside these blankets. Does he have more back at the laundry?
“I could kiss you right now,” he laughs.
I press my lips together and shift uncomfortably.
“Mind helping me get it up there?” he asks after a few awkward moments.
I grab the top two blankets, and I’m surprised by how much he’s managed to stash in them. There’s a good fifty pounds of merchandise.
“What the hell’s in here?” I ask, my arms feel like Jell-O beneath the weight.
“Cigarettes, hooch, girly magazines, junk food, the usual.” He shrugs, like I should know the items he stocks. Other than the cigarettes, none of the other items concern me. It’s not like I’m one of his customers.
He must have a year’s worth of smokes for the entire school for it to weigh this much. It takes nearly ten trips each for us to move all the merchandise up into the loft, and he has to make two more trips to the laundry to get the rest. After we carry it all up, we go about sorting everything. All the cigarettes go into the closest hay bales, since those get used up first, and technically speaking, they’re the least dangerous contraband. Magazines get rolled up in the inside the bales behind those. And the furthest, that’s where we hide all the bottles. There are so many bottles of different kinds of liquor, I’m not sure how he tells them all apart.
“I owe you,” he says, breathless, falling against one of the hay bales. With his shirt balled in his fists, he wipes his brow. I catch myself staring at his exposed stomach. My cheeks burn, and I look away.
“Yes, you do,” I say dryly. My arms ache, and my back is stiff. I sit next to Sayid, and the straw pokes at my lower back. His arm brushes mine, it’s slick with sweat. The heat coming off him tickles against my skin. Something prickles in the pit of my stomach, something I try to smother the second I feel it. It’s something I haven’t felt since Olivia.
“How about I let you shower first tonight?” he says.
“That’s a good start.”
In the loft with Sayid at my side, I sit with my legs crossed and lean on my knees. I take a drag from my cigarette as I stare off at nothing. I rub my aching arms. Questions about my missing weeks prod the back of my mind.