She leads me to the bathroom. A massive claw-foot tub takes center stage. It’s updated with a shower head and equipped with a cotton candy pink curtain attached to a track on the sloped ceiling. The silky baby pink material makes me smell baby powder and envision a tiny elephant trinket on a windowsill somewhere.
I shake myself out of it and take a closer examination of the washroom. There are mirrors everywhere. In fact, every wall is a mirror. There’s a built-in vanity area with a small crushed-velvet chair, the color of peonies. Its mirror is fashioned with round bulbous light bulbs. The kind I’ve only seen in ancient books, pictures of the historical Marilyn Monroe applying makeup in the warm glow. Resting atop the surface I spot a vintage hairbrush with matching hand mirror.
Amenities everywhere—lotions, bubble bath, shampoos, conditioners, concoctions—each fitted with homemade labels in glass bottles that appear to be magical potions. Big fluffy pink towels rolled with great care have been placed in a gorgeous wicker basket. I start to see a trend here. A lush pink bathrobe hangs above the basket pleading for me to don.
I glimpse myself in the multitude of mirrors. Horrifying. I’m not just saying that. I actually startle myself. I look worse than I originally thought. Brown-crusted clay is caked through my rat’s nest of hair. Blood splatters my torn clothing, very little of it mine. My face is streaked with ash, yet bearing clean trails where tears have long since dried. I look worse than the day Shane and I took his antique Ford Mustang to the beach, windows and sunroof down. He tackled me out of nowhere. Then we proceeded to have a sand fight. When we got home, we looked as if we had been fighting for our lives in a mud pit. I was combing sand out of my hair for two weeks.
“I’ll let you get settled in and cleaned up while I go prepare dinner for us.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly stay in this penthouse, Miss Regina. It’s too much for just me. Maybe you have something smaller?” I ask sincerely.
“Call me Regina. Honey, it’s not like there is a line out there. This room is yours for as long as you’ll have it. You’re staying here, and that’s the last I’ll hear of it,” she says sternly, briskly turning away.
“Okay, well, thank you so much. You really don’t need to bother yourself with cooking for me. I’m not very hungry, and I don’t want to be a burden,” I say, still not recovering an appetite.
She’s already started down the stairs, calling back, “We’ve both got to eat, honey, and I know you’re famished, even if you don’t…’’ The last four words are barely discernible. I turn back toward the room and step into the living area, closing the door behind me. I’m overwhelmed immediately by number of books; I’ll have to ask Regina about those.
I go into the bedroom and set my bag on top of the long dresser. Looking around the room, I notice there’s another archaic TV sporting the wall. I spot the remote control. I’m just so curious. I put it on and see a list of television shows, all ancient. I used to watch these shows in my studies. I had them on relentlessly. I loved seeing how culture was once upon a time. Not to mention, I always have a TV or HoloScreen playing in the background. HoloScreens are the modernized version of television you can watch anywhere. Re-watching TV shows and movies is my electronic Xanax. Sure enough, I spot one of my favorites. The same favorite my brother and I shared together. Randomly selecting an episode of The Office, I step into the bathroom.
My reflection startles me again. I hear the television show’s theme song play from the room. The musical chords fill me with nostalgia as I turn on the water. When the show begins, reminiscence is replaced with harsh reality and cold numbness. I take off my clothes and shoes, zombie-like. While the gigantic tub fills, I examine the potion bottles. Each concoction adorned with a carefully created label. All are identified with one word: ‘Conditioner,’ ‘Soap,’ ‘Bubbles,’ ‘Shampoo.’ I pour some ‘Bubbles’ into the rushing water. On the vanity sits a vintage powder puff, the same pink accented throughout the washroom. It looks brand new, though. Another paradox.
Finally, the water nears the top and I shut it off. I sink into the scalding bath slowly. It goes right up to my chin. I close my eyes, hold my breath and dip below the surface. I scream and scream then scream some more. The shrieks are muffled through water and bubbles. I come up for air and do it again. And again.
Eventually, I snap out of it. Sitting up, the water rushes down my back. I smooth my hair and wipe my eyes. Detached darkness returns and I sit numb. Finding the shampoo and conditioner, I scrub my hair and detangle it back to its smooth, yet wavy state. I use the bottle labeled ‘Soap’ and scour away the dried blood and caked dirt.
Her potions smell so good, impossibly good. The soap smells of cinnamon buns accompanied by the scent of a heated cedar sauna. The shampoo smells as gumdrops, yet when they’re still in their liquid state before being molded, I imagine. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled that. It isn’t a symptom of my Synesthesia, though. This is different. These smells are physically breathable.
Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. The most basic example of how my brain operates is that I perceive letters and numbers innately with contrasting colors, each different with its own linked color, smell, memory, or other sensory stimuli. I do actually see and recognize letters and numbers the same way as everyone else; however, I have an additional perception sense. These conflicting aromas are definitely physically present.
I get out of the tub and dry off in the softest towel I’ve ever used. I hear the television. It’s the episode of The Office where Dwight, the “Assistant to the Regional Manager,” starts a fire to test the employees’ preparedness. He takes a few puffs of a cigarette, tosses it into a small trashcan, and says in earnest: “Today, smoking’s gonna save lives.”
Michael, the Regional Manager, yells, “We’re trapped! Everyone for himself!” The office erupts in panic. Two employees ram the door with a copy machine. Michael throws a projector out the window. By the time Dwight reassures everyone it was a drill, one of the employees has a heart attack.
I laugh thinking of my brother’s laugh but can’t hear it. When he was here, I could sense him and hear his voice and laugh even when we were apart. Not anymore, now it’s just quiet. However, I can’t get into the enormity of those implications right now. The grief makes it impossible to accept that I may never hear him again. All because of my own actions.
I settle into the plush robe and sit at the vanity. I brush my hair out, shocked at how easily it combs through. There is something to those potions. I brush my teeth with the unwrapped pink toothbrush and labeled bottle of ‘Toothpaste,’ which tastes exactly of chocolate Andes mints, a long gone treat. Very hard to find.
I take one last glimpse in the mirror. My murky, honey-green eyes are rimmed with black circles and swollen to capacity, yet I still see the eyes of my brother looking back at me. His more green, mine more honey, their shape the same. The sadness and desolation are evident. I shrug off the robe. I see bruises sporadically spackling my body. I look skinny. I know I have to eat, although the thought alone makes me want to purge.
Taking my things, I walk over to my bag and unpack. I figure I’ll stay here as long as Regina will allow. I need to regroup and check out those books. Inside the worn sling-back, I pull out my stuff. Surveying the items, I take a quick inventory. Everything’s accounted for.
I hold the sandals in my hands vividly recalling their transformation. What the hell was that? I can’t even. Not right now, I think, shaking my head. Don’t have room to analyze that particular phenomenon.
I put my hair up in the barrette, one I’ve had since I was a little girl. It’s made of metal, although, somehow, it never damages my hair. It resembles a spiky vine. It can also stretch and shrink to wear as a ring. I always loved it because it could hold the entire thick mane without ever slipping. Ha. The little things in life, I think, rolling my eyes.
Dressing in a pair of skinny jeans and a vintage Coca-Cola t-shirt, I’m not overtly concerned. Luckily, I packed clothes fitting for any shire, unsure where I might end up. Eyeing the other clothing, I have no desire to wear any of those uncomfortable ensembles. Gratefully, no one cares what you wear in Crystal.
I step out onto the balcony and light a cigarette. The smoke drifts lazily from its lit tip. I stare aimlessly at the landscape in front of me. This side of the house faces a field edged with woods. Her yard is a giant garden with violets, peonies, chrysanthemums, vines, and lush black roses, tipped with deep maroon—a floral jungle. Statues are hidden strategically around foliage. Trees dot the landscape, growing past the roof.
I take a drag on the cigarette and sigh. What the hell just happened? I wonder. I have so many questions; nothing makes sense.
I reenter the living room area, noticing The Office wrapping up in the bedroom. The books continue to astonish me. I look at the rows and rows of spines. I have read many of the books in other formats but most I’ve never heard of, even in my relentless research. Needless to say, my curiosity is skyrocketing.
A soft knock on the door takes me out of me reverie. I quickly turn the TV off and slip on my flip-flops. Like I said, I keep my own trends. I open the door to find a flushed Regina standing there, holding a dishtowel.
“Sweetie, that old oven, how it heats up the whole house. I hope you’re not uncomfortable.” She wipes a few beads of sweat from her brow, exhaling.
“Oh, not at all,” I say. “In fact, I don’t know if I have ever been more comfortable in my life.”
She gives a sweet satisfied smile and throws the towel over her shoulder. Grabbing my arm, she leads me down the stairs, exclaiming, “All right then, supper’s waiting!”
Following her into an ornate dining room, I take in the surroundings. It’s gorgeous, very old-world. She has set two places for us with dishes of food intricately placed between. The smell awakens my appetite. I begin to realize I haven’t eaten in days.
There’s a floral arrangement placed on the table. It’s both lavish and delicate. I spot at its center one tiger lily. An invisible stab of pain sears my heart. I recover quickly and take the seat Regina pulls out for me.
“Regina, thank you so much for all of this; you really shouldn’t have. I have virtues to pay you,” I say graciously.
“Never mind you, buttercup. This is my pleasure. I won’t take any payment from you, ‘virtues’ or otherwise,” she spits out the word virtues out as if it were a snake.
Ah, the outlook of Crystal Shire. It’s a shire that likes to work-in-kind. Business is not handled monetarily. Services are traded. It really is my favorite shire.
“Okay. Well, if there’s anything at all I can do in exchange, please let me know. You really have no idea how grateful I am,” I say.
“I think I may have an idea, honey, and I’m more than pleased to have some company,” she replies with a knowing look.
My appearance must’ve said more than words. She begins to spoon heaping helpings onto our plates. Tender beef roast, mashed sweet potatoes, rolls, and crisp green beans. I think I smell something baking, as well. My appetite returns and I devour each bite, slowly, enjoying the decadence.
“Tell me, Lyvia, where’ve you traveled all the way from?”
Taste of metal, loud rushing sound, flash of red. “Very far away,” I reply.
“Hmm. Yes, I would imagine. Don’t see many Dark Shire residents walking around these parts.”
I freeze fork-to-mouth. How can she possibly know?
“Honey, I’ve been around these parts for a lot of years. I can spot a Darken miles away.”
I technically don’t belong to a shire; I wander. However, I grew up in Onyx Shire, the Dark Shire, where my ancestors descend from. We’re not very well received in other shires of the Realm.
I can’t think of one thing that could’ve given me away. I wasn’t wearing Darken clothing when I came in. In fact, I was dressed in garb more fitting for Turquoise Shire—lightweight and aquamarine. If anything, she should’ve guessed the water-yielding district. Even though undetectable without enhancements, I refused the color signal when I was eighteen, which would also suggest Crystal.
“I can see it in your eyes, honey. You can never really escape the dark,” she says matter-of-factly, rising and walking toward the kitchen. The dishtowel appears back in her hand.
I sit at the table wondering what’s in my eyes that could possibly be a tell that my personal energy field is black. That’s invisible to the human eye even with enhancements.
She returns carrying the most beautiful overflowing peach pie I’ve ever seen. The crust rises five inches from the pan. Peach is my favorite; I can’t resist it. Her other arm cradles a metal mixing bowl full of sweet vanilla bean ice cream. The delectable aroma takes me to a flash of colors. So many colors. I taste black pepper. Pepper and pie? Synesthesia has a mind of its own. My sensory correlations rarely make sense.
“Here, honey, a piece of pie will make everything better. It always does,” she says, handing me a bowl of sugary sweetness.
Taking a bite, my curiosity gets the better part of me. “How did you know?” I ask.
“Sugar, I’ve been around the block more times than I can count. I come from a long line of Darken. In fact, I was myself for many, many years. That was until I came to my senses and realized Crystal was the way to go. It just makes sense here.”
I can’t argue with that. Crystal Shire does make the most sense. I think people forget that. She gets up and starts clearing the table. I follow suit.
“Oh no, honey, I’ve got this. You go on up and get some rest. I know you need it,” she says with a concerned smile.
“I need to earn my keep…” I say, plates in hand.
With her free hand, she takes the plates I’m holding and balances them the way a career-long waitress would. I can almost see a name tag entitled “Flo” pinned to her shirt.
“Won’t have it, Lyvia. You’re my guest, and you better get used to it,” she replies with a hearty laugh.
As she turns toward the kitchen, I stack the rest of the dinnerware. I can’t help myself. I don’t like not earning what’s given to me. Plus, I have a nagging preponderance I can’t ignore.
“Regina,” I call toward the kitchen.
“What’s up, buttercup?” she calls back sweetly.
“How did you acquire all those paper books in the study upstairs?”
“Oh those,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron, the dishtowel now hangs from the strap. “Those were my husband’s. He was convinced they were worth more than any artificial intelligence system ever created. He said the words needed to be preserved in their original format. The way they were intended. So I said, as long as you’ve got a place for them, I’m okay with it. He installed those shelves himself. In fact, he built this entire house.” Her last words break a touch. “He passed over five years ago. Not a day goes by I don’t miss him.”
Understanding more than she could know, I nod solemnly, noting her use of “passed over” as opposed to “passed away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, honey. Thank you. He was a good man, a very good man. Feel free to take a look at any of those old spines, and as I said, you are to stay as long as you’ll have me,” she replies with deep sincerity.
I stifle a yawn, managing, “In that case, I think I’ll follow your advice and head up. Thank you again so very much.”
“Nonsense, get up to bed and get comfy cozy. I’ll see you for coffee and breakfast in the morning. Night-night, sweetie...”
“Night,” I respond, starting up the twisty spiral staircase. I pause, backing down the stairs. Another nagging thought brings me back down.
“Regina, what brought you to Crystal Shire?” I ask.
She turns to face me holding the last of our dirty dishes. “Sweetie, that’s a long story. Let’s save it for later and get you some sleep,
” and with that she vanishes into the kitchen.
I shrug, turning toward the mountain of stairs and trudge up. I’m exhausted. Spent. Although, I fear the first night I’m truly alone on this earth will not be one filled with sleep.
3
Stepping into the room, I survey the scene. Those books. I know I’m not going to reach anything resembling sleep. Scanning the titles, I’m overwhelmed by how many I haven’t read in any known format. I’ve been reading since I was two. I can also recall every memory I’ve ever had. I’ve read every book I’ve laid hands or eyes on, yet so many titles stretch in front of me I’ve never seen.
There’s a novel, The Witching Hour. Something about it rings a bell. Aroma of popcorn. Flash of charcoal grey. Then I spot a golden cover among the muted spines, titled Apostles. I bring it over to the couch and sink into its billowy fluff. I turn the TV on and spot another favorite TV show, New Girl. Randomly choosing an episode, I settle in with the book. I recognize the word from the Bible. I haven’t seen any Bibles in a very long time. Even then, they’re recent translations and paraphrasing. I don’t remember a book Apostles, only the word. Then again, what was left of the Bible has been long since slimmed.
Opening the cover, I see it has been inscribed. A short word from the author: Find him. It’s in Latin. First, I skim the pages and realize they’re much older than I originally thought. It seems to have been preserved with great care; the pages are beyond ancient. The language is unrecognizable, close to Latin but indecipherable. On the interior back cover, I find another message beneath the cover jacket, which has also been preserved.
“If you go to him,” is all I can make out. The writing beneath is smeared and unreadable. Well, that’s cryptic. I flip through pages. Nothing seems to relate to finding anybody. Then again, it’s a language I can’t translate but for a few words. Ha.
I close the book and survey the shelves once more. I find a very large book with ornate designs on it. This one I recognize. It’s so heavy, I can barely manage to get it off the shelf. In fact, the books on either side begin to fall down as I stretch reaching. Still, I’m able to wiggle out the massive book and shove the others back in their place.
I Am the Storm Page 2