by Lizzy Ford
I drop the phone. I don’t want to remember how sick I felt that day. I don’t want to experience it all over again.
“Come get me, Freddy,” I whisper and squeeze my eyes closed.
The sound of a lecture, muffled by a partially closed door, replaces the silence of that day. I open my eyes, hopeful I’ve avoided the worst moment of my life.
I’m standing in the wide, tall hallway running between conference rooms in a Las Vegas hotel. I’ve never been here before and am not certain why I’m here at all and not in the labyrinth – until I see them.
My now-ex and his woman, standing intimately close, smiling adoringly and holding hands.
I peek into the conference room nearest me. The date is on the slide the instructor has up on the wall.
It’s three weeks after they met and started emailing. It’s the first weekend they spent together, the day my ex went from concealing something to flat out lying about it.
Okay, so maybe this is worse than the day I found out about everything.
I remember when he used to look at me like that and can’t help wondering – what happened? I mean, technically, I know what happened. But still … what happened? There are some points in life that I can’t wrap my head around, even if I know to the very second what went on. It’s like it happened to someone else or perhaps, it’s a brief break with reality required for me not to lose it.
In any case, this is their first weekend together, six months before I found out they’re planning on finding an apartment with one another, after he puts in a transfer to her side of the country, a fact I don’t learn about until too late.
Where am I in this scenario?
Yeah. Clueless. Completely disregarded.
It baffles me even in a dream how that was possible.
“I don’t want to see this,” I say. “Any of this!”
The scene fades like a dream and solidifies again. I’m back in the kitchen. This time, I’m not holding his phone but the initial filing paperwork for divorce. My hands shake. Of the two of us, I’m the one with my shit together. The adult. The person responsible enough to do something about all this. He’s a mess. It’s like this throughout the divorce process and afterwards. I’m the one who’s hurt, and I’m the one helping him feel better. Meanwhile, I’m silently dying on the inside.
Why do I do that? Put others first to the point I poison myself? Why didn’t I just tell him how I felt instead of wordlessly sliding his copy of the paperwork to him?
What would I have said differently?
He’s watching me. His eyes are rimmed with red. His phone – which is now my number one worst enemy for revealing all it did – is in his pocket.
“Thanks for agreeing to everything,” I say awkwardly, like I did when this actually occurred.
“I’m sorry. Whatever else you want, I’ll give you.”
“Thanks. I only put what I felt like I’d need in the paperwork.”
God, I’m too good!
I turn away and tuck my copy of the paperwork in the folder on the table.
Then I stop.
This feels real, but it’s a dream. Nothing I say here matters. This event has already occurred. He’ll never know about any of this.
Anger stirs. For so long, it’s been a useless, destabilizing anger. The kind I can do nothing about, not even express, because it makes no sense to. I dealt with the hurt on my own and helped him deal with his pain, even though I wasn’t the one planning a new life with someone else.
Am I a glutton for punishment? What is wrong with me?
“You know what?” I start and face him. “You hurt me. A lot. You destroyed all the dreams I had for us and for our future. You destroyed my self-confidence. How can I look in the mirror when the person I trusted and loved with all my heart decided I wasn’t even worth telling you no longer wanted to be with me? You were my best friend. You helped me become a writer. You helped me follow my dreams. I know I meant something to you. How did I fail you so badly that this all happened?”
The words are coming faster, along with the emotion I’ve spent too long suppressing. I share what it feels like to be betrayed, the self-destructive thoughts, how hard it’s been for me to put myself back together. I hold nothing back, unlike reality, where I said nothing.
I’m soon shouting and crying as I reveal the pain I’ve kept hidden.
He listens, disturbed but fortunately silent.
When the words are spent, and tears blind me, I stop. Everything I should have said – and didn’t – has now been voiced. Released. I’m no longer poisoning myself. The emotions remain, but they’ve lessened. Relationships work or break because of both people involved. I’ve felt so guilty since that day, too, for not being the best person I could’ve been in the relationship. If I had been a better person, would this all have been avoided?
I’ve asked myself that question every day for months.
“I’m done with that,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m done feeling responsible for your decision. Done feeling guilty for not being whom you needed. Done with blaming myself. At any point, you could’ve stopped or made a different decision or just told me you wanted out. That’s the worst part. You found it easier to lie than to tell me you wanted a divorce.”
I draw a deep breath.
“I’m done,” I say. I’m done being stuck in the bottle with the self-destructive emotions I haven’t been able to express. I’m done with the past and reliving all the mistakes or actions I should have taken but didn’t. I can’t change any of that. I’m. Done.
I expel the breath I’ve been holding. My shoulders relax, and some of the tension leaves my body. I said what I needed to this time. It doesn’t matter that it’s not how I handled the original scenario. I need to rid myself of the poison. It’s the only way I can move on.
It’s time. I need to move on. I do wish I’d realized that before waking up in this insane world, but I’m guessing it’s better to move on in a self-aware labyrinth than never at all.
The kitchen fades away and is replaced by the scene with them at the conference, whispering and teasing, touching and happy.
None of my anger remains, only sorrow.
What happens to them is none of my concern. The only thing that matters is that I accept the past for what it is and move on.
I’m tired. I can’t bring myself to feel anything else.
The scene shifts again, this time to the day I found out. I’m holding his phone. A trickle of emotion stirs, but I acknowledge what’s in front of me instead of what should have happened.
I don’t unlock the phone like I did that day. I set it down. I already know what’s there and what happens next. I don’t need to torture myself any longer by reliving it.
“Done,” I whisper. “It’s time to heal.”
I no longer experience the anger or self-loathing. I don’t necessarily feel better, though. Guess that takes more time.
Do I have time? Because I’m kind of stuck in a labyrinth. I’d like to think I’m not seeking closure only to be eaten by a Care Bear or …
Freddy. This is a dream. Where is he?
The world melts again, and this time, I see it. The castle at the center of the labyrinth. It’s gorgeous, set in a bright, summery forest near the top of a mountain that doesn’t exist in the middle of the labyrinth. By now, I no longer question the absurdities around me.
I don’t bother figuring out why and instead, look at the path leading to it. On the surface, it’s simple. I just walk straight to a hill and up until I reach the drawbridge. It’s open and waiting for me.
“Have fun stormin’ the castle,” growls a voice behind me.
The Knight snapped awake and sat. The moons above had ticked closer together. It was night, and snow fell from a cloud ten feet away from them.
Looking down at Elf’s fingers intertwined with his, he couldn’t shake the emotions left over from his trip to the snow world or the journey through her foreign world. He had learned v
ulnerabilities that he could use to crush her. In any other situation, he’d bide his time until he reached a critical point, perhaps to distract her if she started to win their competition.
He could. He should.
He didn’t want to.
It wasn’t a normal feeling for him at all. Once, long ago, she’d taken his hand and led him to a castle where he could never die. He didn’t know exactly what he felt when he saw their hands pressed together, but it wasn’t something he would exploit. Ever.
He allowed himself to think about what he’d witnessed in her world. He was torn between keeping his distance and witnessing her pain. To see something so private disturbed him, rallied the protective instinct and pulled forth more emotions than he cared to categorize. He had wanted to comfort her and sweep her away from everything – the broken marriage, her agony, herself, if he could.
She hid her pain well through their journey, choosing somehow to steel herself to the outside world without expressing any of what she felt.
Why was he angry? Why did he not just want to protect but to remove all that tormented her, so she could be free? Why was it difficult for him to resist the urge to take her into his arms and show her what love was supposed to be?
When had he ever experienced love at all?
He hadn’t. Not as a space knight, anyway.
Somehow, he knew that love did not involve betrayal, lies, cowardice, or weakness, that it relied upon trust and truth, and that it was more powerful than every other emotion combined.
To understand this, he had to have been loved and loved another. Was this another phantom lesson left over from the childhood he’d been shown? For she had to have loved him to create an entire world for him.
Elf had loved him at one point. It made sense he, too, had probably loved her.
How had both of them forgotten? He could almost rationalize waking up one day with no memory of who he was, where he was from, and why he existed. But how could he wake up and lose her? It was unfathomable when he replayed all he’d learned about the snow world in his mind.
His thoughts distressed him.
They weren’t sent to the labyrinth by chance. She hadn’t appeared in his world accidentally. They were meant to find each other. To remember?
No. Because remembering could be done any time, anywhere. They were thrown together for a much more important reason: to find each other again.
It was the sole explanation that made sense out of this entire experience. He couldn’t determine the end game from his vantage in the midst of the labyrinth. He was unable to imagine a scenario where they left this planet together. There was a strong possibility they failed their quest and never left at all. How could they be connected by a common past, destined to meet, and stuck here forever?
Even when things made sense, they didn’t.
She appeared to be sleeping peacefully after reliving her pain. The last time he’d found her, and Freddy was after her, she’d been thrashing and shouting.
He considered waking her until he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes. She needed the rest. Besides, he didn’t feel ready to talk to her.
He knelt. He couldn’t look away from their entwined hands. She’d taken his hand long ago and led him somewhere safe. She unknowingly continued to protect him within the labyrinth.
But who took care of her? Was there anyone at all? Was that why the planet showed him his past? Because it knew she needed him?
The Knight gently pulled his hand from hers and stood, overwhelmed by his feelings. He wanted to start a space war or beat his sword against the swords of an entire army. Wired and distraught, he paced, stretched, pretended to swing an invisible weapon, anything to take his mind off of what he’d learned and felt – and how useless he was to act.
Freddy has tormented me almost since I arrived here. I’ve defeated my fear of spiders and clowns, and I’ve finally revealed what I feel to my ex. I’ve faced so many challenges – some ridiculous, others enlightening – and I’ve survived this long.
I’m way too upset to back down. “Bring it, Freddy!” I shout. “I’m taking you out, once and for all!”
I charge him.
I have no weapons – just pure fury. He raises his claws.
I dive straight at him.
He vanishes, and I hit the ground hard.
“Elf.”
I look around but am unable to identify where the voice originates.
“Wake up, Elf.”
Blinking rapidly, I emerge from the dream into real life.
Jared’s face hovers over mine and behind him, the three moons and dark sky.
I push myself up.
“What was your dream about?” Jared asks.
I shrug. I don’t feel like revealing the depths of my soul to a villain. “Nothing really. Yours?”
“Same,” he states.
He’s regarding me intently. This is a much different look than any he’s given me.
“What?” I ask self-consciously. My voice trembles.
In a dream, it’s easier to release emotions, because some part of me knows it’s not real. I remain raw, exposed, as if the wall between my emotions and the rest of the world can’t exist here, either.
Everything hits me at once. I want to blame my meltdown on exhaustion, but I know better. I’ve been trying hard to keep a tight grip on my emotions, to prevent what’s happening outside from breaching the wall protecting the turmoil inside. I’ve been afraid to feel, afraid to care, afraid to believe I’m worthy of someone else caring about me. I’ve always ended up rejected and alone. The dream did nothing but rub that in my face.
My cheeks are already wet with tears. I hurt worse than I did in my dream and since I learned about everything.
I turn my back to Jared. I don’t want the villain of this story to see me cry. Covering my face with my hands, I sob.
Jared wraps his arms around me and pulls me securely against his body. I’m too much of a train wreck to push him away. Instead, I shake and weep and let him support my weight. His athletic frame feels so much stronger than I am at the moment. His cheek rests against my temple, his stubble lightly scraping against my skin. As before, he holds me as if he can – or will – protect me from the world.
I love how I fit into his body.
He doesn’t speak. I calm gradually and rest against him. I don’t know what to think of him holding me so I don’t think about at all. It’s a relief not having to stand alone against the world.
He turns me and embraces me. I wipe my cheek on his chest and hug him. His heart beats steady and slow beneath the ear I have pressed to his chest, and I feel the warmth of his skin through his uniform everywhere we touch. We’re fully clothed and yet, this is one of the most intimate moments of my life. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, relaxing to the point I’m ready to fall asleep.
“Are you ready?” His voice is quiet.
I nod. I release him. His arms remain around me a second longer before he lets me go.
Already, I miss the sensation of our bodies touching.
I wipe my face and stretch my battered body. I could really use a decent night of sleep. Or a mocha.
The silence between us is heavy. I’m too embarrassed to look at him.
“I did have a dream that the way we get to the castle is straight,” I say, my voice rough from crying.
“Straight?” he repeats. “How?”
I face the direction I think is the right way and point with a hand that trembles. “Straight.”
“We’ve never tried straight,” he says thoughtfully.
“Because it’s not an option.”
“If everything here changes at random, and we’ve been obeying rules we don’t know, then why don’t we try something new?”
“You want to just walk straight?” I ask. “Knowing there’s a twenty-foot drop in our path?”
His normal intensity is softened by unexpected warmth.
Neither of us knows what to say.
Jared clears his throat. “I’m tired of playing by someone else’s rules,” he says. “Let’s go straight.”
Facing the direction I think is straight, I pace to the edge of the first wall nearby and gaze down at the drop. While true, we haven’t tried to rewrite the rules, it’s a lot to risk that we don’t end up with broken legs.
The moons are almost eclipsing. What other choice do we have?
“It’s worth a try, I suppose.” I step back, heart pounding, and draw a deep breath.
“No.” Jared catches my arm and pulls me back from the edge. “I’ll go first.”
I look up at him, surprised.
He holds my gaze.
His concern is genuine. He wasn’t pretending at all when he held me.
“I insist,” he says firmly.
“Um, all right,” I say and step away from him and the intensity I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to handle.
He releases me, focused on the implausible path to the center of the labyrinth.
“You know I’m not carrying you, if you fall and break your leg, right?” I ask skeptically.
“Then I better not fall,” he replies. With little of the confidence in his tone, he stretches one foot forward hesitantly.
I suck in my breath. Please don’t fall! I chant internally.
He shifts forward, takes a step, and …
Floats. Or somehow manages to stand in midair a foot from the wall.
“Oh, god!” I breathe. I’m waiting for this to be like that second of hang time in a cartoon before the character realizes he’s run out of cliff and is about to fall.
Jared appears just as alarmed as I am. When he doesn’t drop, he breathes out and takes another step and then three more. He walks across the space to the other wall on the opposite side of the pathway below.
“Schweet,” he says, relieved.
“How?” I exclaim. “Has this been possible this entire time?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. He’s regarding me the same inscrutable way as before.
He says it like it does matter.
“Wait. I’m coming back,” he says quickly as I inch near the wall. “Just in case it’s me.”