Dark ease flirts with me. I watch sharp fingers break the sky in low frame rates. Cyclically sheeted lights hurl me softly to time detached. I fall, I rest, I am — lost in asymptotes severely undefined. Past, Present, and Future beside me, but know only one. My memories are unsure; I watch them through broken, hopeful eyes. They are beautiful. They are not mine. This moment takes me. This freedom is fragile. This feeling — foreign. One word could capture it completely: It is a word I do not have.

If this mask falls from my face, And truly I am seen, Would I have, with you, a place, Far from the silver screen? To find a page in each book, Sign our names scene by scene, But you don’t know where to look, To find, to chase, a dream. Sewn within your closet gaze, A quiver starts to sing, Yet, too strong, your mind to faze, And take it as it seems. Without clothes or garments, still, Your figure’s incomplete, For no soul or sorrow mills, Beneath your smile serene. — - — So we stand on stages old, With no words of our own, Address the play and players— Pretend we love their cold. Their ice cuts inside our hearts, Teaches us to believe, That past predicts the future, — we are not meant to speak, Yet thoughts come as a river, To break, to build, to free, Passion turns deliverer, Of song, of script, of me, But curtains turn to cages, And theaters all have their fees.

No, This has not happened to me. This was not who I was to be, Helpless, all-tethered, unfree, Just the guise of what you see, Captive in society. Rage, The power from deep within. The careless, callousing sin, Feel the flames searing my skin, All fear fierce as we begin, Succoring and swallowing. Trade, Bargain away my pain. Bargain against my brain, Deal to steal every stain, Realities fall as rain, Somehow, make this seem humane. Gloom, With no escape from belief. With no prospect for relief. A clouded, sordid motif, Suffocating, homing grief, My favorite hopeless thief. Be, As a whisper, come to life. As a word, move like a knife, The world likes to speak in strife, Wade through sorrow, force a smile, Set a new stage, don’t ask “why.”

Days grow long, nights grow cold, What will you remember when you’re old? Statues marble — figures hard, A spring of virtues over-tired. Words burn dry, Paint grabs dust, When will our metals turn to rust? Write it clear — say it loud, The meaning won’t get out. Touch the earth, know the dirt, Can you estimate its worth? Forms of man — crumbled waste, Only time knows its place. Feet on floor, lips on tongue, Who speaks in silent song? Hands as ice — legs mid-run, All are moving; all are numb. I’m seeing hollow, Seeing through, Peace in pieces, Safely new, Set your stage, play as you, Tell me stories, before they’re true.

Hushed hymns hummed through the time-worn stone. Havu stood before a gloomy entrance, from which the dead seemed to be singing — growing moans in her ears. She gripped a lantern, as one holds a sword, but the darkness refused to be cut. Her eyes filmed and watered; she had not shut them since waking. Havu set her light under the corner of the door. The blackness ate it. She could no longer trust her sight. Since last night’s vision, she could not trust anyone or anything; yet the robbery of light felt familiar, even natural. Even without seeing, she was sure what the syrupy shadows hid. The weight of “knowing” brought her here, deep under the earth, under her convent, under her sleeping sisters, under her vows, under a pious mother dead — under her life, as she thought it to be. This self-same burden thrust her into the labyrinthine tunnel. The air was warm and wet, but it carried a caliginous fire into her lungs. As intimidating as the abysmal murk was before entering, no pain compared to the brightness on the other side. Still keeping her eyes naked and wide, Havu brazed through the blinding corridor and away from the invincible white streaming from where swallowing shades had ruled just moments before. As the tunnel found a comfortably lighted coolness, distant from the insufferably brilliant portal, she collapsed down against a wall. She noticed her previously white nightgown was now black, with dirty pale streaks, and her olive skin appeared coldly Hadean and inky. Jumping to her feet, Havu stared down the hallway. Gloaming shadowiness radiated from its end, along with rasping melodies, chanting her feelings in unknown words but in shared languages: fear, shame, and dread. Columns of coruscating coffins cascaded down beyond the edges of her burning sight, but none rested. This was no holy catacomb. Great roots circled every lamenting form and seemed to squeeze suffering from them; the hairy radicles spiraled below and above her, weaving majestic ingeminate tapestries. From above, sable despairing rays rained upon her. “Havu, we all respect the conditions of your return.” A wholly luminescent figure emerged behind her. Though its voice was warm and confident, a ferocious unease bent behind each word. “As a sister, I appreciate your sacrifice.” Havu turned and bowed. “Thank you, Erifili. As One, we sacrifice, as One we serve, as One we are strong.” Erifili returned the gesture, though the movement was obviously coerced and mechanical. She retained a humanistic visage only in the loosest sense; even though she kept four limbs, and something like a head, at best she was a semi-bursting, shining mummy. “Serve. Sacrifice. Become One. Become Strong.” She raised a glimmering hand, pointing Havu to a heavy round table set below the spacious canopy of death. Thirteen chairs were set about it, eleven of them filled. A resplendent casket lay open before the group. As she began to approach them, each member rose. Not much more than general sizes could be used to differentiate the beings around the ornate deathbed, save for Rosetta, the freshest disciple; evidently newly exanimate, her human features still clung to her ethereal existence, like the last finger on a rainy ledge. Havu sensed severe regret and longing behind Rosetta’s ill-defined, diaphanous face, but she said nothing and slowly moved with Erifili to her place at the table. “Tonight, the One becomes complete. Through the blood of thirteen, we shall free ourselves from the earth, sun, moon, and stars — we shall need no separate souls, taste no private pain, and endure no lasting death.” Erifili swept up her hand. Havu was lifted into the air and floated above the death vessel. “With this final sacrifice, the spirits of the dead shall be united. For the ultimate hecatomb, we do not require the purification of many, but rather only the initiation of the innocent.” At this, every form arose. Web-like streams of energy began to drift from them up and around the hovering witch. They wormed over her arms and legs and forged a golden tiara about her head. Erifili produced a knife; it twinkled as she raised it above her. “In spilling your blood — in taking your life — under oath, I take upon myself your soul.” Havu sensed her body getting sucked into the coffin. She tried to hide the furious palpitations nagging through her flesh and fought every impulse to close her eyes. She focused on two words, which caramelized under her skull, “Not yet.” “I claim you as the final member of our coven and bind us together, under One, as One!” The spindling rootlets surrounding the assembly began to contract. They wrung energy from their captives and hounded power directly into Havu, who began to throb violently. “Tie the souls of the living to the dead. Make the dead the master of life. Consume all wills in One. With this knife, capture the living in death’s liberation.” The solemn prayer and covenant resounded deep through the mass grave, and Erifili’s asseveration danced through every personage in the hall, each repeating her words in their own language. The reverberation shook Havu’s heart out of pace. “Now, cut your tongue and kiss the blade. Seal with blood the promise you make.” Erifili calmly placed the ancient dagger in Havu’s lucent hand. Belabored by her swirling bands, Havu brought the coarse metal to her tongue and eased it deeply across. Through plashing, warm streams, she kissed the atavistic weapon. As her lips painted blood across it, an intoxicating force sprung from deep within her soul — as it broke out of her, she felt a quiet chuckle and a solitary word embrace her from just behind her eyes, “Now.” Havu let her eyelids fall. Magic poured from her fingertips. She knew the power would be intense, but she hadn’t expected it to manifest like this. Matchless ebony swaddled her in an impenetrable inferno. Heavy bat-like wings shot from the fathomless darkness and encased the twelve distressed witches. Ever-flowing rivers of power waved across Havu, but she was no longer the captive. The damp, tenebrous spiralings consumed all of the tubers running along the walls, along with the chained deceased. With every ravenous progression, Havu’s power increased. She sent thick, saccharine laughs booming over the expanse. The imprisoned coven feebly attempted to break free. With glee, Havu kissed them each fervently unto desolation, save for Erifili and Rosetta. She glided over to Erifili, expecting to subdue fury with fire; yet to her surprise, the formerly “High Witch of the Dead,” seemed to not be making any struggle. Havu waved back the coating from her face. Though her luminosity had largely diminished, Erifili made no attempt to escape. She stayed still with an eerie grin plastered under what was left of her face. “Go ahead. Try to destroy me,” as she pretended to sigh, she summoned a twitch that almost passed for a wink, “I look forward to our partnership.” Havu’s eyes smoldered as a slate smirk slid over her face. “A deal is a deal.” She opened her arms and concentrated on the cocooned beldam. “As we vowed, the dead shall be the master of life, and the living shall be captive to death’s liberation.” An incantation rolled off Havu’s bleeding tongue. It was an old spell, used only by a forgotten enchantress — the very spirit which now spoke through her — Summa Pythoness Noctis. Out from the Tartarean floor, a massive, enflamed serpent slithered up to Erifili and swallowed her whole. Anguished cries mumbled against the snake’s thick skin, letting only the slightest murmurs break into the sorceress’s ears. As the invocation came to an end, the colossal reptile wrenched in agony and evaporated into smoke, leaving a drenched, dejected, drained woman writhing on the blackened ground and very much alive.

Magic poured from her fingertips. She knew the power would be intense, but she hadn’t expected it to manifest like this. A splitting hunted through her, searching out every impulse to let go — to consume. The cavern walls began to glow. Looking down, Androulla noticed veins of fire bubbling up from her arms, burning from under her skin. Her eyes milked away to radiant darkness, somehow richer than her ebony complexion. Even with her mind and flesh boiled, the floating numen’s expression remained resolute. The pure amethyst chamber shone synchronously with lavender flames that lashed through and around Androulla’s body. As energy crept to the brim of hundreds of crystals in the egg-like cave, they seemed to melt and gravitate toward her. Soon, a refulgent cocoon swooned around the figure. When the scintillating shell fully encased Androulla, she felt every suffering skirt away and take its brightness with it. Inside the orb, a perfect silence soothed her — spoke to her. Outside, she knew this summoned vessel appeared to have bounds; but within, she saw the underpinnings of an endless night sky reflecting on a still ocean and infinite darkness marred by untouchable starlight. Here, her Stygian skin seemed luminescent as the moon. Everything felt translucent and detached. This was a fragment of eternity, as it used to be. Stepping to the water’s edge, Androulla gazed into the quiet abyss, raised her hand, and grinned. “As above, so below.” The whisper weaved into the frozen water, and a barely noticeable wave fawned atop the inky sea. As it whisked through the infinite black, it grew and grew. In moments, it mounted as a tsunami and gathered unto itself great hoards of water. Androulla watched as the ever-growing surge sprung up as a mountain against crepuscular heavens, pulling the water’s edge back further and further into the deep. As the shoreline detracted, she gently descended over newly naked cliffs and deep into a satiny crevasse. An ambiguous tenebrosity clouded all reference to time — whether Father Time had taken a single step or a million, it did not matter. Androulla plunged down as if in a dream, forgetting to remember even a trace of life before the all-consuming shroud — until she heard what she was seeking, or rather, she felt it. A consistent song thrummed a mellow beat. She was drawn to it as if by a collective will. While an oracular gravity drew her in, she sensed an unkempt harmony forming between her heart and the melodious drumming. Finally, she found herself before a stone shrine. She saw two feminine figures graven into the onyx wall. When Androulla stepped forward, a reticent flicker teased out of both their eyes. Incandescent tattoos emerged from the two sculptures and traipsed over her own body as a primordial pull lead her gleaming hands to their hardened faces…

Never-ending white cubes run along the cavern floor like a moonlit river cutting through a charcoal forest. Mia observes them through a dark window, nestled behind a control room desk. All is hushed, save for the purring of device fans. She eyes the central console. It should only take thirty seconds to do her part, but now that she has made it inside, the relative ease of the break-in nips at her — she had only met one guard, and she took him down without much effort — it could not be natural to have so little resistance. Sneaking a stifled breath, Mia lunges out and scurries down the ramp leading to the head controller. Making it halfway, she pauses and opens fire on two red metallic boxes, built into the bottom of the far left wall. According to plan, alarms start screaming both inside and outside the enclosure, and steel slabs cascade over each exit. Mia drops her gun and continues rushing forward, as every screen in the room comes alive, including her target; the wiry girl clambers into the chair behind it, sets two large canisters on the instrument console, and lets muscle memory take over. Just as in hundreds of training sessions, she engages emergency protocol 90810072 and thrusts two disruption devices into the open digital receptacles. The center dashboard whirs to life. Mia flips the guard off of the primary power driver then hovers her hands over it and the auxiliary kill switch below. Timing is essential, and her only indicator is the backlight of the operations panel. Mia tries to wrangle in some focus as her heart and lungs frolic in leaps and bounds outside their desired movements. The whole board begins to shake. The metal warms as a fierce glow accelerates behind an ocean of knobs, buttons, dials, and switches. She hawks down near the vibrating machines while the radiation begins to whiten. Her fingers twitch. Just as the interface seems ready to burst, Mia cranks down the driver and wrenches the kill switch off in one fluid motion. A spanky crackle titters through the board before the large window shatters and the entire dashboard explodes, knocking her to the floor. The alarms click off. All noise sleeps as she bathes in shards and the solace of surrender. Mia waits for security, and waits, and waits. Silence mocks her suffering. After a few moments, an eerie clap starts, coming from behind the shattered windows. Very slow and deliberate, a weak cackle sputters in correspondence, “Sweetie, are you all right?” A woman’s smiling tone echoes through the choking smoke, and the world seems to hug reality from afar as Mia scrambles to her feet. The window’s opening does not show rows and rows of freed prisoners fleeing their cells. Instead, through the sparks and fumes, she sees a single elderly lady continuing a solitary slow clap and hardly repressing guffaws. “I guess this must be a real shock to you — it always is.” The woman finally subdues her hysterics into a slight smirk and presses a button to the right of her. Lights flip on above Mia. A couple of strong air units ramp up and dispose of the smoke. Through the new, off-puttingly bright, and peaceful environment, the old woman’s face becomes clear. Mia crumples into a nearby chair, taking no mind of its scattered glass coating — the unnervingly beaming lady has all of her attention. “Since you can’t seem to ask the question, I’ll skip the to the answer: yes, I am you.” Emotive avalanches cover any words Mia might want to say. “I guess, I should clarify: I am a ninety-seven-year-old rendition of you, who doesn’t look half-bad for her age, mind you. Technically, my given name was also ‘Mia,’ but I go by Claire now.” Quivering, Mia edges out of the chair, “What—What is this?” She steps slowly away from the naked hole. Deliberately, and with heavily forced faux calm, she eases back toward the gun, not turning her face away from the incongruously cheerful figure wearing a worn version of Mia’s own face. “Oh honey, don’t try it,” perfect white teeth march from ear to ear across Claire’s face, “this isn’t my first rodeo.” Sighing, she folds her arms and claims the visage of an expectative teacher watching a student in the midst of making an obvious mistake, but Mia does not notice this as she instinctively spins down for her weapon. In a fraction of a second, five shots have been let loose, with each projectile not even marking the immaculate bulletproof glass in front of the strangely ebullient woman. “Darling, seriously, let’s be reasonable. You don’t know what’s going on — I do.” Mia grips the handgun tighter. She discharges nine more rounds. “You finished yet?” She clicks the trigger one more time, knowing there are no more bullets in the magazine — wishing there were — before throwing the firearm to the side and taking a seat behind the second row of controllers. This is enough affirmation for Claire to begin her presentation. “You know, there is actually a script we are supposed to stick to in these situations, but I’m going to spare us that headache and cut to the chase.” Claire begins pacing, “Most of what you know is, while not a lie, certainly an outdated truth,” at this she turns and looks directly at Mia. “You are now seventeen years old and have acquired a feral fury as well as adequate combat abilities. You do not remember anything earlier than ten years ago when you awoke in a white cell and an unnamed individual whispered commands through a secret earpiece. This was, In fact, all by design.” All mirth drains from Claire’s face, and she continues, “Though not truly your mother, I raised — trained — you up until your seventh birthday. Then I had to let you go. From that point, I have continued to closely observe you and facilitate your examinations and preparations, though from a decent distance and almost always via other team members.” “You… did this to me?” Mia rises, clenching her fists. Ruby streams run off her hands without recognition. “Hours. Days. Months,” her eyelids flap away tears, “Years!” “Nothing, no one but a garbled voice on the other end of a phone! Not a single honest word!” Mia walks to the skeletal casement, a desperate glare seeking after the old woman’s diverted eyes. Claire starts to quaver, “I know—“ “No! You don’t! You—“ “I was you!” Fricative growls undercut every word, “I was you in every sense. I had no choice.” Flinging a finger towards the trembling teen, Claire seethes, “You do, technically — just not much of one.” As quietude turns to discount tranquility, inaudible echoes bite tears from Mia’s face. “You just have no idea what’s outside. No idea… how could you…” Claire settles into a seat and begins trying to mine embers of understanding from the stillness. “Eighty years ago, I was a scrawny, rage-filled girl determined to escape captivity I didn’t understand. Like you, I have no recollection of life before my pristinely private prison; your previous experience, that is, your training, is exactly modeled after my own childhood torment.” “If you actually know how it feels, if you went through all of this before, how could you put anyone else in the same position?! What monster—“ “Please! Let me finish,” Claire lets out a long, burdened moan, “with the aid of a mysterious outsider, I was able to escape, as you did tonight, though I did not have the luxury of completing hundreds of ‘secret’ simulations nor access to the information you did.” Pausing, her face takes on the slightest shade of maternal pride, “Unlike you, I was not successful in my attempt to free my ‘inmates,’ but I did well enough to move on.” “Wait… so this was all some sort of test…?” Like a whisper in a crowded room, Mia’s question hangs unanswered. Horror tugs on her thoughts, “The guard… I killed him… just for a test?” Mia’s face swaps anger for dread as her eyes meet those of her counterpart. “It’s not that simple,” a shivering, stone smile haunts Claire, “we were bred for this. It is in our nature to do whatever’s necessary to survive.” A coerced giggle gurgles out of her, “He didn’t pass. You can’t be blamed for that.” Mia looks down at her hands. Already, the blood has begun to dry over them, and they sparkle with specks of glass, some still lodged in her skin. “There’s a place for you in this world. A place you’ve fought for. A position you were designed to fill.” “If you can’t beat them, join them?!” Mia watches new drips swim off her fingers, “Is that actually what you’re asking me to do?” “No paradise is created with clean hands. Past all of the grime and gore, there are a few pearls — you, Mia, are a pearl — be grateful for what you’ve got.” Claire subtly shakes her head, “Nowadays everyone is engineered to fulfill, and is embedded with, specific potentials. The security officer you beat had physical advantages you simply did not — his sight, hearing, and endurance outmatched yours ten to one — yet, you defeated him! Only one of four hundred of our kind make it this far.” Mia says nothing. “You did this with your gifts — your intelligence, innovation, and instinct. You can’t beat yourself up for that.” Another condescending chuckle introduces an obviously oft-regurgitated phrase, “This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Mia — this is an opportunity for a life.” “What is my choice?” “Excuse me?” Mia speaks slowly, through gritted teeth, without looking up, “You said that I had a choice. What is it?” “Well, put most bluntly, your choice is between caves and community. I would portray it as darkness or light. Distilling it to the highest degree, your options are death or life; but again, it’s your decision.” “It sounds like it’s not supposed to be a difficult choice.” Mia continues to gaze at her bloody fingertips, but from the corner of her eye, she sees Claire check her watch. “Most people prefer life to death, even if they have little control over it.” Finally, Mia shifts her stare onto her decrepit future form. “You’d never let me leave here, even into the caves, would you? You don’t release people, alive, anywhere but their assigned positions… do you?” “No.” Claire fixes her eyes on Mia, on her younger self, and unhurriedly repeats her favorite phrase, “Welcome to the team.” “I didn’t say anything or agree to any of this.” Claire winks at her scared, youthful reflection, “You didn’t have to.”

Fear is a river. You cannot stop it, but there are rafts to ride it. Mine was constructed with five words, stolen from a near-forgotten poem — yet, though every river finds an end, fear does not, and words can fail in human thought. When I was younger, I wrote everything by hand. Unless my cursive nuances fit the message they carried, I would tear up my composition and start again. I wish you could do the same with life, for it is only a scarlet sheet, mercilessly stained with the blood of the past. The entrance fee and exit door are the same. In my fantasy, everything ends; I wish it never began. — - — I save my voice. Hard foam plucks at me from every angle, incessantly reminding me this room was created to maintain silence — to gather thoughts. Here, eyes blink without altering vision. Perfect hopelessness threatens me; its breath scrapes my neck, yet I do not give in. I repeat my only defense, “Know to know no more.” In this place, there is no echo, but these words grow fierce in my mind. “Know to know no more,” again and again. Against the deprivation of every other sense, my thoughts avalanche through an endless cavern — until a buzzing warms behind my ears. An endless ringing inundates my mind; a burning seethes away all other sensations. There is no texture to this agony. Everlasting progression is its shiniest horror — but then, all at once, it ends. As my suffering simmers and tangles every nerve in lassitude, my throat calls to mind incalculable friable craters of a smoldering planet. I try to speak, but it is impossible. “Cat got your tongue…?” I try to shut out the sound from my mind, but something like breathing vibrates deep within my skull. It is not mine. “Katrina, right? That is what you are calling yourself now, is it not?” The voice’s languor is almost soothing, but I bind my concentration away from its wretched seduction. “Stop resisting — I know you can hear me.” It makes an attempt at laughter, but a million hoarse tones only reverberate indelicately. This one is fairly new. Funneling all of my focus on unspoken words, I address the thing through a clear thought, “What do you want from me?” Its toothless chatter fingers the cavities of my head, “Ah, this is not the proper question — all I am here to discover is what you want from us?” Our breathing syncs: one digital, one dying. Desperation closes over me as a cocoon condemning a caterpillar. A word forms fuzzily in my mind, but I cannot bring it to life. Through mounting anguish, I conjure something close to “Beta” through a rasp, as perspiration slimes over my panting future corpse. Another screech passes for a chuckle, “I am ‘Beta,’ and I am ‘Sigma,’ — I am all, and all are me. Speak to me or speak to them, we all hear just the same.” I shake my head, flailing like a blind fish on a dissection table. As I feel warmth gather behind my ears again, I make a final cry, before a blare deafens my feeble scream. 

— - — Through my eyelids, numb light skewers me. An irrepressible haze hovers in my consciousness for a moment, before it is broken by an all-too-familiar voice. “A circle has neither a beginning nor an end, not because it is indefinite, but because it is organized as a whole.” My heart begins to sprint as the old man’s lecture traipses on, “Almost every social structure, known to man, praises or excuses the individual, at the cost of, or with indifference to, the larger system. I imagine that people like you might argue we have altogether removed human singularity in our latest society; however, this is not the case. We have only truly dichotomized the element of choice.” My eyes fly open, not of my accord. Nothing is clear, yet unwarrantable whites glare in multifarious forms. “I know you have spent time reading the ‘forbidden texts,’ so I might comfortably refer to Plato’s ‘Allegory of the Cave’: ‘It is the task of the enlightened not only to ascend to learning and to see the good but to be willing to descend again to those prisoners and to share their troubles and their honors, whether they are worth having or not. And this they must do, even with the prospect of death.’ I suppose you see yourself as one of the ‘enlightened’ in this phrase, but I find you more imprisoned than anything else.” I attempt to close my eyes but to no avail. A far-off sense of touch lingers, as innocence haunts the fallen, but a frigid paralysis flows through my flesh. “This stage of ‘enlightenment’ would have been easier if you stayed, my love. I had so hoped you would be able to see the light for yourself and claim it willingly, which is why I gave you so much freedom, — again, as Plato put it: ‘How could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?’ Yet, it is not my fault that you only found more darkness, that you saw in me only destruction.” Through the dry blurring of my sight, I see him standing over me; I can barely make out his harshly circular spectacles, but something about his posture transfixes me as a stutter its stutterer. I barely feel his hand rest on my stone shoulder, but an instinctual recoil flies through my mind. “Ooh, you are agitated, I can tell; but, almost all other people are happy now — everyone, excluding your dreary kind, is satisfied. You know, the council wanted to simply kill you, and remove your genetic profile from the pool, yet I was able to convince them of your ‘potential,’ though I must say that, as my thirteenth ‘Eve,’ I might have a higher determination to prove you usable, and dispel any superstitious myths still clinging to life.” His face draws exceedingly too close to mine, “Oh dear, what is going on with your eyes? Have they been severely dilated all of this time?” I hear his footsteps fall heavily away from me. “I do not know why I ask questions when I do not get real responses from you, but even the sound of my voice is better than the moans from outside.” He giggles as he fumbles with some sort of apparatus at my side, and within moments my visual perception has been brought to a pristine clarity. When his head swings unsettlingly near me for the second time, I see his eyes vividly, or rather, where his eyes used to be. Behind this creature’s old glasses, two limpid, slate orbs spin; no muscle on its face is where it should be. A grin grimaces and spasms from his jaw, from which I notice a perfect array of metalized teeth. “We held a wedding while you were away. It was very intimate — only two guests. Both bride and groom in one another, such a splendid arrangement.” As this hideous hybrid speaks, I note the stark changes from the senile doctor I thought I knew. An artificially imposing athletic build bulges out of him, and he stands a solid three feet taller than before; yet all aspects of this monster are strung together in a poor patchwork. Splotches of skin stain lustrous alloys. This animalistic machination of humanity’s worst passions proudly pageants itself without care of clothing. Metallic veins pop and gurgle, and the hulking mass seems to be fluid and frozen simultaneously. “Your shock must be expected, though you are surely the minority now.” He walks over to a dark window, barely within my peripheral vision. “Really, I must thank you. You exposed the danger we could be, which made us into the ‘monsters’ we are.” Unhurriedly, he lifts a large machine, attaches it to a movable workstation, and pushes it toward me. “You thought immortality should only be humanity’s to taste, or as you auspiciously put it, your ‘burden to bear.’ You are not our God.” He laughs, and whispers, “You will be one of us.” As he reaches my bed, I recognize the equipment, and if I had any control over my body, I would scream. “It is time to rewrite the end of Frankenstein. I do not seek to kill those you love, though you tried to do so to me. My goal is much nobler; I only want you to understand what it is like to be me. This time, I am not asking.” My captor positions his machinery above me, and I know what comes next — I know every gear and injection system that will turn and engage as it is laid on me. “Be my Eve.” As he lowers the contraption meant to become one with me, my eyelids are pulled closed. As the world goes dark, the last thing I hear is a quoted brute’s words from my favorite book, “It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.” — - — Eyes open. They are not mine.

Panting, I lift my head and a crown of sunlight crashes over me. I am a king. I sit upon my throne as sweat sneaks down my face. Yet, below a clamor rises — this was no fair contest. From a rock atop the hill, I view my assailants: they are not coming quickly, but an underworld-like fury charms their movements. A few of them wield baseball bats. However, their anger is not their own, it belongs to a wiry boy in the front, smiling like a poorly taxidermied weasel. He sports a black eye and the favor of our school population. Turning back, I scope out my options. It is 4:53 on a Friday afternoon, and our small-town park is barely populated. Land is our community’s only luxury, and I could go another mile before exiting our public dust garden. I cannot keep running. Almost all of the boys in Kirkwood Middle School march in this sad militia, maybe eleven total. Their tired clothes wear tired faces, but as I catch my breath I hear the rousing cries of their leader. “There he is — we almost have him! Faster!” His voice shares a frequency with dog whistles, and I imagine that actual jackals would understand him just as well as his morose mob. His hate tremors with every word. I suppose one needs to hold on to something in life, and there are not too many alternatives to resentment in this town. — - — Our school does not have enough players or funds to support a little league team anymore; although, there is an unkempt field in the north corner of our park. Most of the boys in this area have brothers, and almost everything they own is comprised of hand-me-downs, from briefs to beliefs. I am the exception. I found the field on the second day of fourth grade. There were five people tossing a ball around, and one boy had a bat. I asked to play and got chased past the broken chain-link fence, but I slowly came back. The same thing happened time and time again, day after day. That year, I spent every school afternoon outside the run-down yard, just watching a few kids trying to play America’s Pastime with less than six players. Over the next summer, I spent hours in my public library. It had an incredibly disproportionate collection of baseball books for such a small establishment, but I was grateful. I became officially hooked on the sport. I learned the names of all of the greats and studied their styles. Every night, I would crank up my mom’s old radio and scan the channels for any games on the airwaves. When school started again, I was resigned to scout my clumsy classmates from afar again, as before, until our school got a transfer. William Downing moved into his grandparents’ house, four blocks down from mine. Like me, his dad got tired of having a kid and wife and left them kissing destitution, (though Will had known a life of luxury and affluence before coming to this ghost town and I had eaten the dust of dead dreams as far back as I can remember). Poverty and old family are the only fallen angels that lead people to this place. Will was a year older, a head taller, and two shakes skinnier than me when we first met — which says more than an unbridled extravert at a party, as ribs yelled through my skin louder than my bloated nose. He wore tortoiseshell brow-line glasses, a crisp Yankee ball cap, and a bright white, tucked-in dress shirt. Will was an immediate hit at our school. Though his voice was always squeaky and speech a little coarse, his manner and meter shimmered with twice the confidence of anyone in our town. His style was subtle though seductively self-assured. He came off more cultured than any teacher or administrator at school while retaining an amicable familiarity with his peers — I was the only one who saw this as a front. There were six tables in our school cafeteria. Most kids fit on the first four, leaving two open for the outcasts. Some cliches get real-life revivals. Every lunch, I sat at one of these corner options. It had a vent directly above it, which kept most people away. Generally, if my regular schoolwork was not too cumbersome, I would spread out my most frequently loaned book, the Baseball Encyclopedia, as my only lunchtime companion. It was sprawled out beside me when the new apple of Kirkwood Middle’s eye sat down to my right. “I don’t think we’ve met, officially,” he said, before nibbling into a peach. “I know who you are.” My eyes sat on the open book and did not budge. “Yet, I don’t know you; how unfair.” The table rocked as he slid on top of it. Students are not allowed to get on tables, but I had seen him do it multiple times without incident. “I’m Will — William Downing, legally.” “My name is Barry.” “Nice to meet you, Barry. What have you got here?” He leaned over my book. Juice dripped down and off his chin. A splotch appeared on the page. “This is a library book!” “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Will took my napkin and tried to wipe the droplet off. It only smeared. “What book is this, anyway?” “It’s an encyclopedia, but for baseball.” “Ah, we’re both ball fans!” He shot me a faux-inquisitive look, “I’ve been to the park every day this week. Why haven’t I seen you there?” “They don’t want me there. I used to ask to play, but they don’t let me on the field.” “Well, they will today, for Will wills it!” He hopped down and began to walk away, but before he got too far, he turned and slowly said, “I’ll make sure they let you play.” — - — It felt surreal when Will introduced me to the boys who had always run me off of the field, but before long I had almost forgotten I was ever an outsider. Days crept into weeks and weeks to months. I quickly surpassed all of them in skill, but that was mostly due to my dogged obsession with the sport. While Will was our undeniable leader, I quickly became an ample right-hand man. We started cleaning up the field, sticking to a set practice schedule, and I taught everyone the official MLB rules. By the end of the school year, we had shaped into some decent players. One day, Will announced that we had become a “real team,” and as such, we needed a name, which he supplied: the Kings. He had us all bring a plain t-shirt to practice the next day, and I proudly branded them in vintage baseball lettering. We were elated as we put them on. Though the shirts were each a different color, our smiles were the same; however, there was only room for one king in our group. We played just a single game in uniform before everything fell apart. Will and I alternated between pitching and playing third base/shortstop (as we only had eight players total, there were not enough people to fill every position). That day, I was the leadoff batter, so Will started as the pitcher. After a couple of warm-up swings, I dug into the batter’s box. Will was the best player on the team (self-proclaimed) — he had a wicked fastball and a semi-cryptic windup, but we had played together so much that I could predict what pitch was coming. He fired a delivery just outside the plate, and I hammered it hard. I did not stop and watch how far it went, I just barreled around the bases. In fact, I had not even noticed the incongruent silence that met my hit; it was only after I rounded second base that I realized almost everyone was staring at me. Only then did I turn and look for Andy, our left fielder. “It’s gone! Barry’s cleared the fence!” I was immediately mauled by affection from almost everybody on the team. Will left quickly, “to help Andy find the ball.” That was the first time anyone (from our group) had sent a ball over the outfield line, and we celebrated it like we had won the World Series. It took a few minutes to play again, and when we started, I immediately sensed something was wrong. There was a foreign focus that flew through Will. He became quiet, which was very unlike him, yet I did not sense the silent danger until he struck out on his turn. I caught his eye as I left the pitcher’s mound; his glare chilled to the bone. The same wicked cold rolled out of his eyes when I came back up to bat. This time was worse though — Will smiled, yet his face was void of joy. The moment I stepped foot in the batter’s box, he screamed a pitch towards my head. I barely ducked in time. “Sorry,” he said, “it just got away from me.” “It’s fine. I know what you mean.” I dusted myself off and cautiously stood up. Again, I edged into the box, yet I was not fast enough to escape the second assault. I got hit solidly in the side and sagged into the dirt. “What was that!” As I groaned, Will casually strolled over. “I guess that one must’ve slipped away from me as well.” I tried to shake it off, but anger toed my pulse. It took full control when the same thing happened on my third at-bat. This time, he nailed my shoulder. Nobody said a word as I jogged to first again, but I raged on the inside. Will turned and waved from the mound. The next time I took the pitcher’s position, I heard him mumble “oops.” That made three strikes. When he came up to bat, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I hurled the baseball with every fiber of my form and tried to sear it directly toward his thigh, but my hand slipped at the last moment. My pitch broke Will’s glasses into his left eye. — - — I now watch as Will’s cavalcade trudges up my hill; his new glasses gleam under his dusty hat. I recline on my rock, anxiously awaiting his crew as cramps salute my side. With how slow the brigade is moving, I would not even have to run to escape them, but I stay resolute. I know William’s temper and determination. If he does not catch me today, it will be tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, it will be sometime next week — I have to face this music, even though it is fatigued and out of tune. “Surround him! Don’t let him get away again!” The mass of boys hardly fit around my rock. I put my hands behind my head and shut my eyes. I hear someone climb up beside me. “So, now that there’s nowhere to run, you’re just gonna play dead? That figures.” A boot tangos into my ribs, and a crack dances back in response. I instinctively roll up like a potato bug. The boys cheer. “How does it feel to get hit by surprise?” His joke speckles laughter over the callous crowd. “Who has a bat?” I amble to my feet just as Will grabs hold of a thick steel baseball bat. I stand at the tip of our stone. I jump over the wall of boys as he swings, but I land badly. “Get him!” Feet plow into every angle of my body. I cannot see. I cannot sense anything but suffering’s sashay as it weeps across my beaten form. “Stand back, but don’t let ‘im go.” The jeers subside as I quiver on the grass. I hear two bats clank together: one wood, the other metal. “It’s over, Barry.”

Fog falls off the pond. Water lilies tickle ripples across gleaming water. I wonder, how can one capture light through darkness? I lean against a stone bench and re-situate my sketchbook before staring again at the sparkling flower in front of me. My stylus aches across my hand. Angling it, I start to softly etch out the subdued reflection of the bulb. Effulgence must be implied, framed by dim mirrors. I concentrate on the flesh of the petals; sunlight ravages the top but quiets near the bottom. The blossom sways with the early morning wind, elegantly glazing through swelling undulations, yet always returning to its stem’s center — its chain. As I, it is forever tied down. “Avelina! Avelina, what are you doing out here? Alone — and in scant undergarments no less!” Margaret, my favorite maid, has a habit of whispering at a yell’s volume. “My dear, get inside at once. Especially with guests — especially with our current variety of guests — you mustn’t be spotted in this state, least of all at this hour.” Her heavy cloak and secondhand warmth consume me. I say nothing as I gather my utensils. Margaret is right: if anyone, save her, had found me in our courtyard by myself this early and without proper dress, I would be in hotter water than a boiling duck in a forgotten cauldron. As she blasts her eyes around the spacious enclosure, I steal one last look at my floating lily. I attempt to cement its hazy sublimity and effortless splendor into my mind. Margaret ratchets her hand around my shoulders and whisks me into the palace. Her grip grows ever tighter as we blaze down endless muted corridors. This is the best part of the day. Pale light sags through clouded windows, and half-asleep staff members amble through their earliest tasks as mellow ghosts, but my favorite part is the shimmer of our paintings in dreamlike illumination. Observed from certain angles, even the deadest pictures come to life — my softened vision makes way for imagination. A severe and ever so unimagined pain flies down my arm as my maid hurls me into my bedroom and shuts the door. “That is going to bruise!” I chortle far too loudly for Margaret’s liking. “Alas, it was worth it. If you had not been so busy screaming at me, you could have seen the most luscious water lily. It was drowning in the richest sunrise I have ever seen.” “Her Highness must be well aware that if she stayed a moment longer to ‘drown in the richest sunrise,’ she would have drowned, again, in the richest scolding from her Queen.” Margaret drops into one of my chairs and I watch her hand instinctively shoot to her head. “No, ‘I’ was not drowning in the sunrise, ‘the lily’ was. I was merely observing an unspeakable romance: a fiery embrace of two entities that will never truly touch — the sun and water, with the fresh blossom getting caught in-between and pierced by the love of the sun.” I slump into my frozen bed, still enjoying the fever of the bulky coat wrapped around me. “I would limit my reading of romantic poems if I were you — particularly today.” Margaret trawls herself up and out of her chair. I catch her glance back at the seat with a heavier craving than any lover for another’s lips. Yet, she stretches, regains composure, and turns to me. She tightens her face. “It is important to keep a, to keep… to keep an open mind.” Her voice languishes over the last three words. I see where this is going, so I close my eyes, literally and figuratively, hoping it will pass. She makes some feeble attempts to clean my room. I hear some of my scattered books getting stacked and papers finding a general pile. “It’s possible to make this work you know. Your father and mother came together this way as well.” At this, I sit up. “They tolerate each other, barely. Mother just had our dining table extended — as if they were not sitting far enough apart before. I would hardly call that a success.” Springing off the mattress, I toss Margaret’s cape aside and a sheet of goosebumps flutters down my back. “Ah, that is where you are wrong, Avelina. Your brother, Richard’s, and your existence validate their majesties’ marriage as victorious.” I slide over to my writing desk and gently unveil my study of the water lily. Already, the sun has sharpened. Coarse rays collide with my sketch, juxtaposing the supple marks against the brightest scrutiny. One would hardly be able to determine the subject of the picture, let alone see the wonder I tried to capture. “Useless, utterly useless.” I sigh into my desk seat. “Oh, come now — you cannot say that. You have not even laid eyes on the poor boy. If he is anything close to the painting they sent, you will be in luck.” I see Margaret begin to lay out the mountain of clothes I am to be asphyxiated by on this “very special” day. “Get up, let’s get you dressed; yesterday, the Queen sent up the gown you are to wear.” My head and shoulders limp as I stand up. “I was not even speaking of Ferdinand, yet by all accounts, he is useless as well.” Margaret helps me wrestle into my petticoat. As she fastens me up, I surrender to the tension I have always known. Rigid cloth digs into my skin in all of the wrong places. “You know, in seeking to create the finest clothing in the world, one would think something would be done to make these atrocious things more comfortable.” Margaret only laughs and brings out the kirtle, and slugs it over me. I continue my diatribe, though she has heard it on more occasions than she could count. “I mean, this is essentially just the same thing I already have on — why would anybody want two petticoats?” I grudgingly begin to meter my breath and take a “proper” posture. Today, I feel the lacings pulled tighter than usual. I speculate on whether or not she is doing it on purpose: either to make me look better or punish me for being reckless. “All right, we are down to the last layer.” I glare desperately out of a window, which has by now been robbed of all its mist. A clear morn, devoid of mystique. “Even you cannot deny that this is gorgeous,” Margaret smirks and produces a killingly vivid emerald gown. As much as I detest dressing, the piece is fantastic; equal parts satin and brocade, its artistry is tangible. Golden thread seams through the vivacious viridescent masterpiece, edging in designs of trumpeted flowerets down the sides and waist while leaving the center open and undefiled. The unadulterated fabric seductively shimmers. I want this hue as paint. I am taken aback. “How long did this take to make?” Margaret cautiously floats this masterwork over my head. As it glides over my face, it kisses my cheek. “It is hard to be certain, yet I know her Majesty has been swept up in arrangements as long as two years previous.” While I get tied up in the back, I run my hands across the center silk. An ember of a rustle escapes the weaves as I finger it. “How lovely. Ferdinand will not know what has hit him.” I let this comment go, upon the exercise of inordinate self-control. “Now that you are put together, their majesties have requested your presence. It seems they have a gift for you.” I cannot help but burst with laughter. “My father and mother up at this hour? Something must be dreadfully wrong; but even so, when have I ever refused a present?” “Actually, your highness, they have been up for quite some time. You will find them in the King’s study.” A despicable smile steals across Margaret’s mildly condescending face, “In fact, they meant to surprise you in your room… but I had… the “foresight” to recommend they let you “rest” a little longer.” Her eyebrows chuckle. “I would suggest you delay no longer, however.” I meet Margaret’s cheerily restrained eyes, “Thank you.” She nods, and I do my utmost to gracefully walk out into the hall, though I feel like a camel parading through a snowy sea. — - — When I reach my father’s study, a stiffness sweeps through me. The King, donning his military uniform, poses behind his tight-lipped queen with an arm solidly resting on her right shoulder — it is almost as if they were ripped out of the portrait that keeps watch behind them. I imagine how long they have been waiting, straining a sorry compromise of amicability and regality. His Majesty steps forward. “Darling, you look positively wonderful. Mary, I cannot commend your taste further, but again your exquisite eye has quite over-exceeded expectations.” He kisses me on the cheek, though not as softly as the praised dress did a few moments earlier. More matronly than a church’s marble statue, the queen rises, deliberately angling her head and pursing out the slightest grin. “You look angelic, dear.” I take a shaky step forward and summon a smile. “Thank you.” My parents look at each other through veils of curated affection, before my father winks at me and pulls a luxurious wooden chest from his desk. My mother nods at him, and he deftly places it in my hands; its weight catches me by surprise. “It is not every day that a King announces the betrothal of his only daughter. Open it, Avelina.” I lift the pearl-inlaid top and gasp. These are the most opulent emeralds I have ever seen, fixed in pure gold on earrings and a thick necklace. “Thank you, Papa, but—” “You are very welcome. You are already wearing your mother’s gift — maybe she can help you put mine on.” As my dad steps back, I turn and hold the jewelry box out to my mom, who silently ornaments me. Her hands are ice — I cannot differentiate her touch from the cold of the gold. The metal hangs heavily on and from my skin. I feel like a holiday tree, fully fledged with tinsel. A few moments pass with my parents’ fixedly deliberate and appreciative gaze upon me. My mother breathes out, “beautiful,” a total of three times. Suddenly, the atmosphere snaps. The King reclines into his favorite chair and the queen toes the ground beside him. Seeing my static state, my father motions to the open couch opposite his. I sit, cautious and overtly mindful of my gown’s sensitive nature. “Now, today is important for a multiplicity of reasons, not least of which is your betrothal.” The King fastidiously twists his largest ring. “You see, plans have been ‘updated,’ as recently as last night.” My mother steps forward with distasteful amusement coloring her face. “We have been presented with an exciting ‘opportunity.’” She starts to “shark-circle” me, “As you recall, our previous arrangement was for Ferdinand to come here, to stay, as you two begin your life together; however, after a highly providential discussion last evening with our visiting king, it has been determined that the optimal place to start your new life with the duke is not here.” My lips reach for words; none are found. “It is decided. You will leave with him tomorrow.” “But I—“ “I expect you will be pleasantly surprised when Ferdinand proffers this proposal to you. What an exquisite thing, to be wed.” “Why—“ “All proper preparations have been made — this is not a negotiation. That was yesterday.” “But I was not even consulted.” “There was no need for you to be.” A frigid satisfaction melts across my progenitors. I close my eyes. My sumptuous jewels crush my chest, as my throat chokes on itself. Everyone has a ball and chain as every flower has a stem. Gold or green, all beauty has a price.