“Emily, you have a visitor!” A plump woman in scrubs almost singed with wide smile on her round face. The girl didn’t move. The nurse cooed: “Emily, my dear, let’s sit at the table, okay? I’ll bring some tea and your favourite cookies, how does it sound?” The girl said nothing. “I’m sorry,” the nurse turned to the visitor at the door. “Emily is catatonic. She never shows any sort of reaction to external irritants.” “You said she has favourite cookies, though,” the visitor commented. He was holding a package wrapped in a glittery paper. It looked a bit heavy. “Well, yes, it’s not really the truth, you see.” The woman sighed. “I’m just trying to give her some personality, some traits. Sometimes it helps. For example, Mrs. Oswald, our other patient, shouted at me. Turnes out, she hates sweets. I was so happy!” “Happy?” “She demonstrated a reaction! For the first time in two years! She’s gotten a lot better since then. But Emily…” The nurse looked at the girl, tears in her eyes. “Poor soul. I’ll be outside if you need me, but please, be gentle with her. She already struggled so much.” “I have no intention to hurt her. I just brought her a small present, that’s all. I’ll be careful,” the visitor promised. “Sure. Let me bring some tea, and I’ll leave you alone.” “Sounds good.” The visitor was a slim young man with ginger hair and boyish face features. It looked like he desperately tried to grow a beard for a long time, but hadn’t succeeded yet. His big, green eyes were wide and clever. The nurse brought a silver tray with a ceramic pot, a sugar bowl with small silver tongs, a bowl full of speculoos and thin mint cookies, a pitcher full of cream, and two small teacups and saucers in floral pattern. She put the tray on the table beside a window, then wheeled Emily’s chair to the table and left. The man sat on the chair across the table. “Hi, Emily.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. The girl didn’t acknowledge his greeting. The visitor poured some tea from a steaming pot to both teacups and put one in front of Emily. The tea smelled nicely of bergamot and lavender. “Sorry, I don’t know if you now prefer it with cream or sugar,” he said and sipped his tea. The girl didn’t reply. Her hands with thin, long fingers and bitten nails kept lying on her knees, motionless. Her lips were also bitten and chapped. The skin looked paper-white and lifeless. You wouldn’t be able to tell when she was taking a breath, that still she was. She could’ve been easily taken for a marble sculpture, for some unknown reason dressed into a beige soft sweats. “I have a gift for you,” the man said. “I’ll unwrap it for you, okay?” He carefully unfolded the parchment, holding the present close to his chest, as if he was afraid it’d disappear or get stolen by some unseen forces. He sat closer to Emily. “It’s for you,” he whispered. “It’s your dress, remember?” He stood up, the dress fabric falling down, reaching the floor. It was a black velvet dress with a beautiful skirt, swirling around. On the ends, it was heavily decorated with pearls and laces. The girl didn’t look. The man’s smile faded. “Listen to me. Listen to what I’m telling you now.” The visitor spoke as if in a rush. “You were a queen once. You had a castle, and a king, and you were a queen, the best queen we could’ve ever wished for.” The girl sat still. “You were a queen. Your name was different back then, and you were happy, and smiling, and laughing, and playing. You grew up, but you kept being our queen. Then, you died of old age, and you reincarnated, and we waited for you patiently, and you came back and reigned once again. You grew up, you died of old age, you reincarnated, you came back, you became our queen again. But then, one day you didn’t appear in Nightland. And the next day, and the day after. We became worried, and we were looking for years. I was looking for you for years, my lady.” His eyes blistered with tears. “This was your dress,” he continued in shaking voice. “Please accept it.” The man reached out for Emily’s hand and put it softly over the dress. “Please, my queen,” he whispered. “Come back to Nightland once again. We’ll heal your wounds, we’ll end your sufferings.” He closed his eyes. They betrayed him nevertheless, displayed moist marks on his young cheeks, barely touched with stubble. Suddenly, he heard a sob that wasn’t his own. “My queen!..” Emily began twitching slightly in her wheelchair, her eyes rolled up into her hear, showing the ivory color of the white. Her hands grabbed the velvet of the dress tightly, holding tight as if she was on some kind of a roller coaster. She kept jerking, short of breath. The man considered calling for the nurse when he heard her raspy voice: “They all died.” He looked at her tenderly, his hands covering hers on her knees. Her twitching calmed down a little bit. Emily looked at him weakly. She saw it so vivedly. She recalled her family being hungry and poor. She remembered how she dreamed of Nightland the first time, and escaped there every night ever since. Her life in Nightland, although she could reach it only when sleeping in the real world, was the happiest part of her life. She saw The Great Hall of her marble castle, bright with chandeliers. She saw all of her people dancing in summer, playing in autumn, holding hands in winter, celebrating in spring. She saw her king-consort, sitting beside her, supportive and kind. She saw her visitor being her trusted protector, her Royal Knight. She saw that, at the beginning, her name was Alice, and then Celeste, and then Emily. She saw her real world getting in flames. She saw her parents and sisters burning alive while she was in Nightland. She saw getting brought to the hospital seven years ago and never living its walls. Her weakness infuriated her. “Cheshire?" The man beamed, hearing his name again. “Yes, my queen?” “We’re going back.” Emily clenched her fists. “And get me out of this wheelchair.”
February 7
Dear diary,
Today was a big day. We were making cards for the upcoming Valentine’s day. Katy made a big one, it almost fell off the table when she was coloring it. I made a small one and painted it soft pink. I cut the ends with scissors to make it look like laces, but it turned out somewhat awkward. Selina laughed at me because I spent almost twenty minutes on it. She said it looked ugly, like my bald head. What does she know? Her card is covered in silly confetti. I know she’s going to gift it to Alejandro. She says they are dating. Says they kissed and all. I don’t buy it. I don’t know whom to give the card, though. Mrs. Bushnell says it should be someone special. I need to think.
February 12
Dear diary,
I am still thinking about the card. I don’t mind giving it to Max because he is always nice to me and smells like banana marshmallow, which I like. He visited me a few times when I was sick and at a hospital. But I don’t want to be just another one who gives him the card, and I know Katy and Jenny will give their cards to him. And it also would’ve been nice to get a mutual card. I don’t think our boys will give me one. I think I am not pretty enough. My school dress is too long, sometimes it clings to my knees weirdly, I almost fall, and then everyone laughs at me. Mrs. Bushnell gave me a star for answering all questions at math lesson. At least I’m smart.
February 14
Dear diary,
Today was an awful day. During recess, I climbed too high on the climbing net. Katy began shaking it. I tried to take another step to the side to clutch the thickest rope, but that stupid dress didn’t allow me to and I stepped off and fell to the ground. Everyone laughed at me, boys and girls. I think even Mrs. Bushnell smiled. I didn’t cry. I felt clunky and awkward, but I decided not to give them satisfaction. My mom says that we never should give the satisfaction of our tears. They kept mocking me, though. Did not crying make it worse somehow? I bruised my knee badly. It bled on my white socks, and Mrs. Bushnell called my mom. She picked me up very soon. I thought she would be upset that the socks are ruined and because she had to bring me to her work now, but turned out it was okay. Her colleague, Dr. Bishop, cleared the wound and gave me a lollipop. I thought about giving him the Valentine’s card, but chickened in the end. While waiting for my mom to finish her shift, I went to the wing where I used to stay until I got better. There typically were many kids, but today there was only a little boy. He was playing Xbox. We talked a little. His name is Jon, without “h”. He recently was diagnosed with cancer, too. He said it didn’t hurt, but it made him sad and disappointed. His dad left a year ago, just like mine. He and his mom moved here after that, to be closer to his granny. He said both mom and granny are very nice to him, but he still misses his friends a lot and feels alone. Jon also said he didn’t know if he could beat cancer, but at least he could beat his enemies in the game. I told him the remission was very real, that if I achieved it, he could do it, too. I didn’t want to tell him that everyone keeps pointing fingers at my head while my hair is growing back. He doesn’t have to know the kids can be so mean sometimes. Besides, maybe it’s better for boys. I told Jon that from now on, I’d be his friend, and gave him my Valentine’s card to cheer him up. I think he deserved it more than anyone else - Alejandro, Katy, Jenny, Max, even Mrs. Bushnell and Dr. Bishop. I think Jon was special enough.
It had been three days since the knocking that kept Evelyn up at night began. Having been a NYC girl all her life and only recently moving to Pennsylvania, Evelyn had quickly adjusted to calm, silent nights. The only lights were the stars in the sky and the occasional streetlamp. The only sounds were autumn leaves rustling and the gentle hum of the furnace in the basement. So, when the knocking joined the suburbian night’s orchestra, she noticed it immediately. At first, she thought it was a woodpecker. Knock-knock-knock, then a pause. _Knock-knock-knock. _Sometimes, the sound was accompanied by the cracking of branches. By the third night, Evelyn decided the woodpecker had overstayed its welcome. “James,” she whispered, “what’s that noise?” Her husband had the uncanny ability to sleep anywhere and through anything - a skill she attributed to his years of being a commercial pilot. “James,” she said again, nudging his shoulder lightly, “what’s that?” He mumbled something incoherent, then yawned and opened his eyes all at once. “What?” “The noise!” “What noise?” “This noise! The knocking!” Evelyn hissed, growing frustrated. James groaned, pulled on his glasses, and switched on the bedside lamp. “I don’t know. I guess I can check the basement.” “I think it might be a bird,” Evelyn suggested. “I was cleaning up a little down there a few days ago, and it might’ve gotten trapped or something.” “Highly doubt that. Most likely a raccoon. Though they usually prefer attics. I’ll take a look.” “I’ll go with you.” James grabbed a flashlight from the bedside table. “Just in case.” The couple made their way to the basement. Evelyn tried to turn on the light, but it didn’t work. The thin beam from the flashlight was the only comfort she could get, and this made her uneasy. “Let’s just check in the morning,” she whispered. “We’re already here. Let’s just take a look for a piece of mind. You’ll sleep better. I promise I’ll fix the light in the morning,” James reassured her. The flashlight’s beam swept across the basement, moving from corner to corner, up and down. Suddenly, the knocking intensified. Evelyn clamped her hands over her ears, terrified by the deafening sound. “I don’t think it’s a woodpecker,” she whimpered. “Or a raccoon, either.” The knocking stopped abruptly. “A woodpecker?” A raspy, unpleasant voice laughed. “A raccoon? Seriously?” James aimed the torchlight at an old refrigirator near the utility room door. On the top of it sat a creature. The beam caught its red, swollen eyes, its skin glistening with ooze and filth. “I was wondering when you’d give up and finally come downstairs. Took you long enough! Last time, it was only about five hours or so, if I’m not mistaken.” The creature jumped off the fridge and stepped closer to James. “Let’s play a game,” it said with a sneer. “Guess what I am.” “You’re a monster!” James screamed. The creature tsked, shaking its head. “Wrong.” A deep cut appeared on James’ neck, and thick, dark liquid poured out, speeding up. His eyes widened as he collapsed to the floor, trembling. “Now,” the creature said, turning to Evelyn, “your turn, sweetheart. What am I?” Evelyn sobbed. “No, no, no,” the creature chided. “No crying. You wouldn’t want to spoil the last moments of your dear significant other’s life, would you?” It placed its long, bony fingers around Evelyn’s neck. Its breath reeked of blood and soil. “Say my name,” it whispered. “Th-the… the devil!” Evelyn cried out. The creature smiled, baring sharp teeth. “Finally got it right.” Blood streamed down Evelyn’s neck.
You never know. You never know when it’s the last time you walk on the streets of the city you grew up in. When, for the last time, you buy your favourite buns in that small bakery around the corner that always smells of cardamom and anise. When you get that flat white that tastes of fresh bread and walnut from a barista who doesn’t even ask your order anymore. When you visit that one place with tall street lights right across the theatre you used to visit a lot when you were a kid. You never know when it’s the last time you see your elders. When you drink that last cup of tea with milk, sitting across your grandma. She was always stubborn, know-it-all, and annoying, but now you miss her. You never know when it’s the last time you see your parents. One morning, you go to school, angry with your dad over a small thing - I think he asked you to wear a sweater because it was cold outside - and in the evening, your mom tells you he died at work from a stroke. He wasn’t the best dad, however, you still miss him and wonder what could’ve been if only he stayed alive and saw you through your teen years to the adulthood. As for mom, one day, you go together for a trip to Prague, and the next day you pack your suitcases to leave to the US for good. Then, a couple years later, you leave the US to move to Canada, for good also. She visits you six years later in Canada, and you can’t help but wonder if it was the last time this time. You never know when it’s the last time of this. You never know when it’s the last time of that. You never know when it’s the last time. You. Never. Know.
