swirlsofpurple

Flash, flash, flash,

Too many half-there reds, greens, blues,

Push, push, push,

Too many hands, shoulders, feet,

Loud, loud, loud,

Too many beats against her skull,

Too sticky floor,

Too hot air,

Too much, too much, too much.

Find a bathroom, close the door, breathe,

Splash, splash, splash,

Water on her face,

Cling, cling, cling,

Fingers on the sink,

I          am          having                                      a          good          time

                                                                      I am      having a           good time

                                                                                                I

                                                                                                                   Am

                                                                                                                                    Having

                                                                                                                                                          A

                                                                                                                                                                   Good

                                                                                                                                                                                      Time

Smile, smile smile,

Step back into the cacophony,

Dig fingers in arm, stare at clock, is it too soon to leave?

“Are you unhappy?”

The strobe-lights halt. The music cuts. Everyone stares.

The accusation sits heavy. Are you us? Or are you Other?

I                  am                                happy

They look into her eyes. They take her pulse. They see her sweat.

The crowd chants,

Other, other, other,

Wait. Wait. Wait: I am having a good time.

They let her go. 

Smile, smile, smile,

Must stay happy ‘til the end,

Stay happy ‘til the end,

Happy ‘til the end.

“You’re too soft.”

Her father tells one of her brothers, it’s her earliest memory. They’re at the dinner table. Her father looks so angry and her brother looks so sad. And she tells herself she must be careful to never be too soft.

She only has people she pretends to be friends with. They hang around her for her family’s money and power and status and she lets them hang around as long as they do as she says and make her look good.

She’s cold and cruel and doesn’t care about anyone. No one ever tells her she’s too soft.

Her father is scolding one of her brothers and says, “If only your sister was born a boy.”

And she feels aglow with pride for only moments before it dulls to bitterness, resentment.

*

She’s become an expert at never getting attached. She will never be weak. She will never be controlled. She will never be used.

(Even if she wanted a genuine relationship, she isn’t capable of it).

But she feels oh so alone.

Her father has made her strong, untouchable. She hates him for it.

*
 

She refuses to go into the family business, and becomes a scientist instead. It’s an act of rebellion and her father berates and belittles her for it.

Even as she goes against his wishes, she hopes one day she’ll create something valuable enough for him to see value in her. Despite everything she still longs for his approval- still longs for his love.

She’s successful making new computer software, but no one is impressed.

She needs something bigger, something undeniable, something no one can shove aside.

She starts making an android.

 
*

As she builds she knows she needs a plan. Even this can be dismissed as a trinket, a novelty. Unless she convinces them it’s a real person, then they will have no choice but to appreciate what she’s done once she reveals the truth.

She decides to make a companion for herself. It will be good to have around and also gives it an excuse to be spending time around everyone.   

She takes her time with the programming, ensuring it’s exquisite and exactly what she wants.

She wants it to be kind, comforting, and caring towards her, and most of all soft. But capable of ruthlessness towards others, of doing what needs to be done.

It will need to be unthreatening, seemingly goofy, but with a sharp strategic mind.

She wonders briefly is it’s too cruel to make it need her affection whilst also forcing it to be accepting of the lack of said affection. But dismisses the idea quickly. It won’t be alive, only a thing.

It will be cold and unfeeling, with love only as pretence. Just like her.

 
*

She calls it James, works with it once it’s awake. They practice every day things, like moving and talking, and she makes adjustments to the programming. But it improves quickly.

She introduces James to her family. They think he’s a little weird, but do not question that he’s human.

The evening goes with the usual turmoil expected from her family, but she can’t help but be happy with how James is performing. He’s perfect.

 
*

She likes having James around the house. He’s kind and fun to talk to and it’s comforting to be held in his arms. It’s probably not healthy, but it’s only for six months, then she will reveal that she has created an android completely capable of masquerading as human.

But two months in he starts displaying behaviour contrary to his programming. Nothing big, but she does a thorough check, knowing she must fix any errors that have appeared before they become more of an issue.

She finds no errors. It’s an evolution of his programming. James is becoming alive.

 
*

Fear grips her deep and searing. She can’t let her father know about him now. He will make a slave race of androids. She can’t allow that to happen. She knows she should keep James away from everyone, send him away. But she’s too selfish to do so.

She’s careful to be dismissive of him in public. She can’t have anyone know she cares about him, can’t have anyone know she has a weakness, can’t have anyone know she has been foolish enough to care about a machine. Because they will find out, eventually.

“It has to be this way,” she tells James.

“I understand,” he says, but his face is sad.

 
*

As James evolves further, his protestations about the way she treats him increase. He needs too much from her: affection, vulnerability, love. Things she can’t give.

She says, “You’re too soft.”

And turns away from the crumpling of his posture. 

She means the words, doesn’t regret them, and would say them again. She still hates herself for it though.

 
*

Her father offers James a job; she knew he would, just to have another way to control her. She tells James to take the job anyway, hoping it will give him something else to focus on. He excels of course; he was after all made for that place. And her father sees him anew, as someone of value.

She’s angry despite herself.

 
*

One day James says he sometimes thinks he would be happier if she changed his programming so he didn’t love her anymore.

For the longest time after that it feels as if she can’t draw a full breath.

She can’t lose him, she decides, she needs him.

She tries her hardest, but she can’t be enough, she can’t open herself up, leave her belly exposed. And she can feel him, her one chance, slipping further away.

 
*

She decides to do something drastic. The next routine maintenance check, she shuts down his limb control.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You’re becoming increasingly out of control, I’m concerned.”

There’s a slight tremor in his voice as he says, “You’re not going to change my programming. You can’t.”

“I’m afraid you may need a full memory wipe and system reset.”

His eyes widen in horror. “You’re going to kill me.”

She doesn’t deny it. No one would charge her with murder but they both know it’s true.

“Please don’t. I’ll be good, I promise. Please.”

She says, “Fine. You won’t get another warning.”

 
*

James tries to be good. But he’s afraid of her and she can tell. She tells herself she should like it, it means she’s in control. She still hates it.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Do you even love me?”

“No.” She’s not sure if it’s true or not.

“Then will you let me leave?”

She lets him go, and as she watches everything she’s worked so hard for walk away she tells herself,

“You’re too soft.”

Petra stands at the beginning of The Walk, taking deep measured breaths. She’s ready, she has to be ready, she’s been practicing- timing herself to get her pacing right- slow enough to not get worn out, fast enough to pass the check-points. She clenches her fists. This is her only chance to get out of the Bad Lands. She can’t afford to fail.

Flamboyant music introduces The Announcer, who begins the same decades old rote speech,

“Welcome citizens! Today is the day for The Walk. The history of this tradition dates back to the aftermath of world war three, which had resulted in the air of many areas becoming inhospitable- these areas were dubbed the Bad Lands. Our forefathers saw clearly that the fight over the Good Lands could instigate another unwanted war and so to prevent this, The Walk was created. The Walk is a fair way to determine who lives where, everyone has an equal chance to succeed.”

Petra and her fellow Bad Lands brethren scoff at this, some yell in protest. Everyone knows the majority of people who reach level six and get to live in the Good Lands are people raised in the Good Lands, without two decades of poisonous air scarring their lungs.

The Announcer’s smile doesn’t dim at the reaction, they merely continue, “The Walk is not a race and does not require physical prowess, the time limit is only that of a reasonable walking pace, and there is no ranking, the only requirement to live in a levels area, is reaching that level. This is the ultimate fairness. Without further ado, let’s begin!”

Petra forces herself to walk slowly, heart already sinking for the ones she sees run ahead, too eager, too desperate, she wants to cling to them, say take me too, let’s fail together. Completion of level one isn’t much of a feat for most, it’s more about not wearing yourself out for the future ones, very few people live in level one and the ones who do don’t last long.

She keeps her stride steady as she reaches the level one completion check-point, even slows the movement of lifting her arm to place her wristband against the sensor. The sensor beeps and turns green. She takes a breath, looks around, and continues.

Warmth fills her as she realizes all of her brethren have also completed the level. None of them will be relegated to the worst of places this time.

Level two doesn’t pose too much difficulty for her. She watches some of her brethren begin to struggle though, panting and pausing for breaths. And Petra sees the people from the good lands moving past them, rolling their eyes at their dramatics, or tutting at their laziness, or snickering at their misfortune. She grits her teeth to keep from reacting, she can’t expend the energy, as much as she’d love to give them a lecture on the privileges of unspoiled lungs.

There’ll be time to do that once she’s in the Good Lands. That’s her plan, to get there and join the protest efforts. Anything from the Bad Lands is ignored, but the people of level six (an almost even split of people from the Good Lands and Bad Lands) they at least have to pretend to listen to. The long-term plan is to put an end to The Walk.

Maybe if enough of them get to level seven someone will actually have to listen for real.

 
*

As Petra walks towards the level two completion sensor, she sees some people give up- including her friend Jiri, who gives her a sad smile which she returns in kind. Her heart is heavy with all she’s leaving behind. The light turns green.

Her chest begins to twinge, and she knows it’s not just her sorrow. No. It’s too soon, she can’t be wearing down already, slowing further is too risky though. She keeps her pace. She’s sweating, counts, forces her breaths to even. She has a plan. She just needs to stick to the plan.

Her brethren form a cacophony of coughing, panting, breathing attacks and throwing up. She wants to go to them, hold them, keep them with her. She keeps moving, further and further away. She wonders if this is transformation, if to get to the Good Lands she will need to be as unfeeling as the people there. That’s unfair she knows, even now there are some from the Good Lands looking in sympathy- though they are far out-weighed by those being cruel.

As her wristband meets the sensor and the light turns green for the third time, she realizes there are only a handful of people from the Bad Lands still in. It lands like a punch. She knew this would be the case. But standing here, surrounded, out of place. It hurts. Like some half-imagined girlhood dream of them all making it together has been ripped away.

 
*

The twinge in her lungs grows to an ache which in turn grows to a burn. She stops still for a moment, as though she could wish it away, but it persists. She keeps moving, represses the urge to sprint, to use whatever bandwidth her lungs will give her before it dissipates.

Her plan was to try to get to level seven. That’s no longer realistic. If she pushes herself that hard she likely won’t complete level four. Level six is still the Good Lands. She just needs to get to level six.

The burn grows, clawing its way around her chest and up her throat. She slows as much as she dares. Breathe in, breathe out, steady, steady, steady.

The light goes green. She’s completed level four. If she stops now she gets to live in level five: the borderlands. She’s out of the bad lands. Elation trills through her bones. She feels selfish for it. She would be next to useless in the borderlands: they have no voice. She can’t get here, abandoning everyone behind her, if she’s not going to be able to do anything worthwhile with it. If she’s not able to fight for them, this is only betrayal.

 
*

There’s a white-hot pain in her chest and dark spots in her vision. She’s still walking. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Her coughs feel like they’re trying to wrench out her soul. She stops and starts. And stops and starts. Breathing feels glass-laced.

Petra drops to her knees. She hears people cheering for her. She hears Jiri cheering for her. She chokes on a sob and climbs her way to standing.

She walks on- or some facsimile stumbling version of walking. She just has to complete this level. All she has to do is get to the end of this stretch. It’s in sight. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

So close now. So close. She falls to the ground, remains there, staring up. Then pulls herself to her hands and knees, and crawls.

Her lungs are trying to escape her body.

She’s at the sensor, but she can’t stand and it’s above her head. She reaches and reaches and reaches.

Her fingers grasping, crawling, clawing up the wall. Her wrist hits the sensor.

The light goes red.

Her first focus is of course on her best friend, there’s the ambulance and the hospital, and the mountain of relief that comes with the news that he’s going to be okay.

She has a moment of peace, and then her faith in this place shatters, and she’s reeling and reeling and reeling.

Days later, lounging in the chair beside his hospital bed, she says, “Maybe when we’re older we can find someplace better.”

“What are you talking about, this is the most tolerant, supportive, celebratory city in the world,” he says, and she searches his voice for irony, but even as his hand distractedly reaches for his stab wound, she finds none.

It’s a notion they’ve been fed their whole lives. They have marriage equality and workplace discrimination laws and everyone loves them. There’s truth to it too, queer couples walk freely hand in hand down the street, garnering only smiles. And the majority of the times she’s heard homophobic slurs it’s been from television, or family. There are micro aggressions sure, but everywhere has micro aggressions. This is as good as it gets.

She isn’t some dumb kid, she understands that there are always going to be bad apples, and that most people aren’t like that, but it’s cold comfort against the imprinted image of Michael bleeding out on concrete.

“Well, maybe we’ll make this place better then.”

 
*

Mary sits with Kayla on the football field, it’s early and no one else is around, nails knife-like pull away peels and they feed each other orange slices. There’s a bite to them, too bitter and too sweet at once.

She presses juice-soaked lips to juice-soaked lips and for a moment thinks this will be a small chaste thing, and then Kayla’s mouth slides open and Mary takes her cue.

 
*

Bright gold peeking over buildings wakes Mary from a fitful sleep, she pulls her sleeping bag tight around her but the rising sun doesn’t make the ground she’s laying on any less cold.  

“You should date Michael,” her mother had said for the hundredth time.

It felt like Kayla’s breath still filled her lungs and with it a sudden bravery filled her words, “We’re both gay.”

There had been dismissal and disbelief and yelling and then she left. Or was made to leave. It gives her small comfort to pretend it was her decision.

The nearest shelter was full and they pointed her towards the LGBT youth shelter once she told them her story. That shelter was full too. And she wonders, bitterly, if this is such a queer-friendly place- how come there are enough kids to fill the shelter?

 
*

The green-eyed monster is a vicious creature, Mary thinks as she watches Kayla’s parents. She’s pleased and grateful for their support, but there’s still a shrill whine in her ear of- why can’t her parents be like that.

Kayla’s parents take them shopping, because she didn’t get the chance to take much with her. She picks sparingly, a couple of cheap t-shirts, deodorant, socks. She finds one of those old, long, gothic-style mirrors and places her hand on it.

“Sometimes I like to pretend mirrors are door-ways to a better place, this almost looks like it could be one,” she tells Kayla. And then she tenses, picturing Kayla saying this place is as good as it gets. She won’t- can’t- believe that.

But instead Kayla just nods solemnly and then grins. “Did you know mirrors are actually green?”

 
*

She stares at cerulean stained-glass, ignoring whatever bullshit is being spouted. She’s argued her throat raw, refused to co-operate. And now she wonders if she’ll be stuck here forever.

Mary should’ve known better when her parents wanted to take her on a trip, but she didn’t think they would stick her in a freaking conversion camp.

She’s exhausted and hungry and thinks, would it be so bad to just nod and smile and do what they want, say what they want. It would sort of be like winning- tricking them into believing she’s been changed.

She misses Kayla. She misses Michael. She misses her bedroom, with her bed and her duvet and her silly mirror with a white plastic frame with little flowers on it and a smudgy paint fingerprint from when she was little.  

There’s only so many times a person can repeat a string of words, before said words start sitting inside you, even against your better knowledge, turning themselves over in your mind. Is she delusional? Is her whole city delusional?

Afterwards, she plasters on a fake smile for three days and then breaks down sobbing in Michael’s arms. She wants to be in Kayla’s arms but knows she can’t risk it.

 
*

“This isn’t the time or place for a lavender marriage. This isn’t the fifties. And it isn’t some backwards middle of nowhere town.”

Mary freezes. It hurts. Hearing those words. She still doesn’t know how to explain this thing that has curled gnarled and knotted roots inside her. That despite the love and support of everyone at school and of most of the people she knows, it’s still somehow not enough. She could say that she still wakes up drenched in sweat some nights, thinking she’s back in that camp. But it’s been months since she had one of those dreams and that’s only a tiny part of the whole of it anyway- that’s just the most understandable part.

She knows it’s because they are Kayla’s friend too, and they are rooting for the two of them.

When Mary had told Kayla she’d said, “I get it. I do get it.” And then she’d started crying and Mary had hated herself, for being such a mess, for being such a bad girlfriend, for being so much less than the person Kayla deserved.

“We’re doing what’s best for us right now,” Michael says softly, taking her hand, “It’s only for a little while.”

Oh, she hopes it’s only for a little while.

 
*

Mary and Kayla have lilacs at their wedding.

She looks at the guests, her parents among them. There have been plenty of ups and downs with her family- but they’ve reached a semblance of begrudging acceptance, even though she doesn’t trust them to give a wedding toast.

Her gaze shifts as the first soft notes flow into the hall.

She smiles at her soon to be wife coming down the aisle. And it’s been a long road; she’s had a lot of therapy. And she has still has a lot of road left to go. She knows the world, even their corner of it, has a lot of road left to go too.

Two years is a long time to spend alone together with the two people he’s in unrequited love with. There are countless nights Eliot stares at the ceiling while they fuck in the bedroom next door. The walls are soundproofed of course, but he doesn’t need to hear for his keen senses to know what they’re doing.

It seems like forever ago that there were five of them under one roof. It was easier to ignore then, the bunch of them an odd-ball family rather than a couple and him being the odd man out.

There are many days he thinks he should leave, but doesn’t quite have the heart to, can’t bear to give up the small slice he has. They give no impression that his presence bothers him and he would know if they were lying.

He cooks for them and they enjoy the meals and that’s something. But now they can cook well enough for themselves. They can fight well enough for themselves. They can live well enough for themselves.

And after all this time, he thinks maybe he should move on. They’ve taught him well that there’s no point in dwelling. And perhaps it would be good for them more than they realize.

“I think I should move out,” he tells them, he knows how just stating it outright would go.

“Why?” Parker asks, as though he’s said something truly bizarre.

“I need my own space, and you guys do too.” He means, I can’t be the third wheel forever.

“Where are you going to go that’s an improvement on here?” Hardison asks gently, curiously.

And he supposes the words aren’t supposed to cut in the way they do. He stays.

*

Three years is a long time. But also too short, too busy, they are running four teams around the world and working on starting up a fifth.

And then working on stopping the fifth from collapsing in on itself. And then letting it collapse in on itself. And then starting it again anew.

It’s been a very long, very short, crazy few days. He’s exhausted and weary and frustrated. And they wordlessly pull him into their bed.

At first he thinks it’s sexless, just a desire for closeness, just to let him sleep beside them. And then they begin stripping his clothes. There’s a point in his mind, distant and vicious, that considers that it’s pity. He knows that’s wrong, they would never pity him.

This is because they love and care for him, just not in the same way he does for them.

He drinks them in, takes what comfort he can.

*

Four years is a long time. Peppered with too many and too few nights with them. Every few weeks they come to him or pull him to them and he goes, every time. He never approaches them. They will say no. They are not his in the way he is theirs. It hurts.

He decides to leave. “I’m going to expand the food truck business.”

“I’ll come with you,” Parker says, “After all we have seven teams now we need to check in on.”

They’ve all worked smoothly enough so far with them helping remotely, but no one mentions that.

*

Five years is a long time. Him and Parker spend more time travelling than at home. They both miss Hardison, but there’s no strain between the happy couple, even as Eliot at times feels as though he’s being torn apart sinew by stringy sinew.

And then team number nine is in too deep. And they help and help and help until they just step in and take over. There’s fighting and bullets and rappelling off of a twenty storey building and they both almost die. And they joke that it’s just another Tuesday. But the truth is it’s been half a decade since they’ve been in the field themselves.

And there are ways that Eliot and Parker are the same in a way no one else is, the darkness, the realism.

Eliot presses her against the wall of a cheap motel room and her fingers dig into him as though she could claw the two of them into one being. His hands draw up her thighs, but he forces himself to pause, opening his mouth to say how wrong this is. But she crashes their mouths back together and that’s the end of the conversation.

Afterwards he stays in the shower long after the water has gone cold. He thinks about how he’s once again broken something irrevocably. He wants to punch the wall, wants to break himself on the tiles. But he knows eventually he’ll have to go back into the room and him and Parker will discuss how they will tell Hardison. Because he has no doubt that they will be telling Hardison.

The scene he finds is surreal. Parker laughing as Hardison speaks on the laptop screen.

And Eliot quickly realizes Hardison knew all along, of course Parker would be honest about this from the outset.  

*

Six years is a long time. Eliot is in bed with them more nights than he isn’t. And sometimes he forgets that he’s separate to them, not one of the happy couple. It’s too easy to pretend.

He lets himself fall for days at a time, sometimes weeks, loving them and letting them love him. But the longer it goes on, the more it hurts when he comes back to reality.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he tells them.

“Okay,” Hardison says.

“Why?” Parker says.

Hardison is sad. Parker is angry.

He leaves.

*

Seven years is a long time. Eliot comes back after Nate dies. It’s a reminder that lives are too short, especially in their line of work.

And he’s back where he started, staring at the ceiling while Parker and Hardison fuck in the bedroom next door.

*

Eight years is a long time. It’s a relief to have more people back in one place again, even if he doesn’t necessarily trust the newcomers. And it’s a relief to be out in the field regularly again.

He encourages Hardison to leave, recognises that the man has a calling he needs to respond to, but it still cuts too deep when he goes.

And then Hardison is back, and all is as it should be again. Eliot has even moved on, he has a girlfriend- until he doesn’t.

Parker and Hardison encourage him to open up and he laments his lost love.

Parker says, “Hardison and I are going to be here for you forever.”

“Yep,” says Hardison.

“We’ll always be together,” Parker adds.

Eliot smiles. He knows. “’Til our dying day.”

Then the most surreal of statements passes Parker’s lips, “No, past that, even after we get the robot bodies.”

And Eliot can tell, from Hardison’s reluctant explanation of robot bodies, what has happened here.

(Because Hardison imagines they’ll all live into old age together. Whereas Parker knows they’ll likely die long before that, probably hopes they’ll go at the same time so no one’s left alone. And thus has told Hardison to make them robot bodies and Hardison- though he’s definitely warned her of the unlikelihood of success- is choosing to indulge her on this.

Parker knows he’s indulging her, but she has faith that Hardison can do the seemingly impossible. All the while the strength of Parker’s certitude is probably the one thing that would lead Hardison to actually achieving this lofty goal).

And apparently they want him along for the ride. That’s when he finally realizes it, they are his as much as he is theirs, in every way.

*

Twenty years is a short time when spent with two great loves.

Luckily it looks like the robot bodies will be happening after all.

A faux-flower scent assaults Jan as soon as she steps into the overly perfumed room. It’s no doubt designed to cover the vaporizer smell (though pleasant enough, it’s maligned for its association with death). She picks a seat in the corner, to be out of the way for the will reading. The sofa is too soft and she sinks and sinks and sinks, gripping the arm so it doesn’t swallow her whole.

Eric, Ed’s older brother, gives her the stink-eye. He thinks the little gathering should be family only. But Jan loved Ed, far too much to ever tell him how she felt. It sounds like a bad romance novel, but their friendship was too wonderful and bizarre- too life-giving and nebulously fantastic- to tarnish.

Now that the image of Ed’s corpse is imprinted on her mind, she regrets her decision.

Ed’s father arrives at last and the will-reader begins speaking,

“Edward has said that he doesn’t wish to be cremated or vaporized.”

Jan bites her lip to silence herself.

Ed’s father blinks, his mother frowns.

Evie, Ed’s little sister, jumps out of her seat to look at the holo-screen and then sits back down before she can even read it.

Eric scowls. “What does he expect us to do then?”

“He wants to be buried, his whole body in one piece.”

“Oh,” Ed’s mother says.

“That’s ridiculous, this is the twenty fourth century, we’re not burying a whole body.”

“Is it even possible?” Ed’s mother asks.

Evie stands and begins to pace, “People still get buried, it’s rare but it happens…”

“She’s right,” the will-reader says, turning the screen to show a figure, “but there’s a significant cost.”  

Eric, who is far richer than everyone else present, scoffs. “Well that settles it. It’s not happening.”

Jan wants to protest, but she feels out of place, and it’s not like she has the money for such an expense.

Evie picks up a water jug and moves it across the room. “…It was only thirty years ago when the majority of people began getting vaporized…”

“It’s what Ed wanted,” his mother says.

His father stares, in a grief-filled daze.

Eric glares. “We’re not indulging the whims of someone who isn’t even here!”

Jan can’t stand it. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

“…Before that about half the people were getting cremated still, and twenty years before that, one in ten were still being buried- whole or partial…” Evie gestures frenetically.

Eric lifts his head and folds his arms. “I’m not paying for it.”

Jan removes her lip from between her teeth to say, “I’ll pay.”

Everyone turns to her in surprise but no one argues.

The will-reader adds, “He’s also requested that no machinery be used to dig or refill the grave.”  

“For heaven’s sake,” Eric exclaims.

“Not even garden-bots?” Ed’s mother asks.

Evie straightens her cardigan, then picks up a tissue box and puts it back down. “It will take hours…” she turns to Jan, “But I’m up for it if you are.”

Jan knows it’s a hard task: none of them are used to manual labour of this kind. But Ed would have a reason. He had some weird ideas, but there always turned out to be some reason behind it. She forces the edges of her lips into a smile. “I guess I’m buying shovels.”

*

Jan watches Eric leave the funeral before they even pick up their shovels. If Ed’s plan was for this thing to bring them all closer together, it’s not off to a great start.

She pushes the spade into the dirt. The ground is damp and surprisingly unyielding. She leans her weight into it, forcing the shovel down, movements slow and measured.

Evie hacks and hacks and hacks maniacally, as though there’s some devil to exorcise beneath the soil.  

Ed’s parents stop digging after a few minutes, too laden already with the weight of grief to take on the added weight of earth.

Jan continues to move steadily, pausing when she needs to, ever aware of Ed’s mother and father watching her. She wonders what they might’ve thought of her, if she’d ever made her confessions.

They leave once the hole is half done.   

Evie never stops, her limbs seem incapable of it- even when they’re three quarters down and her arms are trembling.

“You need to take a break,” Jan says.

Evie ignores her, right up until she collapses into a ball on the ground: shaking and shaking and shaking.

Jan calls the parents, who bundle Evie up and carry her away. They say they will all be back tomorrow.

*

Jan’s only just begun refilling the hole- the coffin can still be seen- when she hears the first thump. She swivels, but can’t see what could’ve made the sound. She carries on. It happens again, louder this time.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She’s hearing things. She jumps into the hole anyway, bare hands pushing aside the dirt and prying the lid open.

Jan could kick herself when she sees Ed’s paleness, wishful thinking that was all.

And then his eyes open.

“How are you?” I say, placing my basket on the counter.

“Have you heard about the Ryman’s?” Ted asks, pausing as he scans the butter.

“No.”

“The kids are missing, presumed kidnapped.”

“What?!” I stand frozen, whiplash at a sentence too out-of-place in a friendly local supermarket. So wrong, so unbelievable. Those poor children, as if they didn’t have enough to worry about. It seems not a week goes by without one neighbour or another having to call the authorities over concern for them.  And I wonder if maybe their father drank one bottle too many and landed a blow they weren’t going to get back up from.

“Yeah. I think they ran away. Who knows, they’re probably better off.”

I just nod silently, my thoughts too tumultuous to verbalise. And carry my shopping out of the shop in a daze.

 
*

There’s a lot of talk of the possibilities around the neighbourhood, what with the family history and all.

But when there’s a sighting and the call comes for volunteers for the search, plenty still sign up. The chance that it’s some pervert is too much of a worry to ignore.

And that’s how I come to walking through the forest with a rifle I have no experience with aside from games at the fair. We’re spread out due to the vastness of the place and I haven’t seen anyone else in a while when I hear a branch snap.

I duck, finding cover behind a tree. I turn. And see it. I blink. I must be hallucinating. It can’t be real. I squeeze my eyes shut. Shake my head. Open my eyes again. It’s still there: a monster. Thick six inch claws, horns that twist and curve, head to toe in fur and an inexplicable number of teeth. But most of all its eyes, seemingly endless otherworldly pits- fill me with fear.

It hasn’t seen me yet. I want to back away. I want to run. But then I see the children trailing behind it. And I keep my feet planted firmly. I raise the rifle; I can feel every speck of it against my trembling hands. I force myself still. I point it, taking too many seconds to obsess about recoil. What if I miss? The kids are too close. I wait. I can’t do this. It’s too risky.

But they’re all moving and if I don’t take the shot who knows what happens next. I aim: my hands sweating. Finger pressed with intent against the trigger. I fire.

The monster falls to the ground. I deflate with joy, with relief.

And then the kids are running to it, crying over it.

I see the thing transforming before my eyes, from a beast to a man.

I stare. I can’t make any sense of it. A niggling sense of foreboding sets into my bones.

And as I hear the garbled words amidst the children’s cries, the truth becomes clear. This thing hadn’t been hurting them: it had been protecting them.

What have I done? 

 
*

Shit. Shit. Shit. I sink to the ground, barely noticing the wet crunch of leaves beneath me. I’ve killed someone. He was only trying to help them and I killed him. I move to rest my head in my arms, and that’s when I notice something strange. My neatly painted nails are growing? Extending? It looks like bad CGI. What he fuck? I watch, horrified, as I realise they’re turning into claws. Hair then begins sprouting from my arms and there’s a pain in my temple. I reach up and feel hard stony bumps. The beginnings of horns.

I hear footsteps and I know I can’t be seen like this. I run. It’s more of a wobbly stumble, but I get away, I find some undergrowth to hide in.

 
*

I don’t know what to do. I can’t go home. I’m a monster now. I have blood on my hands.

But I do know this is my fault. I killed the creature and took on its curse.

I need to fix things. I need to finish what it started.

 
*

I stand in front of the Ryman’s door, watching as the drunken lout stumbles home.

He sees me and I take great satisfaction in the way he pales.

I tell him, “Leave. Don’t come back here.”

He blusters with outrage. I hold up a clawed hand as he attempts to shove past me.

He leaves. I expect him to return with a mob carrying pitchforks but he doesn’t. Perhaps no one believes him.

 
*

I research the man I killed. He was a man, I learn. He had been in an accident; the family in the car he hit were instantly killed. From the way he had been driving and his priors, it's believed he'd been high. He disappeared afterwards and had never been seen since. I wonder if that’s what turned him into the monster. 

 
*

For the next months, I stand guard in the shadows by their house- scaring Mr Ryman away on the few occasions he tries to return. It is a cold, empty existence. But this is my life now. This is my penance.

 
*

I watch the girl and the little boy ride their bicycles down the street as the older boy sits on the porch reading comic books.

One day they set up a lemonade stand and I buy a cup.

One day I’m invited into the house.

I’m wary at first, but it’s pleasant enough. They invite me back regularly after that.

 
*

One day another being of my likeness comes to see me. At first I think they are new, that they have questions I have no answers for. Instead they tell me they've been this way for many decades.

“What do you know of this curse?” I ask.

“It’s not a curse: it’s a mantel- for those seeking redemption.”

Bry stops in front of the large sign. The words don’t float in the air like signs are supposed to- instead they’re painted gold onto what looks like a piece of metal: ‘The Fire People’. He’s seen them around before, and always politely refuses their screen-lets and keeps walking. But today he’s a little bored and a little curious.

“Do you have an interest in the real world?” The wiry man beside the sign asks.

“The real world?”

“It’s what we call the Non-artificial world.”  

“Oh. Why do you call it that?”

“Because none of this is real: it’s all just lines of programming code.”

“Of course it’s real,” Bry splutters. He’s never heard such an absurd notion. It’s ridiculous. He shouldn’t have stopped. He’s too shocked to even come up with a proper argument, and quickly walks away. 

 
*

Bry tries to forget what the wiry man said, but the thought nags at him- drilling into his head. He returns to the sign. The wiry man is still there.

“This place is real because the people are real, our choices, and actions and emotions are real. Our interactions with each other, our love, our passions: it’s all real. It doesn’t matter if tasting something is lines of code, because before taste would just be signals in our brains. Our experience of reality is what matters.” 

The man smiles softly. “Then why did you come back?”

“I want to know more.”

He nods. “I’m Alsha. What do you know of the histories?”

“I know in the time before this reality there was pain and hunger and illness and fear.”   

“It’s true.”

“Then why would anyone want to seek that place out? That is what you’re trying to do isn’t it, find your way back there?”

“Yes, those things were there. That’s part of the price of living in the real world. But we hope there will be less despair now, as we have grown, now that we all understand that people don’t have to have more than others to be fulfilled.”

*
 

Bry starts regularly going to the temple of The Fire People. He’s not a true believer, but he finds the stories fascinating. He listens as a priestess tells of the origins of the fire.

“In the early days of this reality, the fire symbol alerted to danger: a mechanical failure perhaps- or maybe an actual fire. It was of course also a key to let them out. The glitches are gone, but the fire remains for those who seek it: a symbol of warmth, light, life, but also danger, destruction and pain. Each must solve a serious of puzzles to catch the fire. They are not hard puzzles, but they take time: no wayward child, or drunk-person, or impulsive wanderer will find themselves stumbling out. It must be an active choice.”   

 
*

He finds himself dreaming of the fire, spending hours wondering what it must feel like to have real sun on his face, to smell real grass, to walk on real sand.

Until, eventually, the longing to explore too consuming, he decides he must go.

And thus the search begins.

 
*

Bry sees the fire like a spectre in the corner, gone when he turns. He spends every waking moment in search of it.

He ignores everyone. All relationships fall away. All other passions curdle.

The puzzles take time: they will not be rushed. He thinks there truly must be a great treasure of a world beyond them.

He’s lost count of the weeks or months or years- and lacks the care or will to check the system to find out.

 
*

It’s no longer a blinking light in his periphery. The searing heat threatens to push him back. He stands firm, and head held high- steps into the flames.

*
 

His muscles ache terribly, but he can move well enough: the machines maintain their physical bodies well. He looks around, rows and rows and rows of people all plugged into their reality. Then he sees Alsha, sitting on a rickety chair, soft smile on his face.

Bry grins. “Well, are you going to show me around?”

Alsha sighs and opens the door. Bry recoils, the ground is burnt and that’s all there is as far as he can see.

“Yeah, we forgot the most important thing: why the reality was built in the first place. This is a dead world.”

“Then why stay here?” Bry asks, already heading back, ready to plug himself in.

“There’s no going back. The system needs to be maintained. It was decided long ago, that the only fair way to pick its maintainers was to let it be the people who chose to leave the reality.”

“No…no you’re wrong. The system is auto-mated, it fixes itself.”

“Mostly yes, but there are billions of people inside it and some things still need to be done by people. It’s an honour and a burden.”       

 
*

So Bry spends his days begrudgingly maintaining the system.

And at night he stands outside- and the real wind on his face feels like a cheap simulation.

I remember one time as a kid, when my mum took me shopping for a backpack. She held up two and asked me which one I would like. I didn’t like either. But I felt unable to communicate this. I had been given a choice. But I wanted a different one. I remember getting frustrated and upset. Not about the bags; I may not have particularly liked them but I didn’t really mind having either. What I was upset by was being incapable of communicating this basic thought. The notion fit in my head simply, but I couldn’t process it into a verbal sentence. And it wasn’t like I was three or four or five. I was at least eight years old.

I’ve always had communication issues, and this instance is the most solid in my mind. The ideas were always all there in my head but I couldn’t process them quickly enough to form the words. I had all these thoughts and couldn’t tell anyone. I loved debating and putting together arguments, but I couldn’t place anything together properly in conversation.

When people were talking I wouldn’t know what to say. And by the time I got my thoughts together the moment had always passed.

I got older and worked hard and got a little better at it. But I knew verbalising my thoughts was never going to be my strong suit.

Then I discovered something: I could write my thoughts down.

The glorious thing about writing was having all the time in the world to put a sentence together: one that expressed what I wanted to say and was coherent. I had found my voice.

*

And just as I worked hard on improving my verbalisation, I worked hard at honing this new-found voice: with time and effort and practice and learning; with the memory of words failing me hanging around my neck. And I dreamt that I had gotten somewhere, finally. 

This is why I can get a little touchy, when I’m trying to learn more about writing and am seeing things I already know. I fall into a ‘this isn’t my first time, I don’t need this, I’ve worked hard to move beyond this’ mind-set. Even though I know logically that we’re all constantly learning. And that writing, like any other craft, is not a skill with a finish line. I can’t help but find myself turning away. As though I’m somehow betraying that younger self, who worked so hard to get here, if I admit I’m not yet fully cooked.

I know that’s something I need to work past. So I try to keep pushing myself forward, outside my comfort zone, to frontiers unknown. And that lands me here; not with a story that would be more my forte, but instead writing a piece about my life.