WnW 2.14

“You need to remember.”

I stared through the glass, viewing the frozen scene. Scientists with wearied faces, stuck in the middle of tasks I didn’t understand, holding vials of liquid or writing in notebooks. It was so vivid that it was hard to imagine this as a memory. How much of this was me filling in the blanks, making things up in my head?

I responded, the single word making my voice break, “Why?”

“I can tell it’s hurting you.”

“How noble,” I said sarcastically. “So you’re just a humble samaritan who happens to have access to my memories.”

She was silent.

I pressed my hand against the glass. “You can’t tell me this is all out of the goodness of your heart.”

“I really do want to help you.”

I rounded angrily on the voice and was met with an empty cell. “Why? I don’t know you. You’re asking me to share my demons with a stranger. Sorry that I’m not so willing.”

“You’re dying, Nick. Your heart, it’s wrecked beyond repair. I can save you, but you have to stop fighting the memories, fighting me.”

“I don’t want to be saved,” I snapped. “Let me be myself.” That rang false in my head and I hated it. “If I die, I-” My throat caught on that last sentiment.

I caught a whiff of something, an earthy smell, like turned soil. “You’re scared,” she said. “Of changing in a way you can’t come back from. I get it. But your old life is dead. Clinging to it won’t do you any good. We can move forward together.”

“You’re missing the point,” I responded dully. “I want to choose how I am.” My dad’s guilty face flashed in my mind. “I want to choose to love my dad,” I whispered.

It was quiet. The stillness of the scene coaxed me to lay down and be still with it.

“It will break you one day,” she said. “The hurt will fester. You need to address it, prune away the rot, it’s preventing you from actually healing.”

“And once again, I have to ask, why the fuck do you care?”

Emotion crept into her voice, “I don’t know. I’m trying, I guess? It’s been so long since I’ve tried to care about something. But I can’t deny it at this point, I want you to live.” They took a shuddering breath. “Maybe I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”

I processed her words. Despite everything, I really did want to keep living.

“Alright,” I whispered, turning back to the scene.

The glass was gone and the door was now directly in front of me. Dad opened it and I followed him into the now familiar room. I was lifted onto the shiny silver table. The ceiling light was bright enough to make me squint. Dad went to the cabinet, rummaging around. When he turned around, he held a clear plastic bag with pills inside.

My stomach flipped at the sight of it. “Can we just go home, Dad?” I asked.

“Nick. You’re a bit too young to understand, but doing this is important. We’re helping people.”

I eyed the bag nervously. I wanted to help.

“So,” Dad said, his voice tight. “Can you try swallowing this?”

He tilted my chin and I opened my mouth. The plastic didn’t taste like anything, which was a relief. Slowly, Dad pushed the bag closer and closer to the back of my mouth. I started breathing faster, feeling the plastic slide towards the root of my tongue. I coughed, feeling the bag block my airflow. My eyes teared up. I could just stare at Dad, begging him to stop without having the courage to tell him to.

My throat closed up and I couldn’t breathe. The bag was too big. I started to thrash and my Dad’s fingers dug in, trying to hold me still. Just as my vision started to get hazy, I was released and I gasped for air.

“Sorry,” Dad said as he started to pace the room with the bag clutched to his chest. “I couldn’t do it either.”

I coughed and watched him pace, feeling the pit in my stomach. Suddenly, he halted and whispered something to himself. He glanced over to me and I looked down quickly, but not before catching a glimpse of his eyes. Haunted was the only word my child brain could think of. Like a haunted house, something frightening hid inside, waiting to reveal itself.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and rushed out of the room. A few minutes later, Dad returned, holding a backpack I sometimes saw him bring to work. He placed it on the table and I saw how badly his hands were shaking. I kept my eyes down.

His fingers slipped inside the bag and withdrew a needle with clear liquid inside. Taking a deep breath, he turned to me.

“Remember the shots you got in school?”

I nodded apprehensively.

“This is just like those. You’ll feel a bit sleepy, but don’t worry, I’ll be here the whole time.” He reached inside the bag again, and this time he pulled out a small silver knife. It slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the table. He paused, staring at it for a moment. Then he gripped my shoulders and leaned close to my face.

My heart dropped. The smell of metal invaded my nose.

“We have to do this,” Dad said fiercely, eyes wide, searching for something in me. “You’ll be brave, won’t you?”

That question pulled me out of the terror for a moment. Dad was asking me, so I would do it. I nodded.

The needle went in and from that point on my shoulder, warmth flooded out, filling my whole body with a dreamy, fuzzy feeling. But it was too similar to the day I had accidentally swallowed one of the pills. That feeling of melting down into yourself, it stirred up my fear, shocking me into high alert. I was numb, my body couldn’t move, but I wasn’t asleep. I could see everything.

I watched my Dad move the thin silver blade over my stomach, hesitating for a moment. Then it plunged down, passing through me like butter. I watched in horror as my flesh was peeled back. Metal clinking. The smell was ever present, like a thousand pennies scraping together, scraping against my brain. The bag lowered down into me. This can’t be real. I have to wake up. I have to wake up. I have to-

“You awake yet, Nick?”

I opened my eyes. My stomach felt tight. It felt wrong. Dad leaned over me, holding my head. “We have to go now, kiddo. Can you walk?” He lifted me down to the ground. I touched my belly. A raised line stood out on my skin. Bile swirled at the base of my throat, threatening to spill out. I fought the urge to dig my fingers into it, to dig down and tear away the strange thing that rested inside me. 

Don’t think. Stop thinking about it.

Dad took my hand and led me out of the room.

“Dad,” I whimpered. “I’m sick.”

He didn’t say anything. We entered the large room with white coats bustling around, holding tablets, making adjustments to the tall machines that stood next to the glass chambers on the side of the room. My muscles spasmed, clenching painfully. Fear was everywhere. I was swimming in it. The walls of the massive room crept in, closer and closer, crushing everything down.

Then I saw her. Two feet away, behind a pane of glass. She stood, watching me, barely tall enough to see through the window. Black hair ran all the way down her back. I met her eyes and saw a piece of myself. Scared, confused, alone. She had tears in her eyes as she pressed her hand against the glass.

For a moment, I forgot my pain. You want to help people, don’t you? I put on a brave face and waved at her. Her eyes widened, and a smile tentatively crept up her face. She waved back.

The memory fell apart and I was back on the other side of the glass. My face was wet and I trembled. A person stood with her back to me. She turned and I saw her startlingly bright green eyes. Her short black hair stood up in tufts.

“Do you blame him?” she asked. “For what he did that day?”

I shook my head slowly. “I blame myself for not talking about it and for lying to myself. Telling myself it didn’t hurt.”

She stared at me, full of compassion. “Does it hurt now?”

I nodded, trying and failing to stop the tears from pouring down my face.

“What happened after?”

Between the sobs I answered. “H- he put me under again once we were out. I don’t know what he did with the drugs. Never asked. Didn’t- didn’t want to lose faith.”

I leaned back against the glass, slowly sliding down until I was sitting. The sobs petered out into quiet shakes. The girl waited patiently for me to finish.

Then she gave me that same tentative smile I had seen all those years ago. “It’s been a while, Nick.”

I stared at her. “You’re the flower girl.”

She frowned. “Flower girl? That’s the best thing you could come up with?”

“Have you been watching me? Ever since then?”

She shook her head. “Bits and pieces got to me. Fragments of strong emotion. Even then I had to piece together single sensations. Smells, sounds, visuals, thoughts. Most of the time I had nothing.”

I took a shuddering breath and wiped my eyes. “What am I?”

Her eyes shone with eagerness. “I can give you some answers. But first, how about you wake up.”

The walls of the room folded back, leaving us on a square of porcelain white floor. I heard a small crack, like a stone breaking. Splintering lines began to show on the floor. Something green poked out. I realized grass was rising out of the cracks. Slowly, the floor broke away. Grass continued to grow and vines and bushes grew alongside it. 

The girl walked over to me and grabbed my shoulders. I allowed her to pull me down so I was lying on my back. Stones rose around me, forming walls. Shards of glass flew through the nothingness and clicked into place, interlocking to form an intricate stained glass ceiling. Flickering light shone through the glass, creating coloured lights that danced across leaves and flowers. 

It was the inside of an old church. A pulpit stood on a stage raised by a few steps. The walls and everything else in the church were overgrown with plant life. Vines curled in and out of the holes in the walls. Tree branches poked through the glass ceiling. Low tables took up most of the space, with small gaps to allow for someone to walk past. It registered that I was lying on one such table.

“You’re heavy,” a light voice said.

I slowly leaned up and looked at the girl standing near my feet. She wore white clothes stained with dirt and a gardening apron. 

“And you are way too pleased about the dream fuckery,” I replied.

A small smile flickered momentarily on her mouth. Then it was gone. “My name is Nell.”