this is the story of a girl...

NaNoWriMo 2011

(It’s rushed, it’s bad, it’s my NaNovel. I’ll keep it updated. Written without any kind of plot in mind for the first 30 pages, then it started developing by itself… Feel free to tell me what you think and what to change and all that, I need all the help I can get when it comes to editing this beast.

Please excuse that it’s not yet in chapters, I’m saving that work for the editing process. 

Love,
Silje) 

Sometimes, all you can do is close your eyes and breathe. Like when the world comes crashing down around you. Sometimes, that is the best thing to do. Like now.

She is beautiful. Twenty-two and queen of the night, with her long, messy mane the shade of rust, and her emerald eyes. The kind of girl they write songs about, only there are no songs about her. Nobody writes songs about the girl in the corner. The eyes that shine with life from afar, but drown you if you come to close, pull you into their depth and the emptiness found there.

All you see is black. All you don’t see. Breathe. Draw air into your lungs, keep yourself alive. You don’t have to want it, but you need it. You need to live, you were meant for other things. Important things. You have a destiny waiting for you just around the next corner – that’s what you’ve been telling yourself all these years, isn’t it?   
That is what you’ve been whispering into the night when you’re all alone and lonely, yearning for any sound that reveals you aren’t the last person left on the universe. You may not like the people around you, but something you like even less is the lack of them. Of people in general. You need others around you to feel safe – on your own you are terrified.

When she walks, every head turns to follow her. The boys to stare, the girls to glare. Envy is the foulest of emotions – yet men still wage wars based on it. Just therefore, may be. She is perfection, in all their eyes. She is what they long for, what they want to be – but to herself, she is nothing.

She is sitting on the subway, making her way home after another long day, to get ready for an even longer night. It’s so crowded, and all she wants is to get home. She doesn’t like the crowd this time of day, not when she’s this kind of girl. The cover of darkness allows her to put on a mask and pretend, but during the day there is nothing to hide behind. No shadows to blend with. She can feel all their eyes on her, even though they’re looking everywhere but her direction. She lets her lids slide shut and breathes. And then she feels a hand on her shoulder. Jumps, scared. Why is someone touching her? She doesn’t like people touching her, not unless they were invited to. She looks up, showing annoyance rather than the fear she feels, and sees an oddly familiar face. She knows him, but how?

He smiles. There are lines around his eyes indicating he does that a lot. And his eyes are blue. Generic, as is the rest of him, black jeans, dark shirt and a couple of tattoos. Dark hair to match, giving off the appearance that he’s tried to make it look presentable but failed. He knows her well, but not at all.

“Hello,” he says.

“Who are you?”

“A stranger.  A friend. Whoever you want me to be.” He shrugs. “Right now, I’m just a messenger. Somebody wanted you to have this.” He takes a second to look around, then picks a folded paper out of his back pocket and hands it to her.

“What is this?”

“What are you? Only questions, little lady? I don’t know. It may not come in a fancy envelope, but I still haven’t read it.”

“It has coffee stains.”

“I guess the person that wrote it likes coffee, then. This is my stop, be seein’ ya.”

She hadn’t even noticed the train come to a stop, but as he bids her farewell the doors open and he steps out with the crowd of others going to the city centre. She still hasn’t figured out where she’s seen him before, but she knows she has. She won’t get him off her mind until she knows. Probably a while, she thinks. For now, she opens the note.

Hello, it says. I’ve been watching you, kid. I want to meet you. Would you give me the honour of your company? Tonight, at the darkest place in town. I’ll be there at midnight. If you come, I’ll find you. K.

K? A capital letter. Another question, and it’s still light out. It’s all too much so early in the day, she’d much rather deal with it come nightfall. Rash decisions come more easily then, and somehow they become such fun.           
Of course she will go. She smiles. She knows herself that well. Knows that once the night takes over, she can’t withstand such an invitation. The darkest place in town – he’s playing with her. A riddle, but a simple one, meant for her to solve in a heartbeat like she did. A test, perhaps. Many places come to mind, but one more clearly. She’s dressing up tonight.

Breathe. This is an adventure. Air in – air out. It’s all right, you’ll be fine. You always are.

And then comes the cover of dark. She’s all made up for the night; dark lids, dark lips, showing just enough skin that they’ll buy her any drink, bid her every command. The dress is small and red. Black is too plain, crimson much better. She loves how pale it makes her look, like the moon in the night sky.         
Keyes, phone and money thrown into her bag, she heads out. Round a couple of corners ‘til the nearest subway stop, then heads for the dark side of town. The part of the city that sleeps through the day and guards it at night. Her side.

Where she’s going, she’ll need every ounce of sex appeal, playing up the bombshell in her. Painting on a stranger’s smile, she’s camouflaged like any other girl of the kind she tries to emulate. The kind she won’t quite admit to herself she’s so much alike.   
Five stops later, she gets off at the brightest, most neon lit station imaginable. You can buy alcohol at least three places here, the illegal kind even more easily found if you know where to look. Her lips pull into a smile as the night air crashes towards her outside of the station, and she imagines kissing the wind before walking south on the boulevard for about a minute, a couple of turns and she’s there. The darkest façade in town, gothic decorations and heavy mahogany galore, it’s almost like a second home to her. The leather and black clad patrons like family.

Inside, the barkeep fixes her up with the usual, vodka on the rocks, cherry flavoured. He keeps the bottle just for her.

“What brings you here tonight, missy?” He asks, familiar. He’s like a brother, always protective, mostly loving,  at times annoying.

“A note. I’m looking for some fun, but I don’t think it’s the usual one-night kind.”  She smiles like a girl with a secret, but she doesn’t even know the secret herself.

“Take care, hot-shot. I wouldn’t want to have half a bottle of cherry-vodka behind the bar and no one to drink it – ain’t much of a market for that drink of yours.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. Don’t I always take care of myself, eh?” She takes a couple of sips and grins. Loves the cherry and the buzz, but hates the taste of alcohol.

A couple of minutes chit-chatting and he has too much to do. She finds her usual table at the very back of the dark locale and waits for the mystery to find her.

You need it. You’ve been stuck in a rut for such a long time; you’re tired of the silence. Of the same old, going home with the boys and leaving before they wake up. It’s been fun, but it’s been too long since anything else now. Too long since something more than fleeting.

He’s been waiting for the right moment to strike, and this is it. She looks to be in her own world, surrounded by thoughts, and he has the element of surprise. As far away as she is, when he asks to sit by her table the reply is merely a grunted yes, and it takes another two minutes before she realizes; he is the mystery man.

“Girl,” he begins. “I’ve been looking for someone like you. Waiting, for years.”

Suddenly she realizes what has happened, that he’s come to find her. She looks up, green eyes full of questions and excitement. Smiles charmingly, like only she knows how, and lifts her drink for a toast.

“Hey. K? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“That would be me, and no, my dear. I’ve been waiting for you – weren’t you listening? I’m so glad I finally found you, now we only need to discuss the terms. I think you’ll find them quite agreeable; I’ve had a few of my best looking into you more closely to find out what you like.”

“Now, that just sounds like you’ve been stalking me.”

The mystery man laughs. He’s not old, but older. Probably right around fifty, very classy. Black pinstripe suit and a top-hat with a crimson ribbon that perfectly matches her dress.    

“I find stalking to be a strong word for it, my dear. No, I wouldn’t call it stalking, more like I’ve been looking out for your best interests. I think you’ll find the result of my men’s work very pleasing.” As he ends his sentence he hands her an envelope, heavy with the weight of whatever is inside it. Mostly papers, she thinks, based on the feel of it, but there’s something else as well. Something she can’t tell.

“No introductions?” she asks, with a voice telling him she doesn’t really care, but eyes saying she does.            

“No introductions for now, no. I’ll see you again soon, maybe then. It all depends on your answer, little lady.” He smiles kindly, like a grandfather, then gets out of his seat and walks away through the crowd and heavy smoke.

Her curiosity has been sparked, and she can’t wait to get to somewhere quiet so she can open the envelope. For now, though, it goes in her bag for safe-keeping and she makes her way round the bar to the other side, a familiar face. In fact, the first time she met her was here, and they quickly found out just how alike they were. One of her very closest friends, her confidante – the only one who knows all the dark secrets.

“Taj! I haven’t seen you in forever! Where have you been?” She almost runs the unprepared girl over, crashing into an embrace. They both laugh.

“Hey, you! I’m sorry about that, just taking off. You know me. I went abroad for a couple of months, just wanted a change. You know how it is, I just got so tired of this place.  Well, not this place, but yeah. The city.  Everything.  How’ve you been?” Her blood-red lips pull into a smile, striking against her porcelain skin.

“Take me with you next time, why don’t you? Thanks for just leaving me here.” She makes a face at the raven, who is restlessly playing with her black hair, laughing.

“Sure, sure. But listen, I’ve got to go. See that hot one standing under the chandelier, ‘s been eyeing me all night, and I’m not one to say no…”

“Still yourself, aren’t you? Good. I’ll catch up with you later, got some stories to tell, you probably do too.” A superficial kiss goodnight and they go their separate ways.

She heads back out into the night. A nod aimed at the bar-keep for good-bye and good-night. The air feels so good. So cold, so clear. It’s going to snow soon. Winter is here.

The darkness lasts longer with every day, so remember to breathe.

The streets take her to an old flame, still part-time lover. She stays at his apartment whenever she can’t be bothered finding anyone else and the stations have closed for the night. His name is not important, but he is kind and warm and welcoming. Always the heat of his body and a piece of his mind to be gotten in the middle of the night. Like now.

It only takes a couple of seconds after she rings the doorbell, she’s half way up the stairs to his apartment, the door already unlocked up there on the fourth floor, ready for her to walk on in.

“Good night kiss?” he asks playfully.

It’s tradition, from way back when. At some point he managed to ask for one long before bed-time, and the habitual joke became a habit. She thinks he still holds feelings for her. She does for him, but only of affection, not love. She’s moved on further than he has, knows how cruel it is not to let him do the same, but she can’t help herself around the boys – they’re so much fun to play with.

A short exchange of words like why is she there and what he wants to do with her, and they end up in the bedroom, surrounded by darkness and cold sheets. His hands holding her down, her teeth sinking into his skin. Kiss. The lips, the shoulders. He traces her every curve with his finger-tips, teasing her. She loves it this way, out of control. He was always unpredictable, that is what she loved and loves so much about him. Never knowing what to expect, a trait she looks for in every other guy. No one has quite measured up to him so far, she’s still looking for someone who can.

Once he falls asleep, she gets out of bed and picks the letter out of her purse now thrown to the floor with the rest of her clothes. The kitchen. She’s sat by this table so many times in the late hours of the night, gazing out the window at the people that walk by every so often and the clouds moving slowly by. It’s beautiful, the way the moonlight illuminates every secret.

Carefully, she opens the envelope using a sharp knife, then she turns it upside down and lets all the papers and the mystery object fall out, onto the kitchen table. There are even more papers than she expected, and then there is the necklace. It is nothing special, but when she looks at it, she feels something – some vague attachment to the bronze chain with a small, pyramid-shaped pendant. Before anything else, she takes a second and puts the necklace around her neck.

Feel it pull you down. Trapped. That is what you are. Wearing a collar to prove you are his, his dog. His property. Breathe. The darkness wants you. Breathe, my love, and it will only surround you. No harm will come to you in my care. Breathe.

She reads. Every word, over and over for hours. None of this makes any sense to her. She doesn’t understand. In the letters are mentioned things from her childhood, things nobody knows but people long gone and herself – yet they’ve somehow found out. The fire, the homes, the others. How? Where have they found all these pieces of her life to put together?  It frightens her.

The proposition; she joins them. Who are they? She doesn’t know, but she will. She will join them, and she will know. She has to. Besides, she has a feeling this might be meant for her, that it might be just what she’s been waiting for all these quiet years. She signs the papers, fold them back up and walk back to the bedroom to slip under the covers and next to him. It is morning soon, she’ll be different then. In a couple of hours she’ll be gone, in the streets and headed for home, but for now in the cover of darkness she will stay in his bed, in his arms.

They know her name. The feeling won’t let go of her. Nobody knows her name any longer, she made sure it would be forgotten. Her eyes slide shut and she welcomes sleep like an embrace from an old friend.

Let the darkness take you over. You know that you want it, that you’ve missed it. This is exactly what you’ve been looking for, why are you so afraid? No need, no need – just            
breathe, just breathe. In. Out. They’re onto you, darling. They’re coming for you, and you know it, but you’ve been waiting for this for so long, haven’t you?

“I have,” she whispers in her sleep. “I have.”

“What have you?” he asks, nudging her lovingly.

She wakes up, startled. She’s still at his apartment, this was never part of her plan. She blushes. Stretches and groans a little before she looks up at him, realizing he’s brought her breakfast. Oh no, poor boy.

“…Nothing,” she says. “It was just a dream, nothing real.”

“I made you breakfast.” He smiles.

“You know the deal, this isn’t how it works.” She looks at him, apologetically. She really is sorry for him.

“I know, I know. But you’re the one who overslept – normally you’re gone when I wake up, but you were still sleeping and I’ve got nowhere to go today.”

“I’m sorry… And thank you.” Sigh.

She accepts the breakfast plate of her favourite food, pancakes and fresh berries, eats far more quickly than she’d like. Then gets dressed and leaves, snapping up her papers from the kitchen table on her way out the door. It doesn’t look like he’s touched them, good. She wouldn’t want him to know these things, he’d never look at her again.

One question remains on her mind; How will they find her next time? She is nervous, unsure of whether that is good or bad. Excited. Wants this all to begin - but not until nightfall. She’s never quite understood how shy the light makes her – the way she changes once the sun comes up. Maybe she should just move to the cold north, at least during the winter when the darkness lasts all day. She’s heard about towns where the sun doesn’t rise for a month – what would it be like to live there? She thinks about such things a lot. Dreams about them, too. Maybe more than she should.

***

Walking the streets so early in the morning she’s the only one out has always had a calming effect on her. Not quite the same as after dark, but she loves how quiet everything is. How it seems the world is empty, as if every other human just disappeared. Those are the best moments, in her mind. Unlike most people, she wouldn’t mind if the world fell to pieces and she was the only one left. That’s what she tells herself, but truth is she’d be terrified.

You’re nothing without the others. You’re nothing at all without them, only a shell. A frightened little girl. You know it’s true, so why do you keep telling yourself otherwise. There’s no need, face the truth and you’ll see everything differently, I promise.

Once home, she pulls off her clothes for the second time, finds some orange juice from the fridge and walks into the bedroom, drinking straight from the carton. In a couple of minutes she’s downed the whole thing, sits on the edge of the bed and looks at herself in the big mirror she bought from an arcane little shop of strange things closing down. It makes the room seem a lot bigger, and her seem a lot lonelier. Always reminded no one else has been in her bedroom since him. It’s been so long.

She studies herself, every inch. Not bad, but could be better. Maybe she should start her morning runs again, she used to cover half the city, lately all she’s seen is home, work and nightlife. Boring. She likes to watch life pass her by. Life at all, it fascinates her greatly. Always has. Watching people was always easier than blending with them.

After a look round the room she localizes her hairbrush and picks it up from the floor. She starts brushing the crow’s nest on her head gently, straightening out the mess on her head to look at least somewhat normal. It feels good, at least pretending to fit in to a world that long since chewed her up and spat her out like an apple rotten at the core.

You’re not rotten. Don’t believe a single word they say, once you do you’ll be lost in a labyrinth of things that hurt too much to face. Don’t go back there. Stay in this reality you’ve made for yourself, you’re happier here than you could ever be anywhere else, and you know it.

Then sun is past noon, waking her up with warm rays on her skin through the shutters. She sits up in bed, can’t remember too much of the morning, so tired after staying up far too late reading the strange papers with far too much about her written in them. She’s almost sober by now, must have had far too much to drink, she thinks. A little unsteady on her feet, she walks into the living room and sits down, does nothing for a while. It feels good.            
Then, a note slips under her door. She runs over and unlocks it, opens it in a hurry, but whoever left it there didn’t leave a trace. Gone.

She picks the crinkled piece of paper up off the floor and straightens it out completely, just looks at it for a little while. There are words written on it that she can’t quite make out with alcohol still flowing through her veins, so she goes to the fridge and gets some eggs and milk, finds flour from the cupboard furthest to the left and gets to making pancakes. Second breakfast, same food. They’ve always been her preferred food, ever since she was little and her grandmother would make them for her whenever she stayed the night. So many good memories from that time, she hasn’t been that happy for years now.

An hour or so passes, and she decides to take a second look at the note, maybe now she can decipher it. With a little difficulty, she manages. More questions arise, like there haven’t been enough of them lately.

So, love. What have you decided?     
I would be terribly sorry if your answer isn’t what I’m hoping for, I think you know that.
I think you realize how well I know you. I only do because I need you. For something greater than the trivial life that you’re living. You’re meant for other things.    
Your next action upon reading this will let me know where your heart lies with this, so either you smile for a yes or you shake your head for a no. I can see you, I’ll know.
Either way, I’ll find you.

How can he see her, she wonders. What is this mess that she’s become tangled up in? She has no idea, no way to know. But she will. Bites her lip a split second thinking it over before she smiles like she’s never smiled before – falsely but convincing enough. He will know, she is in. She cannot help the fear crawling to the surface of her, the shivers running down her spine – deep down she knows there’s something wrong with all of this, she just doesn’t know what.

She wants to cry, but she can’t. Not for years has there been a tear for her to let fall from her eyes down her face into her hands. She wishes for it every shooting star, but nothing ever changes. Please, she whispers to the night. Please, just give me one tear. Anything will do, I just want to let the feelings out, they have nowhere to go. Bottled up, too many to keep in such a small place as her heart. It used to be bigger, but with ever new darkness grows smaller. Grows colder, she has become so distant.

She remembers the one who used to make her feel. He is also the one who made her stop. Oh yes, she remembers him so clearly – not a day goes by that he is not on her mind for one reason or another.

They were so happy, she remembers. He would hold her hand, she would stroke his cheek. He would kiss her neck, she would smile and blow a kiss every time she turned around to leave. How she misses those days, when everything seemed simple and nothing was complicated. His name, though, she’s forgotten. She never was good with such things, her memory rather based on voices and auras. Not the kind you have to learn how to read, just the way she’d feel around someone, that is what aura’s are to her. He used to make her feel alive – whenever she sees him now she just feels empty. He emptied her out, took the soul right out of her and left her with nothing. That’s how she feels when she sees him.

He was beautiful. Eyes that told you stories of the world, short hair for his chosen path in life, a soldier – scars to show for every new adventure. He’d been in the army for years already when they met – enlisted as young as he could and never looked back. No regrets.

She misses the way she would feel when he left for dangerous places far away, even more how she felt every time that he came back home to her. A million times over she asked herself what happened, why things had to change. She’s always known the answer, but it’s too unpleasant to care for. He was always a soldier at heart, never a boy to love or tame, and in the end that always won. She never stood a chance, and she couldn’t take it, how she was always being left behind, so she left him behind. He never said a word as she explained her feelings to him and packed her bags – all he did was grab hold of her arm as she was about to walk out the door and turn her round, kissing her like it was the end of the world.  
“I never loved you.” That’s what he said. That’s who she is now.

You should learn how to forget. Self-preservation. It doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think to let go, not when you’ve taken the first step, forgotten the first one. It hurts less with every time, the scars start healing better. You’ll come out on top if you just learn to be someone else, not so afraid. If you stop being so scared of the world.

The next day, the man with the blue eyes and black hair, the generic one, knocks on her door. No greetings, no explanations, he takes her hand and leads her down the stairs, out the door and through the streets. So many corners and alleys and boulevards and roads and she is completely lost. This is a place she has never been before. Never seen before. She has no idea where she is, but that’s all right – new places are one of the few things she’s not afraid of.

However, something that does scare her is the look on blue-eyes’ face as the man from the other night, the one at the bar, approaches. She recognizes that look, having worn it herself after years of torment at the hands of people she still believes do not deserve to live. Her escort leaves as if on que, maybe somehow signalled by the older man.

 “Hello, you!” The man shouts out, in a far too familiar voice.

“Untraditional way of having guests over. Normally you ask them to come and they do so by their own free will.” She says. If he is the kind she hopes he isn’t, she’ll be far better of pretending to be a stronger person than she really is.

“I like you,” he laughs. “You’ve got guts, that’s too rare these days.”

The man with the blue eyes shudders. The older gives him some sort of sign and he takes off into the streets again. She realizes they’re standing outside a big, dark warehouse. All things are pointing towards a bad situation for her in the too near future. She hopes she is wrong.

“Why am I here?” She asks directly, looks him straight in the eyes. “I’ve had enough of your games, just tell me what the fuck you want with me, will you? Yes, you know everything about me, so share something about yourself.”

“Temper, temper, little lady. We’re getting there… Though I’m surprised you don’t remember me, that’s a little bit insulting, after all… No, forget it.” He means to do this. To make her wonder, question her every move and even her memory. He knows she won’t be able to place him anywhere, he’s changed a lot since that time.

“If you want me to temper, temper, as you put it, you’d better start speaking.” She’s letting the after-dark version of herself out in broad daylight. This isn’t what she does, but different situations call for different means, true enough.

“Oh, darling. Ever so impatient, aren’t you?” He smiles. There’s something ominous about it. “Alas, fine, you’re right. I do want something from you – want you to do something for me. What do you say?”

“What do you want?” Distrust.

“I can’t tell you the details before you agree, honey. Secrets, secrets. But I can tell you that if you don’t agree, things might not go your way.”

“I hate your riddles, you know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’m in.” Reluctant though she is, she has no real choice.

“I knew you’d see things my way eventually.”

There’s a tense silence in the air, so thick it feels like everything around them will shatter if they move. This wasn’t the kind of excitement she was hoping for, but she’s already too far in to back out now. She’s got a knack for getting herself in these situations.

“So.  Tell me.”

“Only a little, all in due time.” She growls in reply, not happy with his answer, but takes what she can get.        

“Ok.”

“Ok.”

You only ever realize too late what the true nature of the things you get involved with really is. Breathe. You can’t be holding your breath if you want to get through this – you’ll need all the air you can get. Need to keep your mind from clouding, you know.

He leads her into the warehouse; she doesn’t even feel the urge to question it at this point. Surprisingly, inside of the old and crumbling building is a home. It reminds her of some place dear to her, but no matter how hard she tries she can’t place it as anything more than a feeling. Gives up for now, she’ll try to figure it out later.

At the back of the huge room, they sit down; he in a chair, she in a couch. All leather – all dark. A heavy wooden table stands between them, and she is only glad of the distance.   
He starts talking, it takes hours from beginning to end, raising even more questions a answering only a few of those already there. She tries her best to store every word in memory, wants to keep them for later to try and gain more clarity.  
Apparently, he’s been watching her for years. He chose her long ago for this, after she lost everything. Her fear of flames a potential problem, he said, but one to be dealt with only should the need to do so arise.

I need someone who knows what it’s like to have nothing, he said. Someone who knows how to let go and the right way to lose things. The queen of lost things, he called her. Asked her to call him Sir K.

 “What I need you for,” he told her at last, “is to find someone who has been lost for a long time. Someone I never got the chance to let go of. A goddess. You’ll like her, the two of you are rather similar.” He sighs, his large shoulders moving noticeably up and down as he breathes so heavily. “You should go now, I’ve got other visitors coming that you wouldn’t like to meet. The messenger will escort you home if you like, or if you’re lost, for that matter. Not many people know this part of town.”

She wonders why the old man K is being so nice, it doesn’t suit him quite so well as stoic and cold. Doesn’t seem like him either, but it is far more pleasant, so she doesn’t complain – rather mumbles a goodbye and heads out of the huge building. Right outside, the boy with the blue eyes greets her. Andrew. At least now she knows someone’s name – maybe, for all she knows it could be false.
Without saying a word, he leads her to a small, extremely average red car and motions for her to get in. She does, if they were going to harm her they would have done it before this, she is safe. He drives her almost all the way home – but although she knows they have every piece of information about her it makes her feel a little better to make him stop a couple of blocks away outside the small deli she usually goes to. She smiles at him, there’s something friendly about the familiar stranger even though he’s hardly spoken to her, and not at all this time. Out of nowhere, before she has time to get out of the car, he opens his mouth to speak.

“Good luck,” he says. “You’ll be needing it where you’re headed. I’m sorry.”        
“Well, that’s lovely of you to say. Way to make a girl feel safe.” She wants to laugh, but has a feeling this is no laughing matter. Something about him tells her he’s not playing around.

“Where, exactly, am I headed?” She asks him without the least hope of an answer – at any rate she won’t know any less when he answers, hoping she will find out more.

“You know I can’t tell you that. I wish I could, but I can’t. Not that I know, either – he doesn’t tell me those sort of things. Sir K is what you’d call secretive to extremes – I don’t know of a single person other than himself that knows his name. Getting mixed up in this… you don’t deserve the things that’ll be coming your way.” He looks worried, and only now does she notice the scar that runs horizontally across his forehead and down his left cheek.

“Well, I didn’t exactly ask for it, did I?” It comes out far snappier than she intended, and she feels a pang of guilt for scolding Andrew – he’s not the one to blame. All the wrong turns in her life, she made by herself.

“Neither did I, honey.” He pauses, brushes hair away from his eyes. Sighs. “If you’re ever in too deep or think you might be soon, just find me somehow, alright. It’s usually not that difficult, I’m the kind of person who manages to be everywhere at once, so I’ll probably be close by. If I’m not… here.” He hands her piece of paper with some numbers scribbled on it, his phone number, she assumes. He makes it clear the conversation is over, turning colder, but there’s pity in his eyes.

“Thank you” she mumbles as she gets out of the car. “Really, thank you.”

From the car, she walks straight to the deli – looks around for a little while before settling on a Red Bull and a couple of kiwis. She’s always liked those green, furry little fruits. They way they’re sweet, sour and tangy all at once, perfection. On her way to leave she remembers it’s time to shop for food anyway – picks up some bags of instant soup, spaghetti and whatever else is simple to make – then pays for it all and walks the short distance back to her apartment.

It’s just like she left it – a mess.

Shush, now. Don’t think about it, you’ll have time to do that when life’s passed you by. For now, clear your head. Relax. You need it. Breathe. You need that too.

She checks her phone, forgot to bring it when she ran out the door in the morning chasing ghosts. Several messages. Barkeep asking if she got home alright, she’ll text him later. Taj, half-drunkenly saying they should meet up – she’ll call and arrange that later knowing her friend probably hasn’t even woke up from her alcohol-induced slumber yet. A couple of messages from other acquaintances as well – and then there’s one from the broken hearted fool. She never should have visited him knowing how hung up on her he still is. The poor boy never stood a chance against her beauty and charms, but in the end he just wasn’t enough. Never could keep up with her wild temper and fleeting personality, she had to leave.

There’s only ever been one for her, star-crossed. He broke her, but she has a feeling she broke him too. It’s a lie that she doesn’t remember his name. A lie she tells herself to keep from breaking down each time she sees him. His name is whispered in the wind whenever it blows past her – spelled out in rings on the water when it rains.

Time to think of other things now. Her stomach is growling, and she puts a kettle of water on the stove, then picks up the phone and calls barkeep.

“John.”

“Delightful greeting.”

“I’m sorry…” She sighs. “It’s been a long day.”

“Come over, the bar’s empty, we can talk.” He lives there, in the apartment above. The bar is his home, and his entire life. The only thing left after his father was caught up by his frivolous past as a gambler.

“I’ll be there in half-an hour, I just need to clean up first.” It’s true, she’s a mess.

Click, he hangs up, and she sits down to breathe. It really has been a strange twenty-four hours passed. Slowly, she starts undressing, one layer at a time, throwing it all in a pile on the floor, lacking the energy it would take to walk the couple of extra steps over to the dirty-laundry hamper. Shower. The feeling of thousands of faux-raindrops hitting her skin wakes her up a little, she turns the water colder for more of the effect. She’s always loved water, anywhere, any way.  The feel of it, the way it looks, how the sounds could always calm her down. She closes her eyes, tilts her head to face the shower, letting it pour down over her.

When she’s done, she pulls on the first thing in her closet and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Everything stops, she freezes. What has her life become?

What you’ve got – is that even worth calling a life? You haven’t lived for a long time. You’ve been alive, alright, but you haven’t lived – haven’t let yourself smile or cry or even feel at all for a long time. Not since…

No. She won’t let her mind get the better of her this time – won’t let it take her down that road again. She’s been to the darkest of the dark recluses in her mind, and it was far from pleasant. Never again, she promised herself – a vow she’s not so sure she’ll be able to keep. Still, it makes her nervous not knowing where her life is headed, but knowing it can’t be good.

Play. She remembers the water she set to boil, hears it boiling over. She runs to the kitchen and lifts the kettle of the plate, then decides to make herself a cup of tea alongside the kiwi she’s planned for breakfast. ten minutes, then she’s out the door.

Well an hour after they spoke on the phone, and she’s sitting at the bar making small talk with the barkeep and Tajana, Taj – who spent the night, not unusual, after realizing her chosen pray of the night was there with another girl.

“Why don’t the two of you just start dating already? Taj practically lives here anyway, and it’s not like either of you will ever find someone else to date that you don’t tire of after the third time in bed.” She smiles, and her friends can’t help laughing, realizing the truth of the matter.

“Says who, the girl with only one-night affairs?” That’s what best friends are for, honesty and kind-hearted insults. She can’t remember a time that they were anything else than this.

“You ok, doll?”

She can hear John’s voice through the haze. Pale as snow, suddenly. Blue-eyes just walked through the door, and it worries her. Probably not more than it should, although she hopes that is the case. She can hear them speaking to her, but she can’t bring herself to reply – can’t even move. Then he touches her shoulder, and the spell is broken.

“Hey.”

“Not a long time, no see.” She replies, her tongue as sharp as ever. She doesn’t know why she treats him this way, he’s done nothing to deserve it but what the strange K asks of him, like herself.

“Who’s this, then?” With Taj’s voice goes the last veil of silence, and normality resumes with the exception of a slight tension, noticeable to everyone.

“Oh, uhm…” She has no idea what to say, she hasn’t mentioned the strange ordeals to anyone yet.

“I’m Alex,” he says. “Pleased to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Fear. What is he doing here? There must be a plan, she thinks – there is no other logical reason he would take a detour to her life. Alex – real name, or false. She’s not sure it even matters – on the surface he at least seems to have some sympathy, and she’ll take what she can get in the situation that she’s in.

“Well, we haven’t heard anything about you, so please divulge us.” Sometimes, just sometimes she wishes she could strangle Taj.

“Yes, please share with us how you know our little darling here, won’t you?” John echoes in, and the barkeep owes her a drink for this. Not that she usually has to pay.

“Well, let’s just say it’s through an acquaintance, we happened to meet on the subway one day and got to talking – found out we have something in common.”

Her face is flushed red, warm. She can hear the sound of her own heart pounding, feel it in every single part of her body. This is bad. Really bad. She doesn’t want them to get involved with this – they can’t know. It’s not safe for them, or for her. She likes secrets, always kept them well, kept so many of them.

She still remembers the first secret anyone ever told her. Well, the first one that mattered, at least. “It was me.” Once a best friend, now a ghost of the past, confided three little words in her all those years ago, and she never told a soul – even if she would have kept herself out of a lot of problems had she done so. It’s the way she’s always been, always loyal to a fault, a trait that’s got her into a fair share of troubles.

“Well, I wonder what acquaintance that may be – she doesn’t really hang out with many people that aren’t us…” They’re doing their best to embarrass her, and Taj, gives her a friendly pat on the head – knowing she hates it. She twinges.

“Oh, fuck off. I actually do have a life, you know.” She joins in. Tries to act normal, not sure whether she’s the least bit convincing.

“I hate to be cutting this short,” possibly-Alex says, “but I’ve got to get going soon. I didn’t know where to find you, but you told me you’re at this place a lot… Anyways, I just wanted to find you so I could ask if you could spare me some time later tonight, I’ve got a little something I’d like to discuss with you.”

She hates being in this position, trapped between her avoidance of the truth and her friends like a rock and a hard place, wishing so badly that she could run without having anywhere to go. It’s all his fault for coming to her place, yet she cannot be mad with him – at least he has the courtesy to feign understanding for her. She’s the one who got involved in all this, and the one with a while past out to get her, so she can’t push the blame on anyone else. Not with her sense of justice, no matter how badly she might want to.

“Sure,” she answers, her voice like normal, well concealing the worry she feels. “Yeah, we can meet. Where were you thinking?”

“How about by the lighthouse at the pier, shall we say around seven tonight?” He smiles. He’s trying to make this seem personal, the bastard – and he’s doing a good job at it too, she can see her friends buying the lie. There’s no way they’ll believe her trying to explain her way out of this unless she tells them the whole truth – he’s trapped her.

“Sounds good to me. Seven at the pier. I’ll be there – you find me.” Alex smiles, probably knowing exactly what it all seems like, and she feels a shiver run down her spine – trying not to let it show just how uncomfortable she is.

“See you then, gorgeous.” He looks at her and winks – she wants to slap him as hard as she can across that smug face, but she can’t do that here and get John and Taj involved. No, save it for later, but he has it coming.

Oh, you’re already in too deep to worry about such minor details. Don’t even try backing out when you’re trapped in a corner – there’s nowhere to go, the only thing that will change is their treatment when they catch you. You can only make this situation worse for yourself by fighting – play along and maybe you can save yourself some trouble and heartache.

They mock her. Relentlessly. Asking time and time again in so many ways they can think of who he is – why she hasn’t told them. She denies everything they say, but in the end it’s no use. Why would it be? She knows all too well she wouldn’t believe it if one of them were saying to her what she is rambling on about to get out of telling the truth. In the end she admits to having met him the way he said – and to having flirted with him, wanted to see him. That’s a story they believe, it’ll keep them safe and keep her from having to admit things she’s not even clear on herself. Taj gives her a playful smack for not having told them sooner. She wishes she could have – there was just no way.

***

It’s exactly seven in the evening – the sun just about to go down. Nineteen hours passed since last midnight, and she waits. The view is beautiful, the sound of the ocean ever-calming, yet she can’t seem to relax. This meeting, she doubts there’s anything good about it.

Everything feels like a dark downwards spiral lately, like her life is being torn away from her, and she is watching it disappear into a black hole, no control. Which is bad, she likes being in control, always. When she’s not, bad things happen. Last time, someone died. She’d rather avoid that in the future, so she always has control, but not now. It worries her.

Looking down at her hands, she realizes she’s been clenching them so hard her knuckles are turning white. She’s too tense, tells herself to relax – no matter what happens being like this won’t do her any good. A tap on her shoulder and her resolution blows away with the wind as she freezes. Slowly, she regains her senses and turns around, trying to pretend like nothing and hoping he’ll play his part. He does.

“You’re here. Good.” He seems to mean it, so she won’t argue.

“Why did you do that earlier, interfere with my actual life?” She’d originally decided not to ask, but she could never hold her tongue when it came to such matters. Why bother, she thinks.

“It’s going to start raining now,” he says. No further explanation – but he is right it does.

There have been dark clouds covering the sky for a week or so, yet the rain seems to start falling unexpectedly as if the skies suddenly decided to open a floodgate right above them. It pours down, heavily, and the city changes as millions of large, cold drops explode against the roofs and streets and pavements. The best part of it is feeling them on her skin as they break upon contact, and then gently, by gravity, make their way towards the ground.

He looks at her, watches how her expression changes from serious to… He’s not quite sure what it changes to, but he likes seeing her this way – it’s like she changed along with their surroundings. The new atmosphere feels much calmer, and he decides to present his case while it still lasts.

“I know the situation you’re in, you know.” Not the best start, maybe, but what’s said is said. “I’ve been there myself – it’s how I ended up with my current… well, I suppose you could call it job. He recruited me off the streets, and I was in no position to turn him down…” The look upon his face, she recognizes as what she’s feeling.

“Is that so?” She asks, sceptical to believe anything, fearing it might all just be another way to lure her into cooperation. “Do you know what he wants with me then? Honestly.” Not really daring to hope, she still crosses her fingers for good luck.

“Not really, not all of it…” a short pause as he works out where to go from this, what to say. “I do have a faint idea, though. I want to help you from falling into this – it’s not a life that I’m living anymore so much as a bad dream that I can’t wake up from.” He sighs, and she feels pity for him upon seeing him this way. She doesn’t even know him, still, she can’t help believing what he says. If it turns out not to be true, at least he is a very convincing actor.

“Tell me?” In her mind, she is pleading. On the outside, composed.

“He’s searching for a goddess – The Goddess… I take it he told you as much already though. It sounds like it’s all fantasy, but I think there’s actually some amount of truth to it. I’ve seen things, strange things, after I got mixed up in all this.” She’s not even considering what he’s saying, he can tell from the look in her eyes.

“A goddess? And you believe this? This is just a joke, isn’t it?”

“No! No, no, no… Don’t get me wrong, you’re misunderstanding me here. I’m just telling you, there’s something strange going on. To be wary. This goddess, he asked me to find her, too. The closest I got was the name of a woman who died eons ago… Well, not that long, really, but she’s been dead for over a hundred years. There are all these strange circumstances surrounding her death, and after I started looking for her… Well, bad things started happening. I told him I couldn’t do it anymore, and I ended up where I am now – or dead.” He finally takes a proper breath after having spat it all out so she’d have to listen without interruptions.

“WHAT?!” He can’t expect her to believe all the things he just said. Not something like that – it’s all just too much. What she wants to do is laugh, really, but she feels like she owes him a chance to explain. Meanwhile, the rain keeps falling.

He tells her he knows how crazy it sounds, that he really understands her not wanting to believe him, still he practically begs her to listen. There’s something about the way he speaks, almost pleads with her. He seems to really want to get this through to her, which has her wanting to trust him – but she can’t. The whole story is just too unlikely. The last thing he tells her before he walks away, head hanging low in defeat, is that if she should ever change her mind and he’s still above ground rather than six feet below, the offer still stands to help her. It’s the only way to get out, he says – to find her.

“Malika,” he says, “that’s her name.” Says that should she find her, to be careful. You never know with the under-world – it’s not a safe place to be.

In the end, it’s late before she starts making her way home. The clock is a little past three in the morning when she finally leaves the pier. It was all so much to think about, so she stayed there for several hours even after maybe-Alex walked away. That’s what she’s dubbed him in her mind, maybe-Alex. There seems to be no way of knowing whether things are real or not any longer, everything becoming a big blur of strange happenings and even stranger conversations.

She needs sleep, she thinks, maybe this will all make sense in the morning, but no matter how long she lies in her bed and waits for the tiredness in her bones to catch up with her mind it doesn’t come for her. So she gives up, gets up, and walks into the living-room after having put on a t-shirt she had lying on the floor. She doesn’t realize until she sits down in the couch and turns on the TV without finding anything to watch that it’s one of his. Oh well, she thinks. She can’t be bothered changing now – the past will have to be the past for tonight, she can throw it out tomorrow.

An hour or so of not finding anything decent to watch on television other than a documentary about life in the desert that she’s already seen quite a few times, she figures she might as well check out maybe-Alex’s story and gets her laptop from the kitchen counter, telling herself she really should stop keeping it there after having to dry grease of it. She does a quick search for the name he mentioned, Malika, but the results are a jumble of so many things that she doesn’t quite know where to start. No, she can save this for later; maybe she was too quick to trust maybe-Alex.

Still, some part of her hopes he was telling the truth, because if he was there is at least one person out there who can help her, and she won’t be entirely alone in this mess. He logic mind, of course, won’t leave it alone that the boy is probably just crazy from having been involved with strange people for too long – or maybe he was a lost case from the start.

Another couple of hours pass, and the sun is beginning to rise accompanied by a beautiful display of colours that is reflected in her eyes as she sits in the windowsill, looking out at the city. Post-rain mornings are always lovely, she thinks. They feel like home, somehow. She smiles. Today could be a good day.

Her phone starts to ring, interrupting the serene calm with a series of polyphonic tones, and the spell is broken. Once she sees who’s calling, she knows it won’t be a good day after all. It’s the one that got away. The one she had to leave behind not to get left behind. Her heart beats a little faster when she sees the number – no name, she deleted him from the list of contacts long ago, but she still remembers the digits clearly after having wanted to dial them so many times. There’s a slight pain with every heartbeat, it feels like her entire chest clenches, making it harder to breathe. She wants to resist, but at five in the morning and with a million things on her mind she is far too weak for that battle, so she presses the little green phone and listens to his voice with no further reply than breathing just heavily enough that he can hear her.

“Cherry-pie…” He mumbles drunkenly into the phone. These are the only times he calls – the only times she gets to hear his voice for the last two years. “I miss ya. I’m sorry. Whatever happened to the two of us?” She grunts. Huffs. In a way, she wants to answer, but she knows she can’t or it will all come spilling out of her like water from a broken dam. “Cherry-pie, you’re there, right? Just tell me you’re listening, please.”

“I’m here.” No more. If she tries to say anything longer than three words struck together in a sentence, her voice will break. She’s sure of it.

“Cherry-pie, everything’s all messed up. I made a mistake when it comes to you, I should’a never let you go, doll. I don’t know how I could’ve ever done that, it’s the most foolish mistake I ever made. God I miss ya.” He sighs; takes a sip of whatever he’s drinking, probably a drag of a smoke as well if he’s still the boy she used to know.

“Tin…” It’s merely a whisper from her side, she never meant for him to hear it, but of course the one time he’s listening is the one she wishes he hadn’t. It’s enough to stir up a spark somewhere within her former lover.

“God, babe. I’m so tired, the room’s spinnin’ and I ain’t got a home in this town no longer… You don’t happen to have room in your bed for a tired soldier, do ya?” She wishes she could deny him like every time before – but now, with everything else being so out of control around her, she doesn’t care. Can’t bring herself to say no to something she so desperately wants. He knows just as well as she does that normally she would say no straight away, but it takes longer than usual this night. Much longer. Someone will have to pick up the pieces and mend her later.

“I need you…” She has no control of the situation any longer, all she wants is to feel his breath on her skin, have his strong arms to hold her up. “Please, just for tonight.”

He’s not hard to ask, knocking on her door a mere fifteen minutes later – the quickest anyone has ever crossed town, she thinks, wondering how he managed. He’s always found a way when he wanted something, she knows him well enough to know that. It doesn’t take longer than a second after she opens the door until their lips meet and they crash together in raw passion, so long since the last time they were this close in any way. Although they’ve gone their separate ways in life, neither of them ever really moved on from what they used to be.

He picks her up as if she didn’t weigh more than a feather, plain sweeps her off her feet, and carries her into the bedroom, still kissing her like it’s the end of the world, clenching her body in his arms. Once he’s within a reasonable distance of the bed, he throws her down on it and makes his way between her legs, him still fully clothed and she wearing only his old t-shirt.

“I see you ain’t thrown out everything of mine,” he says, a gleam of something resembling hope in his eyes.

“You know I could never forget you,” she whispers, her voice unable to go any louder. “I didn’t leave you because I wanted to… I had to.”

“I’m sorry,” he kisses her again, and there are no more words now. No turning back.

They forget about words, there’s no need for that kind of thing between the two of them, not like this. Nothing has felt like this for a long, felt so much. They’re a perfect fits, opposite like day and night yet just that alike.

He presses her body towards his, wants to touch every part of her soft skin as she digs her nails into his back like old times. He bites her neck just hard enough that he can feel her muscles tighten, he’s longed for her for so long. She’s always turned him down at times like this, and a little voice at the back of his head is worried that she said yet this time, but he’ll have to think about that when he sobers up – for now it’s only her.

“Fuck me,” she breathes into his ear. “Like old times, Tin.”

His name comes out a moan, and he can’t resist the sex-kitten only dressed in his old tee, not a thread more. With one hand, he traps both hers above her head, a firm grasp around her wrists. With the other, he slowly traces her skin down her body. Neck, shoulders, breasts his fingers pass smoothly over her skin – stopping just a little longer at the scar on the right side of her rib-cage to linger before going all the way. It’s been so very long since he’s been with her now. There have been others, but no one like her. He’s playing every string just the right way, and she moans loudly. She hasn’t felt like this for the longest time, so hopelessly lost in the moment.

“I’ve missed ya so much, Cherry-pie,” he breathes the words out, the warm air tickling her skin. You feel so good. He’s missed the warmth of her body, the soft curves and just how she is in bed, twisting and turning, back arching high. She’s lost weight, he notices. She’s not quite as soft any longer, too thin now – he can feel all her bones all too well. That, too, saved for sobriety to worry about.

He can’t wait a second longer, easily turns the around so she is on top. His hands on her hips now, following her movements, controlling them whenever he feels like a change. Not like she needs directions, she’s the best he ever had, knowing exactly how to play his body. Her reputation preceded her, always – he heard about her skills in the bedroom long before he met her face to face. Quite the reputation, she was never ashamed to admit it.

When they’re done, silence. They’re lying side by side, but she inches her way closer to him, no objections on his part. She ends up in his arms, it’s been long since she could last hear his heartbeat like this, with her head resting on his chest.

“Tin,” she whispers, more sleeping than awake, “I miss you so much…”

His heart beats quicker for a little while, but he doesn’t say a word. Eventually he, too, falls asleep, and nothing changes until they’re woken up by a pigeon flying into her bedroom window – then dropping dead. Irony, she thinks.

He makes her breakfast, fried eggs and toast, a little too much salt just like she prefers it. They sit down at the kitchen table, but neither wants to say the first word. Still, someone has to break the silence.

“You know this was only a one-time thing, right?” It’s more a statement than a question, really. It’s not that she doesn’t want to be with him so much as that it goes against her better judgement.

“Why? It doesn’t have to be.” There’s vulnerability in his voice that was never there before.

“It does, Tin.” Tin. That’s what she’s called him since the first time they met – said he reminded her of the little tin soldier from some old children’s story, and the name stuck. The topic is dropped, neither of the two wanting to tear open old wounds. They sit in silence for a little while, looking out the window and at each other.

“You’ve got so thin since last time,” he says, not quite concealing the worry in his voice.

“I haven’t had much of an appetite lately,” it’s true. She’s never eaten much, but lately it borders on too little. It’s never on purpose, though, just periods of time when she can’t be bothered with such trivial things as food.

“Take care of yourself, ok. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.” He still cares about her – more than she will ever know, he thinks.

“I do. You know that. If I didn’t I’d be long gone by now.” It’s true. Addicted to self-destructive habits, she’d be dead since long if she weren’t able to control herself. “Stop worrying about me and think about yourself instead. What’re you doing these days?” She realizes she has no idea. That she doesn’t really know anything about his current life.

“Still in the business, just got back from two month in a hellhole last night…” He pauses, sighs. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I want to. I almost died this time – not like I haven’t been near death before, we both know that, but I really thought I was going to die out there, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. If there’s any chance in hell I can have you back, I’d give it all up. Just for you.”

“No. You wouldn’t. We both know that. And even if you would, I couldn’t ask that of you – it’s who you are, and you wouldn’t be the same person without it.” The words are so very heavy to speak. What he said is what she’s longed to hear for so long, that he’d chose her, but they both know it’s not possible, that it won’t ever be.

“I love you, still. Did you know that?”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

She wants to break down and tell him everything, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint in her to keep from doing so. She can feel the tears pressing on the back of her eyes, that feeling clenching in her chest.

Stupid, stupid girl. You never should have done this, you knew it wasn’t good for you. It’s all your fault you’re in this situation now, had you just withstood him yesterday, been able to tell him “no”, none of this would be on your mind. He can never be yours, and you can never be what he chooses in the end. You’re too stubborn and he’s too wild. Give up already.

Although she tries, she can’t stop herself. A single tear escapes the corner of her eye, and the damn breaks. She sits there, on the kitchen chair, shaking and sobbing as it all comes spilling out. How the world’s been turned upside down, that she doesn’t know what to do. She needs him to hold her now, then forget this. But he won’t forget it – tells her he’ll get her through this. He’s got friends in all the right places, he can help. She never wanted to get anyone else involved, but no matter how much she refuses, he is still the one who feels safe – the one who makes her feel like she can let the mask fall, and it all wells out like a waterfall.

He gets up, walks to her side of the table and crouches down next to her, tilting her over until she’s leaning on him, holding her.

“We’ll get you through this, ok.”

“I’m sorry,” she manages to get out between sobs. “You know this changes nothing, right?”

“I know, I know.” So he says, but doesn’t mean a word. He’s hoping that maybe this will be what it takes to make her his again. He’d give so much to have her back, but he won’t say anything to her. Not now.

When she’s all cried out she takes a cold shower to snap out of it, puts on some new clothes and gets ready for another night. He waits, sitting on the couch watching another documentary rerun – about life in the polar seas. As soon as she comes to join him, he turns of the TV and looks at her, makes her tell him the whole story. And just as if on que, a new letter appears under the door.

He’s on his feet, running see who brought it, but she stops him, tells him it’s no use. He brings her the letter without saying a word. She unfolds it, reads it, and colour fades from her cheeks. There is an old photograph in the envelope, of a young girl, 17 at most, and a description of her on the side. Malika.

You will begin your search as soon as possible, the letter reads. For time is of the essence, even more so now than ever. I don’t mind you bringing others into this, I know you have – my eyes are everywhere – but don’t try to do anything stupid or bad things will happen. I trust we have an understanding of that, given all my knowledge and your lack thereof.

To find her, you might have to do a bit of searching and travelling, she likes to play hide and seek. I of course do not expect you to pay for such yourself when I have enlisted your help, so I have also sent you a fair bit of money in the shape of a credit card in your name – but use it only to find the goddess, no other reason.

I thank you so much for your help. I will know if you find her, and I will find you. You have two months or I will have to demote you, so work quickly. Be careful, she is young and scared – frightening her could be the last thing you do.

Good luck.

***

In the end, even though he said he’d help her – that he’d stay – he had to leave. She knows, always has, that he neither could, nor would ever choose her, but before he left he promised he’d come back to her. Promised that he’d protect her, said that if anything were to happen he’d come to her rescue quick as she could.  She doesn’t believe him, but telling him of the strange events does seem to have lifted some weight off her shoulders. She feels lighter now, as daylight pours through the windows and she knows she’s not entirely alone.

Still, she told him he didn’t have to come back. The disappointment when he fails to keep his promises lessens that way, when she’s told him in advance that it’s ok, she’ll make it on her own.

You might feel happy now – but you know it can’t last. They always say they’ll stay, but they never do. The never will. There’s something about you that makes them leave, you push them away every time. You can’t escape yourself.

The search can begin now. She’s ready, the haze that surrounded her lifted by a night of sweet nothings and hallow promises and she can focus on the strange task she is forced to carry out by a past full of secrets and dark corners.

It is the middle of the day, and the bright light makes her vulnerable and shy, still she heads out with nothing more than her coat, an old photograph of a long-dead girl and the name of who she’s looking for embedded in her mind.

She has no idea where to go, absolutely lost in looking for a stranger.

She walks and walks, with no knowledge of where – let’s her legs take her through the streets both familiar and new to her, through the various parts of town as different as night and day. Occasionally, she’ll se someone or something familiar, but for today she avoids it all and just moves in hopes of discovering something. Some though, maybe, she hopes, or an idea. Anything that can help her solve the mystery of Malika the strange.

Somehow, the name makes her feel nostalgia of a sort. She reminisces to her childhood, happy days when the world was still carefree and she hadn’t yet experienced the sorrows it had in store for her. She smiles to herself, imagining her mother’s soft voice singing as her father held her high in the air, spinning round and round in circles like flying.

It’s colder than she though, winter is coming closer day by day and she is not prepared. Never is. Although she loves the silence that comes with it, she’s never much cared for the cold or the way time seems to slow down almost to a stop. That time of year does something to her, and she feels like she should be hibernating, her body running out of energy until the warmth begins to find it’s way back the city and her.

What am I doing? So many questions are spinning in her head, one the summation of them all. Why am I looking for this Malika when I don’t even know here, and even worse – why am I doing it for a man that I don’t know. What does he want with her? What’s the secret hiding beneath the surface of all this – the one I’m barely scratching at.

She realizes this is not just a search for her. Not just something she is forced to do. Thinking of so many things, she realizes she wants to know what’s behind the whirlwind she’s been dragged into – what was the catalyst for all these events? It will be her driving force to get through all of this, she decides – her own curiosity to find out what it is all about. And she really does wonder.

Ever since she was a child she’s been terribly curious – always wanting to know what was on the other side of the fence or in the darkest part of the forest where no one had dared to go and look. She remembers how she would always do horribly reckless things in her desire for knowledge of every kind. Not all in wane, as she learned a great many things not to try again, that will hopefully keep her out of worse situations now that she is older than when she was young.

This Malika, she thinks. There’s got to be something more to Mr K wanting to find her. She can’t really be a goddess, that’s just too farfetched, but there is a reason to be discovered hiding somewhere in the story. She is going to find it, whether it wants to be found or not, she does not care. If the Mr Is going to play dirty, digging up the past, so can she.

These stories tend to be like onions, she thinks to herself. Layers upon layers of truths and untruths, some good and some as terrible as the stench of garlic – since she’s brought up such a terrible metaphor to begin with as that of the onion-layers. Onions, on that note, she find absolutely horrible. She never quite understood how someone could actually like them - the stench, the way they make you cry or how your fingers smell like them for the next twelve hours. She knew a boy once who ate raw onions like apples. She gave up his acquaintance after three months, unable to handle the habit.

Enough with the onions already. Procrastination and side-tracking have always been debatable strengths of hers. She could easily rather spend a night in reading about the history of onions in European cuisine than doing something actually constructive. Fucking onions. Get out of my head.

Done with digressions, she keeps walking, eyes on the ground and head in the clouds, paying attention to absolutely nothing but hoping for a eureka moment concerning her problem. She realizes, all too late, that she is about to walk into a man, and in an instant she falls to the ground and he falls on top of her – the excess force sending her head straight to the pavement.

Everything goes black. After a while, she feels someone shaking her, unable to comprehend why until she opens her eyes and sees the stranger again. He’s a tall man with a muscular build, looks sort of like a lumberjack, she thinks – but one thing doesn’t fit; he has a tattoo of three stars and a crescent moon on the right side of his neck.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles, confused still.

“That’s fine, it’s fine. It was just as much my fault.” You bet it was, she thinks, but really, she is thankful. He could have blamed her and been entirely in his right to do so.

“Really, though. I feel so silly like this, sitting here on the ground with a stranger above me…” What she says makes him realize their situation, and quickly he gets to his feet, then helps her up. Without letting go of her hand, he shakes it and introduces himself. Blushes. It is still light out, the sun shining from its place in the sky. She is not herself.

“I’m Todd, by the way. Terrence, really, but everyone just calls me Todd.” He smiles, charming.

“I’m dizzy…” She says, almost falling over to one side as he catches her. “God, I’m so sorry… I think I hit my head a bit too hard, is there any place around here where it’s possible to sit down?”

With no further introduction on her part he picks her up and carries her around a couple of corners, to a cafe. When they’re there, he sits her down at a table by the big window at the back and walks up to the barkeep.

“What do you want?” He calls to her. I’m havin’ a beer.”

“I’ll have a glass of water and a vodka on the rocks, if that’s ok.” A minute later and he’s at the table with their orders, both of them sipping their drink of choice after she chugged down the glass of water in seconds.

“I feel a lot better now, thanks.” She smiles at him, and he laughs. She doesn’t quite know why, it annoys her.

“That’s good to hear. I was worried I’d really hurt you for a little while there, you falling over a second time and all. But try not to make a habit of walking into people, eh?” now he’s the one smiling and she’s the one who laughs.

It’s pleasant, the company of someone new, someone she doesn’t know or have any obligations to. Words flow more easily with strangers; it’s been that way ever since the first betrayal when she realized most people weren’t to be trusted. They’ve been talking for a while when he looks down at his watch and jumps up, saying he has to get to work. In a hurry he scribbles down something on a napkin and hands it to her – in case she’d like to see him again, he says, then walks away leaving her like before the literal run-in(to).

She knows she should get going – that she should resume the search, but she decides on one more cup of tea before heading out. It’s beginning to darken outside, and knowing herself she feels like the search will be far more fruitful if she sticks to the hours of darkness that she thrives in, instead of defying herself in the light.

Warming her hands on the cup of hot, red and delicious liquid before her, she glances around the locale, the walls mostly hidden behind various objects, posters, pictures. She catches a glimpse of something familiar, a portrait in exactly the same style as the one of the young Malika – but it’s not her. The woman in the photo is older, around thirty or so she guesses, and her face is different. Still, something about the image sets her off, and she begins to hope that maybe this is a lead. Maybe she was meant to find this place.

After finishing her cup to the very last drop, she walks over to the bar and catches the barkeepers eye. She asks about the faded photograph, whether he knows who took it or the name of the woman it portrays. The boy, most likely a couple of years younger than her, smiles and apologizes, saying he doesn’t know, but that he might know someone who does. If she’s interested he can give her the name of the owner, arrange for the two to meet. She agrees, thanking the boy, and he asks her to return in two days at around the time the bells of the clock-tower chime their melody – the same time every day. Still smiling, he says the boss is usually around then, and he’ll probably be happy to tell her about the picture if he knows the story of it.

She thanks the boy, Ian he says his name is, and leaves to roam the streets some more, but finding nothing new or anything that will lead her further. Still she smiles when she enters the regular dungeon of darkly clad boys and girls with black hair and black nails and black lips, all the dark hearts. Her favourite drink awaits her on the bar, and Barkeep is happy to see her smiling for a change. She is even more stunning when she smiles, but she doesn’t do so nearly enough and it makes him worry.

“You seem happy.” He points it out with a small fear of breaking the spell residing in his chest.

“I am. You could say things are moving my way, I suppose. I’ve been having a bit of trouble lately, but I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere with them.” I’d tell you more, but I don’t want you in this. You matter too much to be put in danger on my account.

“What a relief – I worry about you and your seeming lack of emotions, you know.” He laughs, even though every word is true. She knows.

They talk some more, trivial topics like how it’s getting colder or what kind of alcohol is better or the strange relationship between John and Taj, before she deems it too late and heads for home five minutes past the last patron has left the bar after closing.

She doesn’t care to make her way to the bedroom, curling up on the couch after only having taken off her shoes, falling asleep immediately. She sleeps until midday next, waking up in panic like she always does when she’s alone and oversleeps. Fuck, she thinks. Fuck, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got things to do and people to find and this isn’t good at all.

Glad she never got out of her clothes, she is now stepping into her shoes and grabbing an apple for energy, then makes her way another direction towards the outskirts of the town to see what she’ll find there, if there’s any more information to be gathered. Nothing, it seems, but tomorrow she might find out more about the origin of the picture of the woman who looked so alike Malika, and that should at least get her somewhere.

She decides to stop by work, maybe get something done for once so that even if it won’t be much, there’ll be something on her pay-check at all come two weeks’ time from now. What she does is monotonous, but they said she could come and go as she pleased and not jobs accept such from their employees. What she does is write. Freelance, novels for a literary magazine she used to read before she started working there and realized it was all a scam – a factory of aspiring authors. She’s told them she doesn’t approve of the way they do things in the least, but she needs the money and they pay well, so she stays.

In a couple of hours she spins out something she considers a waste of time, but they are stories none the less and people seem to like even her most rushed works. The critics cling to her words like moth to flames, loving each story more than the last, but they never could tell a good piece from something not worth reading, in her mind. She spits out 20 pages before she feels like enough of her soul has been forced to compromise for this time.

When she gets home, she decides she will write down everything related to the search – a diary, of sorts, all related to a little girl in a waned photograph. She begins by writing about Mr K, maybe-Alex and the man with the moon and star-tattoo who seemed to lie when he called himself Terrence and Todd.

It takes her a couple of hours to remember all the details and write them down with enough accuracy to deem them of any value later. There are descriptions, thoughts and assumptions on those five pages, and also a couple of questions. All is written on the old typewriter she got way to cheap at a flea-market in some dusty back-yard back when she was sixteen, and she’s loved it ever since.

The phone rings, an unknown number, and she hesitates for a while before answering.

“Hello.” She recognizes this as Mr K’s voice, realizing it annoys her she doesn’t know his real name – another thing to find out. She makes a note of it on her last page.

“Hello.”

“I hear you’ve got a meeting tomorrow, my little birds tell me you’re doing good.”

“By birds, are you sure you don’t mean rats – they seem far more likely to cooperate with you?” There is so much sarcasm behind the statement she almost regrets letting him know how much she resents him. He laughs, and this annoys her.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?” There is amusement, but also something else in his voice. Something she can’t quite place, but she thinks it might be the resentment returned.

“Not really.”

“So, do you want to tell me what your meeting tomorrow is about?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“You know that you are working for me, don’t you?”

“I’m not exactly getting paid. Anyway, I’ll tell you everything when I know everything, nothing before that. No point chasing dead ends for two people, more than enough that only I do it.” Her voice is firm; it is not hard for him to tell that he will not get anywhere arguing with her. After all, he did choose her mostly for her characteristic traits – and he does not regret it even now.

“Fair enough.” He hangs up, and the silence at the other end has a soothing effect on her.

She goes to bed early tonight, wants to be rested for tomorrow as she will need her head to be clear and able to process information. It has also been far too long since last time she slept the amount of hours needed to actually feel rested. As she lays down in bed and pulls the covers up over her shoulders, she also allows herself to feel just how tired she really is. In an instant, she falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until the sun is nearly in zenith. Nothing to worry about, there is plenty of time still to get where she should be today.

Get there, she does. About a half-hour early she sits at the bar making casual conversation with Ian, who in reality is two years older than her even if he does not look it, and sipping at a beer. It is too early in the day for vodka, one of the topics they’ve been discussing. Drinks in general. He tells her where the expression “on the rocks” comes from, apparently a Russian submarine, whisky-class, which ran into ground somewhere in Swedish waters on October twenty-seventh, nineteen-eighty-one. She never knew until today, the information changing absolutely nothing in her world.

The man of the hour walks in. He is tall and handsome and looks like midnight of the coldest day in winter. Christian Hermé – she imagines herself moaning his name as he fucks her up against an alley wall - notoriously known in the underground life of the city – she had no idea this was his establishment.

“Ian, good day,” he greets the bartender as he approaches, his voice is rough and just hoarse enough to stand out of the masses. “Is this the beauty you said wanted to see me? I agree with your description of her, I must admit.”

Discomfort mixed with sexual interest rises in her, never mixes – much like pouring water and oil into a glass and watching them separate.

“I’m…” Think quickly, what names do they know you by? “Cherry.” Most people will recognize her by that name, the one given to her at birth she hasn’t told a soul for years now.

“Cherry? Peculiar name, sounds almost like…” his better judgement hinders him completing the sentence, and he smiles charmingly, knowing she can figure out the missing part herself.

“Don’t push your luck, Christian. You may have a reputation that precedes you, but I’ve never been afraid to run the risk of standing up to man – power or no.” She returns the smile, flirts with her eyes but not with her words. Lines need to be drawn.

“Oh, you know my name already?” The question is asked for appearance, the hope of not coming across as only a name and nothing more. 

“Who doesn’t, in this town?” She knows it will feel like a slap across the face to a man like him, thinking he has a chance. He does, but she won’t let him know just yet, pretending not to care the least bit about him or anything else. “I have a question, that’s the reason I’m here, mind if I get straight to business with you?” No time to play games, even if she wants to continue doing just that.

“Of course, of course.” Cherry confuses him, confuses most men. She’s always been beautiful, but getting men that way is no fun. No, she always liked to play them, pull the right strings and making them do whatever she wants. He is no exception when it comes to the game, but kinder to the eyes than most.

“That photo,” she gestures to the portrait, “what can you tell me about it?”

“That really is straight to the point, isn’t it. No small talk with you?” She won’t let him get anywhere with flirting just yet, and he looks flushed trying to save himself from embarrassment after the remark. “Well, there’s not much to tell. It’s an old photograph from the twenties or so, I believe, maybe the thirties. The photographer is unknown, but the portraits became extremely sought-after a decade or so after he died – I think that has something to do with some urban legend about how one of the portraits started crying once – that of a little girl or something. I don’t really know much more than that, but you could try and find the guy who owns most of these strange things, he can probably tell you more.” What he doesn’t tell her is that he’s been trying to acquire the crying portrait for years, but the owner won’t even hear him, or anyone else for that matter. Seems to believe some kind of curse is related to the image, saying bad things will happen.

“Too bad… Well, thank you.” Business taken care of, she relaxes. “Ian, a vodka sunken submarine, please.” The bartender laughs, fixes a drink for her, and she smiles as he hands it too her.

She stays for while talking to the two men, makes sure to get the name of the portrait-collector before it’s all play and no work, digs up a little more information on the photos, but Christian really didn’t know much more. Also, she flirts. Smiles, brushes a hand accidentally across his skin, laughs at all the right times. It is evening when she leaves, heading for the word-factory. She knows she’ll be seeing the midnight-man again as she heads out the door.

The factory destroys yet another little part of her soul as she churns out words that she knows it would kill her to read. She needs to find another job, tells herself she’ll quit this one and look for something new. Something that doesn’t slowly kill her from the inside out. Once this is all over I’ll really do it. I’ve got to. I can’t keep this up, selling my dignity for a living.

As she tries to make some sort of sense of the life that she’s living or not living or half-living, somewhere else entirely the man responsible for knocking her out of orbit is reminiscing, thinking back to his very first memory - what his entire being is based on.

There is a young woman with chestnut hair and almost lilac eyes and a smile that seems to light up the room. She looks at him, a child barely out of infancy, and she laughs the sound of a million tiny bells in the wind, and it is the sound of joy.  He laughs, too, as she picks him up and swirls him around and tells him she loves him more than the world itself, and then – then the scene changes. Darkens. The memory blurs into another, years later. He is sitting on a soft couch that feels like his grandmothers lap when he was younger and looks like you’d imagine your least favourite aunt with the strange, shapeless dresses and large hats to look if she were a sofa. There is a woman in the room with him, perched in a windowsill and looking out the window, he cannot see her face – but he knows it still looks the same as in that very first memory. She doesn’t change – never changes, never changed. I want to start a revolution. The words are hers, but they are stored somewhere else in his memory as only dialogue, not related to the still-image projecting behind closed eyelids. Things need to change, and if no one else is willing to take the first step, I see no other way. Someone needs to step up to make things happen. A sacrifice is always required. The words linger much in the same way a familiar scent would – the warm but different than usual feel of her voice and – she was always just that intangible even if she never strayed far from his side.

He opens his eyes. These are not affairs for him to be concerned with, he is merely the host. Also, it hurts. Every second of feeling her presence again or seeing her image, each moment spent remembering her scent or the sound of her voice a sensation builds in his chest where his heart used to be before. A sensation builds, and it is not joy or sadness or loneliness or anger or oh how much he misses her – it is always agony, a burning paroxysm of pain and distress. It feels like death, he knows, having experienced the end of his life twice already. These are stories he will never tell and truths he will never speak. In his eyes all he is culminates to one word; weak. Emotions are a weakness, but he is only human and he cannot help them however much he has tried. She stole the ability he once had to dissociate himself from the world whispering sweet lies like the snake that she proved herself to be, and he wants revenge just as much as he wants her. He wants her.

The memory fades, and back in the known part of town she will never know the importance of things just remembered, nor will she even know these things exist.

She goes home for the night just a short while after the clock turns one. It is dark, silent – the middle of the week and in this part of town, no life what so ever in the streets other than a cat that gracefully walks the rooftops in the same direction she does. She keeps looking up at the beautiful animal, for a second wishes she could be one. That is foolish. You cannot be a cat – all you can be is what you are, and you are human.

You are fucked. All you have is a portrait with a story and a name that sounds no bells In your head, and time is ticking down, down, further down. The hourglass was set into motion long ago, so watch your sand slowly running out if you want, or go make the best of the time you’ve got left.

Sleep is good, takes her in to the warm and the safe and the known. She allows it to carry her far away from cruel realities and back to simpler times veiled in blissful ignorance of what was to come. Lost in reverie she sees the faces of the family she once loved, friends more likely to be dead than ever in her life again. The light wanes and fades into shadows, dreams to nightmares. This is bad.

The dead come to life in her imagination, far too real as they rise from their graves with sunken holes instead of eyes, rotting skin and maggots – maggots everywhere. She tries to wake up, knows this is all a dream and yet she can’t seem to shake it or even escape the feeling that something terrible is going to happen, so strong it is almost tangible. All she can do is repeat over and over in her mind; This is just a dream. This is just a dream. This is just a dream, WAKE UP! She knows that she won’t – can’t until it is over and she has relived everything that happened from fire to blame to abandonment to people who cared a little and people who didn’t care at all,  to abusive foster parents and running away and having no one left at sixteen and vulnerable. To starting a new life independent of the one she is trying so hard to forget, moving on.

There are too many things to remember, and she screams in her mind transcending the layers through to reality, waking up out of breath with wet streaks down her cheeks. It takes a while to calm down.

It is still closer to night than morning, but she knows she will not be getting more sleep, doesn’t want to try, so she eventually forces her tired body limb for limb out of the bed and into the kitchen. With great effort, she puts water in the tea-kettle, the kettle on the oven, and waits. A cup of tea always helped in these situations. She drinks slowly, the reddish-orange liquid tasting of something exotic warming her up from the inside and out. She calms down, finally, feels the tension let go of her body and sighs. How long will the nightmares keep haunting her? Probably always, she thinks.

After about three hours of staring out the window, mostly looking down at empty streets as the lights of the city pollute the darkness that would allow her to see the stars clearly were she far away, she tires of doing nothing. She opens the laptop she left on the kitchen table earlier, pulls it up on her lap where she sits in the window and digs into the history of the crying portraits trying to wrap her head around something so unlikely. She also looks up the man Christian mentioned, finds an address and a telephone number, decides to call it come the time when people are expected to be awake.

There’s a pack of cigarettes, all dusted down, lying in the window. She actually quit the habit years ago, but still likes the feel of smoke in her lungs when things become too much to handle, just for the familiarity of it – something that never changes.

She takes one out, fetches the lighter from the table and lets her mind wander to things that don’t matter until there is nothing but the bud left. She lets it go, watches the embers fall to the street far below and smiles. The nightmares are only her imagination playing cruel games, the only way to deal with them being to forget and move on – play them down with reality.

Finally, morning comes. There is life in the streets now, people moving in all directions – she has begun recognizing some of them from having sat like this so many times, just watching them. It is time to move, there are things to be done and only so much time to do them, so she gets out of her comfortable spot in the window and finds something more appropriate to wear than only a tee and lace-panties, stuffs the diary into her bag and again, searching.

She knows where she is going today, a couple of hours on the train engrossed in a book and she arrives at a remote station in the middle of, well, practically nowhere. There are fields, lots of them, and the occasional patch of trees scattered about the landscape. Small roads traverse the green, and she asks a man standing casually about at the station for directions, then follows the one that goes straight ahead for a couple of miles until she turns off it and faces a large, white mansion.

This, she thinks, must be Marlou Manor. This is where she needs to be.

For a minute she takes in her surroundings, notes the little details before walking up to the rather oversized front door of the beautiful villa. She rings an also oversized doorbell, and a couple of minutes pass. Her finger is on the doorbell again when an elderly, suit-clad man opens the door, too late for her to stop and she hears the doorbell ring this time.

“Excuse the wait, Miss,” the man says, “I was a little busy in kitchen, I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother.”

“No, no – that’s fine.” She smiles charmingly and hopes he doesn’t realize just how fake it is.

He is the butler. So, this is that kind of place. A nice man, has apparently been working for the owner for almost forty years now. He answers to Mr Thornton. A cat sneaks by her feet from behind, walks through the door, and as she follows it with her eyes up a staircase she barely notices a familiar portrait on the wall.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I haven’t invited you in yet, have I? Please excuse me, come on in, Miss. I’ll take you to see Mr Wrington in a minute, I just have to clear it with him first. You may wait here, if you please.” All she does is not, and he disappears down a hallway and to the left. She spends her alone-time wisely, looking around the grand entrance hall for anything of interest – but there is nothing more than the photograph hanging in a staircase too far away for her to see properly or risk walking up to should the butler come back like he will any minute.

Like he does. Tells her to follow him, like she does. After a hallway and a turn, another turn and some more hallway, they arrive at the entrance to what seems like a library. The butler tells her she may enter, that Mr Wrington is waiting for her if she just keeps walking all the way to the back of the room past the rows of bookshelves. She thanks him for showing her the way before she walks into the room full of books new and old, making her way to the man she wants to see.

“Timothy told me you were pretty,” a voice says. She looks around, then suddenly realizes there is a man sitting in a large chair in the corner to her right between a large lamp and a table on which stands only a cup of coffee, “but I didn’t expect to see such a lovely young thing as yourself, pleasure to meet you, Miss…”

“May. Cherry May.” Flashes another smile, makes sure it shows in her eyes as well as on her lips.

“Name suits you, I must say, Miss May. I’m Harry Wrington, but I suppose you know that since you’ve come all the way out here knocking on my door – not many people do, any more. It’s nice to see another face than Timothy’s, for a change.”

She feels sad for the man, there’s a lonely aura hanging about him and this place. She cannot, however, forget she is here for a reason, no time for such strange worries. Instead of beating round the bush with pleasantries, she quickly tells him why she is there, under the pretense that she is a journalist working for an art magazine wanting to know more. He falls for her lie and starts talking, telling her all she needs to know and more.

The pictures, according to him, were all taken by a photographer named Quentin Parana. Quentin was a man of great talent, but also the poor victim of the devil as many vices as he fell prey to. He was quite fond of the good life – of gambling and eating and fucking and all those things that no man must let get the upper hand, and also he was well known in his day, taking portraits for the rich and famous, a darling of the society. There was a girl who saved him from his vices and a life of no deeper meaning, the story goes. Apparently she is the one in the crying portrait.

“One day, rumour has it,” the old man Wrington shudders as he speaks, as if he is scared of what he is about to say, “he was photographing the girl he loved deeply and to whom he was secretly engaged. A certain Laura Malika Emmerton.” Malika. There it is. “She was quite a beauty, this Miss Laura, and the daughter of a rich man, too. Her family was not at all happy about her engagement to this photographer – although they liked him as a member of their social circle, he was never going to be good enough for a girl of the Emmerton name’s standard, and they felt it wrong that he was the one she chose. Made people angry, it did.” He coughs, takes a sip of the coffee and looks at her. “Can you guess what happened next?”

“They split them up or something – star-crossed love, maybe?” She doesn’t care for guessing-games.

“Close, but not quite. No, separating the two was not enough, even if both her parents and quite a few rich boys did try – she wouldn’t have any of it. One day, her father heard rumour that one of the most eligible bachelors around, son of a duke or some such thing, wanted to ask for the girl’s hand in marriage – he also knew that she would refuse, crazy in love as she was. He schemed a plan to have the poor fool Quentin taken care of, and in a couple of days the poor boy was alive no more – having been thrown off a balcony to make it look like he took his own life. They even wrote a letter to the girl from him, made it say that he was sorry to leave her, but that he could never be what she needed and yet couldn’t bare to give her up, so instead he chose to take his life in the hope that she would move on without him. Something of the sort. It’s a long story, quite a few variations to it.”

“Still, I don’t quite understand where the crying portrait stems from…” I need an answer.

“Oh yes, yes, I forgot that’s what you were asking about in the first place. I’m sorry Miss.” He is kind, friendly even. He must not get many people coming to see him, she thinks. “The photograph that is known as the crying portrait was the last he ever took, the very one of young Miss Laura Emmerton. After hearing of her beloved fiancée’s suicide the will to live left her, and she died shortly thereafter from a broken heart. Sad, isn’t it?” A pause. He breathes, looks up at her. “Anyway, it is said that the day she died was the first time the Portrait cried – upon seeing it do so the family got rid of it immediately. Threw it out, I believe, but someone must have found it as it still lives. It has had many owners, a long history, but what causes the legend to stick is the frightening fact that the portrait has begun crying, and within a week of this happening its owner has died. Often the deaths are quite gruesome.” Sigh.

“And this is the case for all the owners up until you?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“What made you want to acquire the portrait, then?” It is not only for knowledge that she asks, but also genuine interest in the answer.

“It is quite the beautiful portrait. I’ll show you if you want, young lady. It hangs in the parlour. It cried the week before my beloved Annalee died – I have every bit of faith that the legend is true – although how the portrait came to have such strange powers, I do not know.”

“I’d love to see it.”

Mr Wrington, or Harry – he asks her to call him Harry, gets out of his chair. It is only when he stands up, shoulders slumped forward, slouching posture, barely anything but skin on his bones, that she realizes just how old and frail and probably lonely he is. He walks slowly with the aid of a cane, takes her back through the entrance hall with the arched ceiling and through different corridors, and they end up in a large room filled with light. There are huge windows covered by lucid green curtains, and directly facing the entrance hangs the portrait.

“Malika.” A whisper to herself. I’ve found your story, how do I find you?

The old man must have heard her, turning his head and looking at her in a strange and slightly uncomfortable way – asks if there was more than just an article for a magazine behind Miss May making the journey out to see him. Well, you see Mr Wrighton, there is a man who calls himself K who wants me to find a goddess, and she seems to be the one. No. She lies, tells him it is only for the article, that she fell in love with the name and that caused the whisper.

He seems content with the answer, but something in his demeanour has changed. He tells her be careful, that bad things have happened when it comes to the photograph her curiosity draws her to, and no one knows the reason.

You will know the reason. You will find the reason. If it is there, you will. Breathe. Just remember, do not make her cry or it will be the end of you – that’s not something you want. All her portrait ever caused was pain and suffering to those that got close. Watch your step. If you startle the beast it will soon be you who are the hunted.

***

The train stopped dead in its tracks, hasn’t moved for a couple of hours. She’s been sleeping for one of them, but wakes up to a screeching pain in her neck from forcing it to remain in a strange angle for far too long. What they’ve been told is that the train ran into a moose, huge animal, and they’re waiting for some far too slow person to come and kill the thing humanely so they can move it from the tracks. She walked to the front of the train to the many carriages, asked if it were possible to go outside, but they said no. No, we cannot let you, I’m sorry. That would not suit our policy, there would be security issues. Some other bullshit, she can’t be bothered discussing with him sure she’ll get nowhere.

Still, through the left window of the foremost carriage she saw one of the animal’s legs stretched out in a morbid angle, the sunset reflecting in its fur making it appear more orange than brown. It is a strange sight that will remain in her mind for quite some time.

She walks back through the train’s many compartments and back to her own,  finding the diary at the bottom of her bag, a pen even better hidden, then writes down the story the little, hunched and wrinkled Mr Wrington told her. The pen fills page up and page down, and she takes care to also mention the warning he offered. It might matter at some point, she thinks, not knowing when that might be.

Another couple of hours pass slowly, time she spends reading a book – there’s one with her at all times – and eventually the train starts moving again. Just as night settles into the streets she arrives at the station, making the short walk home. Taj called her whilst on the train, wanted to see her for some reason, so after having stopped by her apartment to drop of unneeded things and change into something more suited, she heads back out.

Tired. That’s all she can think of. I’m so tired. However, she promised, and arrives at the bar having tried to lift her spirits. She meets and greets, tries to keep her mood up, but Taj can tell.

“Hey, John!” she yells through the music. “We’re going up to your place, see you later.” No reply, he is busy making drinks for the masses, but it’s fine, they know. Always is.

The two of them leave. Through the back-door and up a narrow staircase, Taj locking them in to the surprisingly tidy bachelor pad. The crows-nest haired girl stumbles inside, having already had enough to drink for the night, it seems. They both laugh, settling down in the almost-too-comfortable leather couch in each their corner facing each other.

It is hard not to fall asleep when her eyes almost close on their own accord as quickly as she relaxes. Wishes this could wait till the morning, but she’s already here now.

“What was it you wanted to see me about?” She eventually speaks, tired of waiting. Tired.

“Oh, yeah!” Taj seems to snap out of her own world, looking up. “I got this really weird letter today, I figured no harm in showing it to you – maybe you can make more sense of it than I could.” She takes a folded piece of paper out of her pocket, hands the already crumpled paper over.

“Where’d you get it from?”

“It was pinned to my door when I got home. I went to work like normal at the station, and when I got back it was there. Oh, by the way, that reminds me of another thing –“ She wants to read the letter, very nervous about what it could contain, but pretends – I’ve been doing that a lot lately – to know nothing to keep her cover. “They need a new host for the morning show, I told them I had a friend who’d fit really well ‘cause, well, you keep saying how much you hate your job.”

“Really?” Taj works at a fairly popular radiostation, and she’s been there plenty of times to visit already. “I’ll stop by tomorrow or something and talk to them – thanks!” She smiles, grins almost. “Now, let me read the damn letter, will you?”

The words read slowly, running through her mind more like tar than water. In itself, the letter appears strange and nothing more, but knowing what she knows, reading it sends shivers down her spine. It seems to her, clearly, that this is a threat. Between the lines lie that actual meaning - and it is telling her to back off and keep her distance. It screams that she is getting too close, but reads like a message of concern to anyone else.

Dear Tajana,

You seem to be overworked lately, tired. You really should rest, or your body might not take it so well. I wouldn’t want you to get sick, nobody likes such troubles.

Take care, now. Don’t press on too hard.

Love,
A Mystery

She feels the blood draining from her cheeks, heartbeat rising. This is not good, she can’t risk Tajana getting hurt over old secrets – oh, were they only secrets nothing more, nothing she was so desperate to keep from the surface. It’s uncomfortable, she says, strange for someone to be sending such a letter. Taj nods, agrees that it is strange for someone to do such a thing, but at the same time she seems to find it slightly flattering, dreamily saying that maybe she just has a secret admirer.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” She sounds excited. Hopefully it is all to blame on the alcohol, nothing more. If she became involved in things, everything would be far more difficult.

“May be. You never know with secret admirers, though, do you? What if it turns out to be some creep you don’t even like.” I’m sorry, Taj, really. I don’t mean to be breaking your spirit, but I can’t let you get your hopes up, won’t let you fumble your way into this.

A little chit-chat and half a late-night talk show later, Taj is sound asleep, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keep her warm, her head propped up on what might be too many pillows – if so there will be complaints tomorrow. She leaves the apartment, locks up, and walks back down to the bar enjoying the hazy drone that is all she can hear of the music through the walls. At the bar, she hands over the keys, then takes a walk to clear her head and attempt to figure things out.

She doesn’t. Figure anything out. What she does instead is run into the part-time lover as he’s chatting up a new girl, not so fun. In the end, she roams the streets for a couple of hours until finding a place that still holds open when dawn draws near. She goes inside, it’s dark and damp and smells of years of smoke and alcohol, which is the perfect description.

 There are only a few people inside, mostly they look like regulars – a group of men sitting in at a corner table and a handful of people her own age talking to the bartender knowing him too well to only have met him earlier tonight. Then there are the creatures of the night, like herself, easy to recognize by the way they surround themselves with an aura of I couldn’t care less and fuck me like an animal.

One of them catches her eye. He’s tall, short, black and messy hair, pale skin - an extremely attractive voice that sounds a little too familiar and a glass of something strongly intoxicating in his hand. Just the kind of boy she likes to play with. She walks over to him, asks the bartender if there’s anything behind the bar that tastes like Cherry – no, not Sherry and downs the first glass in all of two chugs. Slams it into the bar for a second room, and the man turns to face her…

“Christian? What are you doing here?”

“Nice to meet you too, Cherry.” Her name is a murmur on his lips.

“I wasn’t expecting to run into someone familiar in a place like this – I’m sorry if I…” Her jaw drops as the man Christian had been talking to also turns towards her – Maybe-Alex. “Alex, you too…?” She looks at him in a way she hopes conveys her what are you doing here, this is creepy, stop coming into every part of my life intention.

“You know him?” Christian says the exact same moment maybe-Alex asks the same question in a slight different manner.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with Christian, Cherry…” Crap. Oh crap. Out of all the names I’ve taken on, please don’t question this one…  “We were just talking when he described this curious girl who sounded just like you, and well, here you are.” She can’t quite tell if his smile is more mischievous or teasing.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other?” she wants to dodge what could easily be a tough question to answer considering she’ll have to remember all the lies later, no book to write them down in now. She throws the metaphoric ball back at them.

“We don’t, really,” Christian says, politely as that is how he does things. “We only started speaking tonight, here at the bar. We were drinking the same thing and got to discussing which whisky is better – no agreement yet.”

“Ah, so that’s how the story goes. It would be such a coincidence to have recently met you two separately only to find your you knew each other. Stranger things have happened, I suppose, but you catch my drift I hope.”

“Haha, yes indeed,” maybe-Alex still wears the same smile as earlier, giving her a very uneasy feeling. “Oh, and Cherry – I was hoping we could talk soon, there’s this matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Yeah, yeah –“ she wants him gone. Now. “You’ve got my number, just call me tomorrow. Preferably at a kind hour…” They all laugh, but maybe-Alex refuses her far from subtle hinting and does not leave. Too close for comfort.

“Well,” Christian yawns, smiles, and yawns again. “I should probably get going – I’ve got work in the morning, and it’s’ almost morning. I’ll be about as lively as a corpse if I don’t get a little sleep soon. Good night, Alexander. And you, Cherry –,“ he takes her hand, kisses it. “Good night, I hope I’ll see you again.”

Typical of her luck, she is left alone with maybe-Alex, or Alexander, or whoever he is. He is beginning to get on her nerves – no, he did that was when he came into John’s bar – he is pushing the limit. She is mad, annoyed and denied sex with a hot man, and she is not pleasant in any of those conditions separately. Right now, she wouldn’t have wanted to go near herself.

She grabs hold of maybe-Alex the annoying twat’s shirt, forgets that he is close to Mr K, that he holds power over her, and drags him outside into the cold morning air, where she screams at him until her throat is sore. She screams in anger, in worry, in desperation. She screams at him because she is lost and he said he’d be there for her but left again and she doesn’t know what to do and then he interferers with everything and it’s all such a mess. Most of all, she screams because she is scared. Truly, deeply scared.

By the time she is done screaming, she’s all out of breath, and Alexander tells her to breathe.

Breathe. Yes, good idea. He’s not as dumb as he looks, you know. Breathe. Air. Good. You shouldn’t have screamed so much, you’ll hardly be able to speak in the morning. Stupid girl, accept any outstretched hand, you can’t afford to pick and choose.

Alexander. It feels strange without the maybe. She still doesn’t trust him, this maybe-boy, but what choice does she have other than listening to him. Out of all the people in her current world, he is the one who knows the most other than the love lost who is never really there even when he is.

He makes her sit down on the worn brick-fence that runs by the bar, her fingers holding on to the ledge like it is the only thing in the world she has to hold on to. That’s not so far from true, is it? It takes a while for her to calm down, but eventually she does. Eventually the storm passes, and she regains her faux-composed exterior, not much comfort as she feels Alex looking straight through her.

When he feels safe she won’t lash out at him violently if he opens his mouth, he speaks. What he tells her is bad news, and worse news. For some reason he seems to be on her side, and she cannot for the life of her figure out why.

“You should get out while you still can.” For the first time since she’s met him, he seems perfectly sincere.

“What do you mean?”

“You should get out while you still can.”

“Are you insane? It’s past where I can just say no – he’s even threatened Taj! I can’t just walk away.”

“What? I had no idea, he didn’t tell me anything about that… You can still leave, though. Just go somewhere far away and never look back. You’re far better of that way.”

“I see that’s what you’ve done.” Her voice is spiteful – he really doesn’t understand anything. “I’m not the type to just walk out on my friends, especially not when it’s because of me they’ve got into trouble in the first place. Don’t you know the first thing about loyalty?”

“Maybe I don’t, but at least I’m still alive…” A pause. Too long. “I found her, you know. Laura Malika Emmerton, also known as The Goddess. If you think she’s dead, well, you’re right, but you’re wrong.  She’s about as far from dead as they get. The only reason I’m standing here is because I never told him. I said I never found out, but I played my cards right – said I still wanted to help him. I’ve never seen anyone leave of their own free will, or without being dead, for that matter.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s real, and she’s not dead. A strange ghost, if you please – as is K, in fact.” As he says the words, he realizes softening the blow would have been a good idea, but too late now. Her jaw is metaphorically on the floor – literally as far down as they get, her eyes wide open in an expression of disbelief and pure shock. “It sounds about a million times too farfetched to be true, right? I know, I’ve been there.”

He goes on to tell her the story of how he found out about Mr Wrington and his portraits. That he also heard the tale of the crying portrait without believing it – but also how it was proven true to him. One evening the even then old man had called him, told him to get there as quickly as he could. When he got to the mansion in the middle of the fields, the butler has led him to the portrait, and he thought they were playing him for a fool when he saw tears coming from the portrait’s eyes, actual drops forming and falling to the floor. He voiced his thoughts, and they let him do anything he wanted to the portrait – having checked every possibility, looked at every inch, there was nothing to do but accept the undeniable truth of a crying photograph.

Two days later, the lady of the house died – murdered in her sleep and they never found a clue. Mr K he says. It was K. She makes him do terrible things, and he’s not too happy about it. He goes on, tells her that he decided to look into things by himself – finding coincidence to be too weak a word to describe the things happening. He had begun to spy on the man he was working for, wanting to know what was really going on, but he hadn’t been able to continue after he was so very nearly caught he could have died. What he did discover was that the two, K and Laura Malika Emmerton knew each other. Know. He isn’t sure, he says, that their relationship confuses him. Obviously, they cannot have known each other in life as the young miss Emmerton died a long time before K could have possibly been born. Something isn’t right.

He knew there was no way out, he says, not one he wanted to take. Even so, he didn’t want to go the way of finding the goddess either, certain it would bring about something he held no desire for, so he decided to pretend to be on K’s side. Now, he tells her, because of her, there might be a way out. If they work together, maybe they can get free from the web the maestro has them entangled in.

There is more, but the details blur after a while, and she ask him to write it down for her later.

Later. Are you going to take yet another home with you? Do you even have track of how many men have been in your bed, little girl with all the issues? You shouldn’t do this, it’s bad. There’s something wrong with a story so perfectly timed, a distortion or maybe just a vignette upon the truth, darkening the edges of it. Things become unclear. Can, cannot. Can, cannot. Pick the leafs of the flower and watch them fall, and what are you left with? Do you trust him?

She is shaking by the end of it, and after a minute of uncomfortable silence and watching each other, without warning, Alexander grips her wrists firmly, forcing them to keep still. Forcing her to keep still. He tells her it’s ok to be scared, that he understands. Says it will work out in the end like these things do. One lie she will not fall for – the both know just how terrible the outcome could be. And then he shatters her world.

Not as a metaphor. He actually, literally shatters her world into millions of little bits, the sky falling down like pieces of a shattered mirror. The buildings around her begin to change, some grow, some shrink, some move, and some disappear completely. It feels strange to watch the world around you change, when normally the only change you notice so suddenly is in yourself.

“This is what the world really looks like, you know.” The way he speaks, nothing about it seems strange to him. “The gods can grant you powers just as easily as they can take your life. She gave me the ability so see things for what they really are the day I watched her portrait cry, the ability to see the world for what it really is.”

Even the people inside the bar, which is now an entirely black building with bars on every possible escape-route that look as if they require some kind of a passcode to open, she sees through the window, have changed. They’re taking on traits of animals, new colours, changing sizes. It is such a strange sight she does not fully manage to comprehend, and in an instant, it is gone. She realizes she didn’t look at maybe-Alex. He smiles like a man with a secret, like he knows something she doesn’t. She wishes she had thought to look. What did he see me as?

“Things aren’t always what they seem.”’

“…I see.”

From there she doesn’t quite know what happens, but she ends up at home in her bed alone, not knowing whether the one she would most like in her bed is Christian or Lover or Former Love or maybe even maybe-Alex. She feels so small, vulnerable. Feels the intense fear of having the whole world as she knows it change right under her feet with no control of anything. The last thing on her mind before she sleeps is a memory from her childhood long since gone, the ceiling of a church and the warm light of burning candles and southern summer air. Father’s funeral. She remembers all too well every last detail from that day, how everything felt and looked and smelled and tasted and… She was only four, it was far too early to understand such things as death and the frailty that comes with being human.

When she wakes up, she expects to do so alone – doesn’t remember too much of the night, all of it being a surreal blur, and nothing at all of returning to the apartment or getting into bed. All she remembers is the memory of father’s funeral and mothers growing coldness. A faint scent makes itself known to her, and she starts to notice little things like sounds that aren’t supposed to be there, things being an inch out of their normal places. She is worried, the feeling confirmed as she steps into the kitchen to see maybe-Alexander cooking breakfast for her. Luckily it isn’t pancakes, that would have been too creepy.

He orders her to sit down as the table as he serves up a dish of eggs, bacon and fresh vegetables that she is sure were not in her apartment before she left it yesterday – one plate for her and one for him. They eat silence, the only interruption the sounds of their food being chewed, but upon finishing she drops the polite façade she was originally going with for an approach much more like her normal self.

She lashes out at him, asking what on earth he is doing in her apartment and how he got in and where the food is from and all the silly questions that don’t really matter but which come to mind at a time like this. He answers each and every one; he walked her home last night, stayed until morning as he was worried, she was crying in her sleep, tossing and turning and feverish. He went out to buy some food for them, borrowing the key he found lying about on the kitchen counter, as he was hungry and thought she might be as well – no evil innuendo behind it. Yes, his name really is Alexander. Toby Alexander Mayfair, to be exact, and she can look him up several places like the phonebook or census or any other logical place to start. Her cheeks redden as she realizes he probably is telling the truth about these things, and the many silly questions she has asked – the way she’s been behaving.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says kindly, “you’re in a very unfortunate position, and it’s probably as confusing for you as it was for me. I know what it’s like, kind of.”

He accepts her apology for the way she has acted, and the air feels less tense, maybe even breathable by now, and a desire to trust him makes itself known to her. In this mess, it would be nice for someone to understand, when the only one she’s told has probably drunk away the memory in is half way round the world on a ship or in a port with some woman. She finds herself standing in the kitchen hugging him, her actions out of her hands. It’s been a long time since she just did something without thinking of the consequences, like this.

Apparently, lightning does strike twice – and then it just keeps coming back. She experienced the first strike when Father died – and accident, they called it, the suit-clad men that came knocking on the door after it happened. He died honourably, for his country, stabbed thirteen times in the heart for his country. A bruised and mangled corpse, for his country. Then it was Mother; she came home from school one day, eleven years old, to find Mother’s skull cracked open on the tiled kitchen floor, nothing accidental about it, so much blood.

There were foster-homes and angry women, violent men and abusive brothers, years of them. Only a handful of people spoke her real name after mothers death, she never let any of the others be so personal. The few who got close were a teacher who tried to care, two good friends, a boy and the old man at the library. They are all gone. Every person who ever spoke her name is gone. That is why she keeps it guarded, has them call her anything but that.

“Do you know my name? I mean my birth name.” She needs to know.

“Yes. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask why you go by every other name but it?”

“You can never say it. Bad things always happen, so just… Please, don’t say my name.”

“I won’t. Promise.” He doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need to. There are so many strange things, he has come to learn that if he were to try to understand them all, the only thing he would accomplish is insanity.

“Thank you,” she smiles, warily.

“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when everyone has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself. In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.” His voice but a whisper as he speaks the words, she looks strangely at him, she doesn’t understand. “Soren Kierkegaard,” he says, as to explain. “I find it a perfect fit for this situation, don’t you?”

“I don’t…” Hesitation, only a moment, “I suppose so…” Her words fade out, and no-longer-maybe Alex does something she did not expect, he comes too close, kisses her cheek. She backs away.

“Don’t worry, Cherry, I won’t speak your name to a soul. I should leave, I’ve been here for too long already.”

It only takes him a minute or two to gather his things, then it’s out the door. He has to go back, to avoid suspicion if it hasn’t already arisen, but when this one leaves her she actually believes he’ll be back.

***

There have been many times in life that she has wondered if what she was doing or going through might be just a dream, but none such as this. No other situations have arose in which she’s been chasing ghosts and goddesses that could kill her by crying and strange men that have lived for too long and so many things she doesn’t understand. There have been many times lately that she has found herself shaking her head at all of it, but what can she do. The things she’s seen by now, they’re not just tricks, there’s got to be more to it than that.

 You always wanted proof that there was more to life than you could see, didn’t you - that there was something beyond the ordinary, surpassing life and death and all such things? Now you have it, why aren’t you smiling? Isn’t this what you were looking for all along, an adventure? Breathe now, just breathe in the darkness and let it take you over. If you wouldn’t mind, smile as you do so – I like my lost souls looking pretty.

“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when everyone has to throw off his mask?” She mumbles to herself, remembering the strange passage Alex recited shortly before he left her apartment some days ago. She hasn’t seen him since, nor heard from him. Worry, that’s what she is feeling. Hoping that he is did not get harmed because of her, she would never stop blaming herself it that were the case.

She’s been looking into mysterious Mr K. Backtracked her memory for anything concerning him, read every word jotted down in the journal. There hasn’t been too much useful information to find, but some small details have made themselves known to her. She’s managed to find out some more about Laura Malika Emmerton, like when she was alive, a little about who she was and details of her death, after many long hours in the library reading through old newspapers.

The Emmerton family name was well known up until the young Miss Laura Emmerton so tragically killed herself. Before her untimely death, the family had been revered and respected, kind people who contributed to the society around them and always lent a helping hand to those in need. However, in reports of the lady’s death, it was uncovered that the smiling outwards appearance was far from the truth of family life at the Emmerton manor, which, the reporters speculated, might have been more a house of horrors than the sanctuary so many thought it to be. The family fell apart when their only daughter died, mother and father living the remainder of their sad lives not speaking to one another, the son of the household trying to keep things together until it became too much and he drowned himself in a bottle.

Miss Laura Malika Emmerton had been a society’s darling, always to speed with the latest everything – or so the articles made it seem. Apparently she had also been into clairvoyants, having made the discovery of one of the greatest – one article said – a Madame Amaranthe. Some even further investigating and she discovers that the Madame died at an age of eighty-two, leaving behind a daughter of sixty-four and a granddaughter of forty and a great-granddaughter of nineteen – the family business having been passed down through generations from mother to daughter. How peaceful it must be, she thinks, to never have to involve a man into your life to keep him there.

The youngest Madame Amaranthe, Océan, has carried on the family business, and the all-mighty internet tells her that the girl is still to be found in the area her great-grandmother lived in, out in the once so lively area around Marlou Manor. There is an address listed, and a telephone number that she decides to call. A couple of rings and a twelve-minute conversation later, and they have arranged a meeting in two days. She told Océan that it has to do with her great-grandmother and something that belongs in the past, but not exactly what.

The girl says her former generations often spoke of strange and unfortunate happenings back in the first Madame Amaranthe’s day, but that she never knew what. Maybe her mother would, she said, she can ask her to come as well. Yes please. When she mentioned the name she was looking into the girl suddenly goes silent on the other end, but after a short break her bright voice is heard again, mentioning nothing of it and concluding the arrangement plans of when and where before she hangs up.

That is that. As much as she’s looked into Malika – she still prefers to call her that – she’s only found one trail that leads anywhere. A lot of the people around the girl at the time of her death have seemingly left no trace of themselves or their descendants, making it very hard to look for them. Thankful for what she finds, she keeps her spirits up and looks for other things. Like the photographer and fiancée, Quentin Parana. Maybe other clues lie with him.

There are even more articles concerning the young photographer, but there is the problem that most of them are about him only as a photographer, not about the man himself. These articles give her nothing at all. She has to dig very deep to find anything on Parana, but eventually the hours upon hours pay off and there is something. A clue, maybe, towards solving the mystery.

There is an article about a fire, from a very old newspaper, one of the oldest she’s looked in. In it she reads the story of how a poor boy was rendered orphan by the terrible fire that took his parents’ lives, a child named Quentin Kerr. K. Something in her both freezes and sparks up at the same time. It is so very far from anything plausible that there could be a connection with a young, orphaned boy turned photographer who was killed so long ago to a man very much still alive and in any case far too young, and the thought itself that he might be still alive terrifying, still she finds herself hoping. It would explain so many things if the reason he was looking for her was because he was the unfortunate fiancée of the girl, the boy pushed off a ledge an impossibly long time ago for someone still alive.

Night falls, then leaves in favour of the morning sun before she finally goes to bed. She has found out that there was no family left behind after Quentin Kerr Parana, not a soul who really cared about his death other than having lost a part of society in a less than favourable way. The boy had definitely been dead after the fall, buried a week later outside the cemetery where those that chose death over life were laid to rest as souls that could not pass into heaven. Only a short while later the lovers got their eternity as Laura was buried next to him, to her family’s discontent. Nothing to do about it, the church had said, but accept that she had doomed herself to this fate.

She is no closer to Mr K in her mind, nor in real life – although the latter she does not know herself. She could not possibly.

As sleep takes her in, the darkness like a safe, warm blanket around her, a man that has everything to do with what she is trying to discover himself is just waking up from a dream. He dreamt the memories of a soul much older than himself, one to whom he signed his body in his sleep in return for something he is no longer sure was worth any of all these troubles. He used to be a happier man, a materialistic bastard, but a happier man. Now he is in a dark place, his soul not completely in his control any longer, nor his mind.

His dreams for the past twenty years have been of warm, sunny days hiding away from everyone and everything in a great garden with her lover, the touch of a working man’s calloused hand on every inch of her skin – the scent in the nook of his neck and the way his eyes shone with joy every single time he laid eyes on her. His emotions are not his any longer, now he misses people he never knew, wishes he hadn’t done things he’s never even thought of. It wasn’t always this way.

In the beginning, she only wanted his dreams to have a way out of the eternal roaming she felt, she said. In the beginning, the prospect of living forever in exchange for lending your dreams to a ghost seemed not so bad. In the beginning, signing the life of his son over to the ghost-woman seemed so surreal he never thought it would come back to haunt him. It did, though. He though that by the time the boy turned sixteen he would have found a way out of his deal with the devil, but he learned too late that there is no way out. The boy was bound forever by an agreement in which he had no say, and from which he got nothing. He belonged to her, now, body and soul.

The old man is contemplating taking his own life, but knowing a ghost he knows it will not get him anywhere – instead he has begun living a god-fearing life, waiting for death to come for him, knowing it won’t. That was the deal he made, the one he regrets every second of every day. His days will end by his own hand, he thinks, then goes to church.

The ghost follows him everywhere. She used to be such a gentle spirit when she was alive, a girl who loved to live and lived to love, she used to say about herself. Now all she is; a melancholy and bitter ghost living to tear the lives of others apart the same way hers was torn to pieces. If she cannot live and cannot die, why should it be different for others?

The only thing the ghost of Miss Laura Malika Emmererton wanted was someone to love, and the boy seemed so sweet and innocent where he lay in his crib, there was nothing else she would have in exchange for her powers. She got what she wanted. As he grew older, she was always with him, never changing. Unlike him, a human still very much alive and capable of life, she never changed even the slightest. It makes her feel terrible, in retrospect, to know she is the one who had hindered him from being a normal person all these years, but what was she to do? She was never a solitary creature, couldn’t deal with the silence or her never-changing situation in ever-changing surroundings. It would be enough to drive any person insane. And now, now he is looking for her. She hasn’t been to see him for some years, unsure whether he is looking for her out of hatred and a desire for revenge, or if he actually does want her there.

Matters that fall between the realm of the living and the dead are very complicated things, there are no rules to avoid, nor any guidelines to go by. She wishes she could have done what he asked of her, that they could have run away together and had the life that they wanted – but she had to say no, thinking her father would understand, that he would let her be happy. Alas, that was not the case, and voila – ghost.

The boy used to look so much like her long-gone lover. The same eyes, same smile. She used to appears to him sometimes, making herself seem human not to frighten young Keir. A strange name, the boy had, his father had told her he was vaguely named after the old family name, Kerr.

That was the day she began to believe in reincarnation, desperately needing something to cling to so as to understand the similarities, the way she felt around the then child. The man breathes heavily. If I kill myself, he thinks, and my body is no longer in this realm, will my son still be afflicted by this hellish curse I bound him with before he could even speak? He doesn’t know the answer, but someday soon he is prepared to test his thesis.

A ghost, an old man and a boy whose soul was sold all shudder at the feeling of a cold gust even though they are nowhere near each other. They all know what this means, she is closing in. Back in her bed, nested between pillows and covers, she dreams of the days people still knew her name. There was a time when she told anyone that wanted to know, but the five-letter curse given to her by her parents only lives in her dreams and her own mind now, she won’t allow it to be on anyone’s lips again knowing the fate it cause all who have spoken it before.

She has looked into it, spent so much time and effort only to find that they all died, every last one. She does not want to remember their faces, but even time doesn’t seem to help as she recalls them all clearly as ever down to the last line on mothers face or the scar on her best friend’s shoulder.

Waking up in tears is something you get used to. Got used to. So many years you cried every morning, at least now it’s only now and then. The wounds heal and scars fade. Remember this and breathe. The memories are still alive because of you, you’re holding on. You need to let the past go, silly girl. Just breathe, then forget them all… But you can’t, can you? You won’t ever be ready to face how it all comes down to you – that you’re the reason they’re all gone.

Whenever she wakes up this way, chocked up in tears, red eyes and red cheeks and throat swollen from screaming in her sleep, all she wants to do is join all the ghosts on the other side. She misses the way Tin would wake her up from the bad dreams and hold her tightly to his body until she stopped shaking and the hurt let go of her heart, allowing it to beat freely again. He may be mostly harmful, but the little things cause her to miss him so terribly. Sometimes she wishes she’d never walked away, that she’d stayed even though it would have killed her – what would be so bad about dying when you’ve got nothing to live for anyway.

The phone rings, and she clears all thoughts from her mind and coughs a couple of times to try and regain a somewhat normal voice, then answers groggily. It’s the guy from Taj’s radio station that she was supposed to talk to but fuck fuck fuck completely forgot about.

“You Taj’s friend?” He says.

“Yeah, that’s me. Why?” She knows, but he doesn’t have to be made aware of that.

“She tells me you might be interested in a job with us – that you’d be a good fit for the morning show. What do you think?”

“Well, I’m definitely interested. If I’m a good fit or not is up to you to decide – but I can keep talking about nothing for hours on end, if that’s part of the job description. I’m under the impression that it is.”

“Well, we don’t call it nothing…” He laughs – good sign, “but I suppose that’s what it really is. How ‘bout you come by later today and we’ll have a chat so I can see what you’re good for, eh? I take it you know how to find us.”

“Yeah – Yes! I’d love that, I’ll be over within a couple of hours.” Score. A way out of that soul-crushing avalanche of empty words at the factory.

“I’ll see you then. Just ask for Gábor when you get here, they’ll send you straight to me.”

“Thanks.” – Click. He’s hung up.

Frantically, she gets out of bed. She needs a shower, and in the state she’s a cup of tea to calm down after that. The redness and puffiness of her eyes will fade within forty minutes, she’ll go then.

Things take time, and suddenly an hour has passed. Fuck, she thinks for the nth time that day, stressing out the door almost forgetting her keys, barely managing to keep the door from locking shut behind her. Runs to get them, then down the stairs and out the door, hailing the first cab she sees.

It takes another quarter of an hour, but she finally arrives at her destination and gets out, tipping the driver far too well as there’s no time to wait for the change. She half-runs across the street and into the building, only stopping once she’s in the elevator. From there, it’s easy. She asks a girl with very long blonde hair where she can find Gábor, and the girl explains – mostly with her hands – how to get to him.

Get to him, she does. He’s a big man, larger than his voice suggested. Not as much bulk as build, but there is a bit to shed there as well, she thinks. Regardless, he looks like a very agreeable person, and she takes his hand, then sits down to talk. Conversation flows easily, they get along as well as fog and lakes in winter. She likes him, the way he talks, sure in his choice of words and never an inch off topic. This is the kind of communication she prefers, the straightforward and simple kind.

She walks away with a new job and a better outlook on life than in a while – she can quit the damn hellhole and still afford to live her current life now – he said he’d match her average salary if she did the night show from three to six every other weekday. She agreed, easily, much rather talking to the void of people in the city over wavelengths than killing every bit of creativity in herself.

Upon returning home she remembers that she hasn’t yet written down the various things she found out through hours in the library and searching through files to be find on the world wide web of strange. She takes the time to properly write it all down, even to glue some of the articles she took copies of into the book, and a couple of portraits of the people she needs to remember. This is good, she thinks. I’m beginning to get somewhere. Only five weeks left, but at least I have something now, and an accomplice at that.

Her joy was to be short-lived. An hour of trying to make sense of all the pieces and she hears the by now familiar sound of a piece of paper being slipped under her door. However much she wishes she didn’t have to, she get out of the kitchen windowsill, sometimes I wonder why I even have a living-room, it’s not like I’m ever there, and picks up the note. It is folded this time, but no other marks on the plain white paper. She opens it up, an unpleasant surprise. There are blood-stains, and this time there is no signature. What’s made him change his ways, she wonders, reading the strange message with horror growing in her eyes until there is nothing else left to see in them.

Hello Death, it reads. I know who you are, I’m sure you believe me. I am aware what you are doing as well, looking for ghosts and diving into the past, forming alliances that can’t possibly work out. This won’t end well; I hope you don’t believe it can. You’re challenging forces far greater than yourself, and I. Will. Drown. You. if I have to. Don’t hesitate even for a second that I can hurt you if you hurt him – which you will if you keep trying to find this goddess he has you looking for. I know everything, and I can cause you great harm in many ways, not only by directing actions towards you personally. Tough love. No love.

Who is this? What is happening. The familiar feeling of the world crumbling about her, falling to the ground that is no longer there. Is it all just a figment of her imagination, perhaps? She desperately hopes so. Needs it to be the case though of course she knows it is not.

She doesn’t know what to do – whether to keep going and risk so much or if she should end the mad journey she’s begun and take the consequences. It’s all too much – it all turns black. She faints. Falls to the floor where she lays for hours, unmoving.

A door to the head wakes her up, and she swears a long string of words never otherwise used, her words blurred as she is not yet quite awake. It’s Taj, having used her key to the apartment to lock herself in, saying she got worried when she tried to call and text for more than a day with no answer.

“It just wasn’t like you, so I figured something was wrong… I was real worried, you know.” She’s sitting on the end of the bed now, having helped her friend lay down somewhere softer than the floor, more comfortable. They have each their cup of steaming hot tea, trying to drink it without burning lips or tongues.

“I don’t even know what happened, I guess I’ve slept or eaten too little lately, or both maybe…” It’s a lie. Well, not entirely, she hasn’t been eating and sleeping enough, but mostly it was the shock of the letter that brought her to her knees and then the floor.

“You had a note in your hand when I found you,” Taj said. “I’m sorry, but I read it, and… - It’s really frightening, who send you that? It kind of reminds me of the one I got, just that mine wasn’t so, well, mean.” There are a million more questions she could ask, but she knows her friend well enough to know that not all secrets will be spoken out loud – rather very few.

“Ah. Yeah. That.” The words don’t go together, but she can’t seem to find any that do to describe the mess she’s in by now. Conversationally, it feels like she’s up to her neck in quicksand, sinking ever further down.  “I’ve been getting a lot of these weird notes lately. Actually, my life’s been a lot of weird lately.” Change topic, change topic, change topic now… “But yeah, anyway – maybe you’ve heard, but I got the job. At the radio, you know, I agreed to work some night shifts as well, he said he’d match my old pay then.”

“That’s great!” Really, Taj thinks, I want to talk about the strangeness of your life, but there’s no way you’ll let me do that, is there?

A short conversation continuing to avoid the important things, then Taj leaves, sure she’s doing better, and she falls asleep. If she could, she would hibernate – that’s what she feels like doing through all this mess, just sleep and wake up when it’s over. She envies the bears and how they sleep through the coldest part of the year, wishing she had the ability to do the same.

In the end, she doesn’t, waking up after some few hours confused by the time of day and the amount of stars in the sky. Maybe there’s a power out, that could be why they’re all so clearly visible, she thinks for a second before realizing that the lights in her apartment are on. No. Then what? How?

Knock on the door, and afraid of what she’ll find – she opens. There have been too many unpleasant surprises lately, but she finds herself smiling at this one, relieved even. It is Alex, unharmed, and she is so very thankful.

You’ve got a knack for finding the boys that make you worry and break your heart, you know. Foolish girl, when will you realize they’re not good for you. You can’t breathe from they leave until they come back, and that’s far too long with no air. You need to remember to let it in – out. In – out. He’s just like Tin, just like the one you’ll always love, you know.

A song comes to mind, the one that always makes her think of Tin. She doesn’t want to double the number of it can never be relations in her life, but she can’t help herself with this one. She needs him, she justifies to herself as she lets him inside. He’s the only one who knows as much as she does and isn’t half way around the world. And – she feels relief upon seeing him again. When she didn’t hear from him for a couple of days, she worried he’d been discovered.

It’s ok, he tells her. He’s safe for now – they’re safe. She doesn’t know why, but it soothes her to hear those words coming from him. Safe, seems a far off dream as she remembers the note now lying on her bedside table. What should she do, tell him or keep it her secret like all the other things. She leaves that decision for later, rather asking another question that has been on her mind.

“How much do you really know about me?”

“A lot.”

“Like what?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“It’s only fair, isn’t it, when I know next to nothing about you.” The truth is hard to swallow as she admits it to herself saying the words out loud, but she really does know nothing but what she hopes is his real name.

He reveals all her secrets, and it scares her. She asked because she wanted – needed to know, but almost wishes she hadn’t. He knows her past; how her father passed away, then her mother some time later leaving her to be cared for by people who didn’t care at all. He knows the dead friends and living friends and the story of how she ran from every place worse than the last with vague and fading hopes of finding something better. He traces, on the outside of her sweater, the deeps scar that runs across her back from her left shoulder to the right side of her waist.

She shudders, feeling his touch and knowing he has never seen the bare skin, nor should have known of the scar daddy gave her when she refused to be a good girl for the first time. There are reasons she stopped caring, and he was one of them. He would come into her room every night of the two months she lived there, at first only touching her gently, building up to the climax beating her where no one could see and fucking her raw. That night, she’d said stop. He’d reached out for the nearest sharp object, a tape dispenser, and pulled it across her back so harshly the mark would stay forever. It was then she decided to run away, and the next morning someone found her beaten and bloody on a sidewalk somewhere, taking her to a hospital that just sent her straight back to the system.

He wonders if he knows all of it or just the surface of things, hoping for the latter. He tells her all the things she and nobody else knows – nobody but him, now. Even her name, the most intimate detail, but he has agreed not to speak it, which will have to suffice as the knowledge can’t be taken back. A curse cannot be lifted so easily.

As he mentions the many dead, she cannot help but see their faces – and he must notice the expression on her face, quickly saving himself by ending the storytelling. Let’s just say I know it all, shall we. The surface all, but I don’t know your side of the story, only the side that’s been recorded somewhere before. She is relieved, at least her thoughts are not known to him – to them in some strange way. That would be too much.

Out of nowhere, at least it seems so to her, he puts her arms around her and pulls her closer to him, and it feels better than anything has for a long time. She rests her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat rhythmically and steadily, never wanting to move. We’ll be ok, he says, although neither of them quite believes it to be true.

Of all the birds up in the sky,      
 of all the oceans far and wide  
across the deserts where the lie
you are the one, the only             

Between the mountains and the fields  
the large, cold glaciers glimmering white              
here on this earth or far away   
You are the most beautiful girl that I know          

Sitting like this, she remembers the first time she felt truly loved after the death of her parents. At the edge of the deep, green sea she sat with a boy who was her best friend, and as the moon rose to it’s zenith he sang to her, the most wonderful words she had heard. He was her first love, a boy whose name she wishes she could forget if for no other reason than to lessen the pain. There was never time to say good bye, the world simply swallowed him up and spat him back out dead. He’d gone to the city one day – I want to see you when I get back, I found something you’ll love – and he never did come back. She heard, later, that he’d been shot for refusing to give up some insignificant thing to a black-hearted someone they never found, feeling so horribly guilty.

For the first time in years, she cries without it starting in her sleep. She cries because she misses them all. Cries because this wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out, and because she is afraid for herself and for everyone around her. She cries because there are so many things she’s been keeping inside, and he just holds her.

Normally, this is when she’d be busy drinking or fucking or smoking or something the pain away, living with vices and fading into oblivion. Instead, she lets the tears run down her cheek and fall wherever they may. Never once does Alex try to move or even speak a word until she stops shaking.

“How about I make you a cup of tea?” She smiles up at him, he’s standing now, and he walks into the kitchen. Thankfulness is what she feels towards him most of all, for letting her be rather than trying to make it better. Some things just need to be let out.

They sit up until far too late sipping tea and watching late night movies of the kind that are so bad the only appropriate reaction is to laugh. She’s lying in his lap, and he mindlessly strokes her hair as they talk about anything and everything, but mostly the mysteries at hand, and time.

Time is a key to this, they agree. If they can figure out the time-link between Mr K and Malika Goddess, maybe they can find out exactly what is going on. They are going the right direction on the wrong track, having no idea they’re missing an important link, no way of knowing. The new information they do have is the letter from Malika, a proof of her existence unless Mr K is playing them, which Alex swears he isn’t.

She is woken up by daylight pouring into the room, finding herself still in the lap of a sleeping Alex. Not wanting to wake him from an unknown dream bringing a smile to his face, she gets up carefully, then goes to the kitchen to start making breakfast. She’s done some shopping since last time he was there, stocked up on supplies so there’s actually food to make. A couple of eggs, some milk and various herbs mixed together makes for a great omelette, and she hears a groan sounding very much like him waking up as she’s frying the bacon, the air filling with the salty scent.

Her assumptions were correct, and she serves up breakfast in the living-room whilst they keep discussing what their next step should be.

“We can’t look further into K’s past,” Alex says between bites, “we’ve pushed our luck already.”

“But we have to; he’s the clearest clue as of now. If we could just find the connection between him and his goddess, maybe we could figure out how to find her as well…” her voice fades out as she falls into deep thoughts.

“If we do, we risk him finding out, and I really don’t know what he’ll do – but I doubt it’ll be very pleasant.”

“Why haven’t I thought of this before?!” An idea suddenly came to her, and even though she knows the danger of her plan, she thinks it might still be their best chance. “If we can track him back, you know, back to when she was alive – maybe we can find the connection between them!”

“I’m telling you – we’re already in deep water, it could kill us to go to far.” He raises his voice now. She’s never heard anything but normal talk from him, and it intimidates her when he changes.

“But we need to find something more, or do you want to live the rest of your life being a slave to him?” Her voice is raised as well, trying to convey a point she finds most important.

“I’m not his slave! And excuse me for not wanting to get murdered for some stupid history-lesson that might not even help us at all!” Now he is yelling, and it reminds her of her youth. All screams of anger do. She shudders; he catches himself before going any further not wanting to harm her.

“So, what? You’re telling me you don’t want out? That you won’t take this one risk when it’s a chance to get your life back? Working for K can’t possibly be a life anyway; it seems more like a prison if you ask me.” She wants so badly for him to see her side, to understand. They can be free of the mess, so why won’t he try it with her.

“You don’t know anything!” He seems almost angry now, not just disagreement in his voice but some stronger emotions.

“Well, if there’s something I don’t know maybe you should have told me!” To argue with him is something she doesn’t want, the potential outcome that they go their separate ways could be the end of the road for both of them.

“It’s not that fucking easy, The-“

“Don’t!” she interrupts him, terrified. “Don’t you fucking say my name… You don’t get to say my name.” She speaks sternly, leaves no room for discussing the topic, but he does none the less.

“What’s your big fear of someone saying your name, anyway?” It’s mocking, spiteful. The words sting like a million needles in her chest.

“…Just don’t. People who say my name usually don’t live very long, so please. I don’t want you dead on my account, ok?”

Silence falls, remains for too long a time. They move from awkward silence to dead silence to unbearable silence before Alexander decides to break it, his voice loud as nearby thunder to her ears. What he says next is something she never expected.

“I’m scared. It’s not that I don’t want to help you, it’s just that, well… Before you, before any  of this, there was a girl named Elizabeth. She was mine, you know, we were engaged and all, but then I got that god-damned note and all of this shit started happening to me, and when I couldn’t find that fucking ghost he’s chasing… Well, he made the one I loved a ghost. He had her killed, and he let me find her beaten and bloody on the floor when I got home one day. He never admitted it, but else could it have been? He had all the reasons in the world.”

“I’m so… Alex, I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know how to handle a situation like this, knowing she never speaks of her own losses, wanting to hide whenever someone else has in the past. “Still – I think we should look for a link in the past, I can’t see any other way to go from where we stand, we’re fairly lost, you’ve got to admit that.”

There’s no denying what she says, it is true they’re stuck, trapped in a corner with no other way out than breaking down the wall, still something screams that this is a bad – no, terrible idea. Best case scenario they’ll find a link, worst case they’ll find nothing but become the hunted rather than the hunting.

“I’m so fucking scared, you know?” Words she hadn’t expected to hear from Alex’s mouth fill the air, and their eyes lock.

“I know. So am I – terrified, even, but we can’t stop now. We need to – well, I need to get to the bottom of this, if not just give me whatever information you have on him and you can go. You don’t have to be a part of this, but I won’t stop until I’ve found what I’m looking for or I’m dead.” She means every syllable, turning back has never been her style – giving up is a foreign concept.

“You’re in no matter what… I mean, you really want to do this?”

“Yes. I’m in it until the very end.” There’s nothing to do but believe her when he sees the look in her eyes, decided and unwavering. I know you don’t want to, that you’re scared, but please say yes. Please come with me, I need you.

“What the heck. I’m in, fine. I’ve got nothing to lose but my life anyway, I suppose.” He sounds like a broken man with only the tiniest spark of hope left in him, but that is enough for her.

So now they are two, trapped and fucked and trying to fight their way to freedom. She knows now just how serious the opposition will get, never expected Alex to have the story he did, to have lost someone – least of all a girl, she can hardly imagine it.

They start making a plan, something sorely needed as they both realize if they’re going to work together it will be far more efficient splitting tasks as compared to the alterative of not knowing what the other is doing and doubling up on information. This could work, she finds herself hoping. It could really work, if the chance if ever so slight it is there that they might get free of the chains ensnaring them. How she hopes for freedom.

As morning approaches, she gets ready for her new job at the radio station, and he heads back to his apartment so Mr K’s men won’t come to get him and find the place empty. He has strict orders, he tells her, for what hours he can do as he pleases and when he has to stay in place, ready to do his masters bidding. They head out the door together, holding hands – this feels so strange – and he squeezes hers lightly right before he lets go. For the remainder of the day she still feels his touch, picks up on the faint scent of him that clings to her hair. She finds herself smiling as she speaks into the microphone for the first time in her new position, chatting away like it was all she’d ever done, with the occasional song thrown in. She takes a few requests, some calls from the listeners, then her hours are up and she’s out to find new information, her mood greatly lifted from previous attempts.

Today she has decided to track down whatever may be left of the Emmerton family, trace the tree to the tip of its branches to find any and every living relative. There’s a man in the city, he has been on various TV and radio-shows for his exact tracking of the city’s history and population, and she decides to pay him a visit. If anyone knows, she thinks, it has to be him. The only problem is that this is a man she has met before, and avoided for a while by now. Monsieur Hermé. Christian. A man of many trades. She just hopes and prays that he will still help her even though she has been rather less talkative and uninviting their most recent couple of run-ins. Why is it that there is always not a single interesting guy around or too many? What’s so wrong with one, is it an impossible number or something?

She calls him, decides it is probably better to give a forewarning of her planned visit, but when he answers the phone talking suddenly become that much harder. She manages to introduce herself stutteringly, his answers in a cold tone.

“You’ve avoided me for a while no, missy – how come you’re suddenly calling?”

“I need your help…” She hates admitting it, but it is the truth.

“My help? With what, exactly?” He’s teasing, wants to make this hard for her.

“I’m trying to track someone down,” all cards on the table, no more lies but not entire truths either. “The descendants of a girl named Laura Malika Emmerton or just anyone now alive who is related to her family.”

“What happened to you, by the way? One moment you’re all over me, the next you won’t look at me. Did I say something to offend you, Cherry?” She’s not sure of what the intention is behind his asking, but she thinks she picks up on irony in his voice.

“I… Well… Life. Things a million. I’m sorry if I led you on.”

“Fuck being sorry. If you were sorry you wouldn’t be here. Whatever, if you need to see the collection, sure, just don’t come asking me for more help.” Ill-concealed anger is rising to the surface, and there is annoyance in every word that he doesn’t even attempt to veil as he speaks to her.

The conversation ends, and suddenly she realizes something – it’s been two days since she talked to Oceané Amaranthe, that means they are supposed to be meeting today. Fuck, how do I keep forgetting things, important things. She keeps searching for Emmertons in the digital archive Christian has set up of all his many paper-files as she picks up her phone and finds Oceané in her list of recently dialled numbers, calling her up. She apologizes, but before she can explain why,  the girl, whose voice sounds like a summer breeze if it were the voice of a human, tells her not to worry and that she already knew.

“Just find who you are looking for first, then come.,” the psychic says. “This person, they will be immensely important for you to link your story together, the thread that holds it all in place. Now, focus. Come here tonight if you wish, there is no spare bed, but should the last train leave you stranded I can offer you a couch to sleep on, do not worry.”

She feels strange after having talked to the girl, different somehow but still the same. Having been told who she is looking for will be an important link she searches even harder, desperate to find what she is looking for. It takes hours, and although the digital archive helped finding the right physical documents takes a small eternity. Finally she holds the two books that will give her answers, one old and one relatively newer, in her hands.

She leafs through the pages until she finds those that were listed in the archive. True enough, in black on once-white paper she finds a list of Emmertons and descriptions of what happened to them. Most of them seem to have died without leaving anyone behind, but there are three names that keep the family name alive. Amalie, Gerard and Peter. Amalie and Gerard are the only ones also listed in the new book, meaning Peter must never have started a family. Amalie died at eighty years of age, leaving behind a husband but no children leaving her out of the mystery. Gerard is the last clue, and he delivers. He had three children, one son. She is mainly looking at males, only noting down the female names should she need them later, but Mr K is male. This son’s name is Kieran, and judging by his year of birth he is a possibility. Kieran Emmerton. One possibility.

She writes down everything she finds about him in her journal, and also copies down the family tree from Laura’s time until present. She might need it for something, she thinks. Really it is far too late to go anywhere out of the city by when she finishes, but she is set on going, chasing through the streets the short distance to the central train-station and barely catching the last train of the night.

 She falls asleep on the train and nearly misses her stop. Phew, she thinks as she walks out into the night air, that was a close call to spending the night in the middle of nowhere.

“Hello.” It is a familiar voice.  “You must be the one searching for answers.”

She looks around, trying to find where the voice came from, which isn’t too hard as there is only one other person on the platform. The girl introduces herself as Madame Oceané, and she is stunning. Her complexion is that of a gypsy woman, her shapes as well. She wears a long and flowing burgundy skirt layered over with various garments of different colours on top, all mellow and comfortable to the eye. There are many necklaces around her neck - a thin golden chain with a turquoise, tear-shaped and shining gem stands out from them. Ocean. Her hair is a warm shade of brown, like melted dark chocolate, and it frames her face perfectly, the continues down to her waist in soft waves. Her face. She is stunning, looks as calm as the ocean itself and her eyes as if they might contain the same vast array of knowledge as the water that has been for billions of years.

“I am Oceané, pleased to meet you. Follow me.” There is no protest, and silence fall between the two as they walk through the darkness for what seems like forever but in reality is only a matter of minutes. They arrive at a small house standing by itself, and the Madame motions her to go inside.

“Woah…” she whispers to herself, hoping Oceané does not hear her. The room they have entered is larger than she would have imagined. There are lit candles everywhere around, drapes on the walls and breezy curtains over the windows. The darkness and light are fighting a battle within this very room that will never end, she finds herself thinking. “This place is stunning.”

“Thank you. I try to keep it suitable for the business but still to my liking. This is my den, where I greet all my customers, but also my living room where I spend a great amount of time. I’m quite happy with it.” Not the words expected, but words none the less. “Now, you must be hungry, you’ve barely eaten all day. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll fix you something whilst we talk.”

She thanks the girl for her hospitality and follows her into a smaller room a little further into the house. The corridors, once the lights are turned on, look like any other house she’s been in with exception of the candelabras on the walls holding live burning candles. In the kitchen a cat is sitting atop the table, jumping into Oceané’s arms as it catches sight of her. Its name, the girl says, is Coralie. It is name for the strange coral-colour of its fur.

Oceané hands the animal over to her, and she sits down on the closest of the two chairs in the room. The cat purrs as she strokes its fur slowly, it’s been long since last she had a cat on her lap. The psychic looks at her, then finds various foods from around the kitchen and sets to making something that smells far too good.

“You don’t want people using your real name as you believe it to be the cause of their demise.” She’s never heard it so matter-of-factly put, and it sounds strange. “What would you like for me to call you.”

“Karoliina would be fine, I suppose. It’s my middle name.” She’s never told anyone of her living friends, caution over desire, but this girl already knows her name anyway, and she knows why not to speak it. She doesn’t quite know why, but she trusts her even though they have just met.

“Karoliina. Yes, that will suffice, it is personal enough.”

“What do names have to do with anything?” She fails to see the relevancy.

“For some they don’t mean anything, but I find it far easier to talk to people who are willing to give up something personal, call it collateral of sorts, I suppose.” She smiles. The food is beginning to take shape. “Would you like anything to drink? Maybe you will join me for a glass of wine, Karoliina?”

“It’s been a long day, why not?” Karoliina – it feels so strange to think of herself that way, by that name, again. It’s been so long since she’s heard it from anybody’s lips.

“I trust you’ll like this, then. It’s based on cherries and spices from the orient, rare to find in these parts of the world but an absolute delight. The food will be ready in a moment, now why don’t you tell me what you’ve come here looking for.” Another mystical smile.

“I’ve been caught up in this mess, you could say. I’m looking for anything you might know about the Emmerton family, your great-grandmother, I believe it was, Madame Amaranthe, apparently was close to the family.” She sighs, then continues. “I would like to know anything you can tell me about the crying portrait – it is the centre of this maelstrom pulling me under.”

“That’s what you’ve come here looking for, is it?” Something changes, the atmosphere, she can feel it but not quite pinpoint what the difference is.

Oceané places a plate in front of her and sits down on the opposing side of the table with her own. There are fried vegetables and an omelette, and it looks absolutely delicious. She thanks her for the food, and they eat in almost complete silence, it is strange. The cat jumps from her lap as soon as she starts eating and walks about on the floor for a bit before it jumps up on the table, avoiding the plates, and sits down in the windowsill looking like a porcelain figure. They finish eating, but the silence remains for several minutes, the quiet is deafening.

“I’m sorry if what I’m asking for offend you,” she says, not standing it any longer.

“That is not it, Karoliina, but what you ask is dangerous to know. Most that are aware of the portraits circumstance and true story don’t live to tell, so to speak. Are you sure you want to know, answer honestly?”

“Yes, I am sure. I need to know, it’s my only way out. They’ve – he’s got me trapped, and the goddess as he calls it, Malika as I call her, is my only clue to my own freedom.” She wants to break down, wants to cry, scream anything. She wants to be in Alexander’s arms, but she is here so far away and on her own. She is about to know the truth.

“You seem to be speaking the truth, your aura is certain. I will tell you what you ask, but you may never divulge where you got the information, nor must you be reckless with what you will come to learn.” A moment passes silently, then she begins her explanation.

Apparently, it is possible to ensnare souls within images – the stories of old religions and beliefs that make the claim if someone takes your portrait with a camera your soul will be trapped within that picture based on truth. It’s almost too much. A part of the girls soul, Oceané tells her, became trapped within that portrait, and because the girl committed suicide and so was locked to the earth not able to move into a next life, she never strays too far from that piece of her soul locked within the image. The psychic tells her that in order to leave her portrait and go somewhere else; the ghost of young miss Emmerton must need a very strong incentive. There is something or someone she cares greatly for that pulls her away from it, or she wouldn’t be leaving at all.

Those that came before, Oceané says in a melancholy voice, used to tell her stories about those days. There were many rumours of the Emmerton-family’s demise going about the area, but the Amaranthe family knew the truth. They would have even had Madame Amaranthe herself not been so close with the family as they know all that goes on around them, she says. There were many dark corners in the happy home of the family in question, too many secrets and lies and disagreements for it to hold up, according to the stories she’s heard as a child.

The portrait cries because the girl feels. What she feels, however, the young psychic cannot tell her, but assumes it is anger, fear, love or heartbreak, as is so often the case when women cry. Her kind, she says, have recorded several incidents of trapped souls and strange happenings, and they try to avoid them as more often than not they lead only to bad things happening, never does anything good come from them. She divulges the story of how her mother died a strange death from involvement in such a case – a locket which, no matter how many times you always took out or exchanged the portrait within it, always opened again with that same portrait inside of it.  It was a cursed object, the belonging of a jealous spirit wanting revenge for his wife’s unfaithfulness and taking it out on any woman who came close.

As if struck by lightning, Oceané suddenly stills. She looks like an animal having sensed something in its vicinity it was previously unaware of, opening itself up to all sounds, scents and visions. Her face takes on a grave expression.

“Karoliina.” The name is followed by silence, as if to press that this is a matter of importance and she need to listen well. She does. “Your ghost, this goddess, she is here. I can feel her malice down to my bones, it’s so cold.”

“She’s here?!” If Malika truly is there, that means she is within distance of the one she is chasing, but she is still so far away when she cannot even see her. She doesn’t quite know what she’d been expecting.

“Yes. She is warning you. If you keep pushing on with this, you will lose one of those for whom you care the most.” As if a trance and unlike herself, Oceané reaches an arm across the table, her bracelets clattering. She touches her guests cheek softly with the back of her hand and smiles eerily. “You have no idea what it is like no have lost the only one that matters for eternity. Even should I get out of this limbo, I will not be with him. He is in another place than where I am going. You are not going to harm the one bond I have left in this godforsaken world.”

The Madame seems as if she has just woken up when she stops smiling. Blinking slowly, she looks up with frightened eyes. Once she is told what just happened she shakes her head, and proceeds to explain what happened, how, since she is more open to the supernatural than most, the spirit was able to inhabit her body for a brief period of time. Since it is a relatively new spirit, she says, it is not that strong, but it was still powerful enough that it took her a while to get free from its control.

“How do I go about finding a ghost, then?”

“You shouldn’t go down that road, Karoliina, I must warn you. However, I know there will be no stopping you until the day you stop on your own accord, you have a fighting spirit. There are a few ways to go about finding ghosts, but most of them involve some kind of sacrifice which you should not be willing to give. Blood magic, some would call it.” She pauses, thinks for a while. What is she thinking about? “There is one way you can find this ghost and ensnared it to a new object, one which you can then control it by. To accomplish this, you must have the object and patience. Any object will do, but something close to your own heart will work better as you hold more power over it. Patience you will need as you will have to seek your own soul for a way to the ghost-world. I can help you on the way, but most of the journey you must make yourself. It is late. If we sleep now, I can tell you more of this tomorrow. I will teach you what to do, but you will do it on your own.”

The following couple of minutes she sits in the kitchen, a vacant look to her eyes as she is deep within the realm of thoughts whilst the Madame makes up the couch for her to sleep on with a couple of old and tattered blankets. They say goodnight. She lies down. All she does all night is stare at the ceiling and think of what Oceané has told her, especially about ensnaring spirits. It is dangerous, she said. You must do it by yourself, go the distance alone, for if you involve others in the process things will become more complicated than need be – potentially even dangerous. Should someone happen to interfere with the process the spirit could become locked to them instead of the object – and it is impossible to separate spirits from bodies they have been locked to without the risk of expelling the wrong spirit or killing the body leaving you with double the amount of ghosts. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I can’t do this, I don’t want to. I want to run away. Far fucking far away, the other side of the globe and preferably the darkest corner of it where they might not find me.

She can’t sleep that night, not even for a minute. Her time spent divided between staring at the ceiling, talking in whispers to the cat and exploring all the strange things in Oceané Amaranthe’s extravagant collection of the unordinary and downright strange. There are shrunken heads, books on every subject – one of them more interesting than the rest, a black leather-bound volume with writing in strange symbols she doesn’t understand but makes a note to ask about in the morning – various liquids and potions, and a multitude of arcane objects.

When Oceané enters the room along with the morning light, she’s already dressed and sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette to relieve some of the tension building up inside. She smokes another, then another. A chain of five before the owner of the house beckons her inside, a simple breakfast of oatmeal topped with sugar ready on the table. They hold a friendly conversation over breakfast, and it is a perfect chance to ask about the mysterious book. What she finds out is that it is a collection of spells and remedies from the east, written in a long forgotten language that only a few still know. Spider tongue, it is called. Apparently, it’s been passed down from mother to daughter in the family since the book was first acquired back in the 1600s by a relative who travelled the world and brought home many of the strange things found around the house.

There is no further postponing the important matters at hand when the food is gone. Oceané walks decidedly to the bookshelf, pulls out an obscure, dusty old volume hidden between newer and more elaborate ones. She intuitively opens it to a specific page and copies down what is written onto a small piece of paper. She explains that what she has written are like a map to the spirit world, the only way to get there and back again safely.

Again she gets up; this time walks over to a cabinet – an old thing of heavy oak with a big brass lock and key. She opens it, takes out a small vial of some kind of thick burgundy liquid and hands it over when she comes back. Karoliina, she says. Drink this before you begin the journey. It is not impossible without, but it is far easier with, she says.

She explain everything thoroughly, says she doesn’t want any strange accidents occurring on her behalf. Their time together ends after a couple of hours, and Oceané closes the door as her guest leaves unsure how things will unfold from here.

“It is all up to you now,” she whispers into the wind.

It’s all up to me now. I have to clear this mess, don’t I? But I don’t want to. All she wants to do is run, so far away that no one will ever find her. She would cut out every other soul from her life to keep them safe, and then run and run and run until she could run no further if that would keep the others out of trouble and her out of this misery.

When she’s back in the city it is still early, but no longer morning. The sun is half-way to its peak of the day. Shit she thinks, I forgot work. Wait… no, it’s Saturday today, isn’t it? Time passes quickly then slowly in hoops and strings and she cannot keep track – never could. It’s such an abstract concept, she’s always said. Time isn’t something you can touch, and without human interference with clocks and the like it is nothing you can measure. It’s this strange concept humans came up with to keep society in check and count down until the day we all die. One heartbeat at a time, and for every single beat there’s one less left in you. Your heart is the only clock you can really trust, all we know is that the day will come that we all shall die.

It is strangely calming to her, the thought that one day she will die. It’s the only thing she knows for sure. The only firm thing to grasp on to in a life that flies by all too quickly for her liking. She still feels like she did when she was nineteen and reckless even though that is years ago now – a thing of the past. She wishes she could freeze time, walk around in a world completely stopped in its actions where everything else stood still. I’d like that.  

She misses living closer to the forest sometimes, she used to love going for hour-long walks on the hidden paths and up the hillsides. Most of all, she misses the air out there – different from the city air in that breathing it you feel alive rather than like you want to cough from all the exhaust. When all this is over, she decides, she is going to take a long trip to the mountains a couple of hours to the north, not tell anyone and just be there in her own company. That would be nice.

She calls Alex, who doesn’t answer, then leaves him a message saying she’s discovered something he might want to know. The next thing she does is go to the bar, where John has a cherry-vodka ready by the time she sits down across from him.

“Where’ve you been?” He asks.

“Out of town, had some things that needed doing, so I hopped on a train and came back this morning… Where’s Taj?” When she realizes the girl isn’t there, it scares her. She knows someone might get hurt, thinking this is it. She is it. She is gone. God, no, please don’t let it be her.

“Oh, she’s just sleeping, I guess. Left her in the bed upstairs this morning at opening time, had to get this place in order after last night.”

“What was last night?” The bar is normally full, but not really the kind of place where things out of the ordinary happen. It’s a calm, dark corner of the city where the costumers know each other almost as well as family – that’s why they all keep coming back, it’s a second home

“It was strange.” She notices how John’s voice sounds just a little off, how his smile looks tired by his eyes as he speaks look like he’s talking about the night of his life. “This man came in, older gentleman with a whole entourage – oh, that guy who came up to us the other day was there too, Alex or whatever his name was… The one you knew. Anyway, so the guy starts buying everyone drinks and it all turns into some kind of crazy party, and as the bottles emptied one people started leaving.” No. No no no. Why did he have to come here, so close to home.

“Did he say anything about why the big celebration?” She needs to know.

“Hmm… Yea, I think he did after a while, a couple or double that drinks and even he talked more freely. He said something about getting back together with an old friend, or something, rambled about some woman he hadn’t seen in a long time but I think he was expecting to see soon. There was something more, but I can’t really remember. Had a few drinks myself, you know the deal.”

Know the deal, she does. She used to work as a bartender herself, in another dark corner, another grey city. She liked it there. The people were friendly and so were the staff, but she fell into far too many bad habits, living in a world of empty bottles and loneliness. That was the town in which she met Tin, and also the town from which he rescued her. One night he just came into the bar, confidently sat down and ignored the other bartender, requesting the red-head. Get me the red-head, and I’ll order your goddamn drink, that is the first thing she heard him say. After listening to his annoying calls for somewhere around ten minutes, she catered to his wishes, and instead of some annoying drink hitting on her like always this one was clear as a bell. I’m leaving for war tomorrow, he said that night, but before I go I’d like to spend some time with you. You’re beautiful. After all the rude boys and violent men, someone like him was a welcome break, she thought, not really hearing the part about the war, just being intrigued by it. She wonders how he is now, where he is - hasn’t heard from him since the night they spent together a short while ago. He asked her after she left him if it was okay to keep her listed as the one to be notified if the worst should happen ‘cause I’ve got nobody else, you know. His family are either not close or dead, and the only other ones he knew well were others like him. She said yes. And anyway, my letter is already addressed to you. I wouldn’t want to have to write a new one.

“You still in there, sweetie?” John’s voice comes through, scatters her memories back to their dark corners of her mind and calls her back to reality.

“Oh, yeah… Sorry, got a little lost in thought there.”

Her mind slowly wonders back to the conversation they were having before she trailed off, and it causes her to wonder two highly related things. One; how is he watching her? Two; why does he keep watch on her when he knows he’s left her no other choice than to follow his command. The answer to these questions, she will never know, is that Mr K spends the family fortune on a lot of strange things – among them is a great many eyes on his payroll, those that he couldn’t threaten or blackmail. So then, why does he do it? Well, he likes to follow up on his employees, see that they’re doing a good job and not conspiring against him. (Someone’s been bad lately, and he might have to do something about that soon.) Also, it is exciting to watch his little worker bees when they’re closing in on a discovery. Oh yes. No, she will never know.

She stays for a while, has a nothing and everything kind of chat with John but unlike herself follows the vodka up with water for once, wanting to stay clear-headed. A couple of hours pass this way - Taj joining them eventually, looking more hung-over than ever before – but in the end she excuses herself saying there are things that need doing. She does not mention these things involve a cruel ghost and trapping it in an object to stop it from wreaking havoc like it has for too long upon those with whom it does not agree.

Once at home, she lays out the piece of paper and the vial of strange liquid that Oceané gave her on the bed and simply watches them for some time. She reads the note yet again – a hundred times on the train home already made her no wiser – and she still fails to understand a single word of the original text that the witch doctress did not translate for her. The original language of the book was written in signs she’d never seen before, her incomprehensible version of the script is at least in letters she recognizes. What is written, to her, reads like a foreign tongue – a flurry of scribbling and things she does not understand. When is the time? When do I do this? Do I wait or do it now or never at all? I can’t avoid it forever – someone has to stop Malika’s tears, and I guess I’m it. It all reminds her strangely much of playing tag as a young girl in an orphanage garden, on of the fondest memories from those days.

If she waits, she thinks, there will be far too much time to think about what she is actually going to do. Time to start doubting and wondering and hoping there’s another way. Although she is unprepared and scared, she decides now is the best time. When else? There will never be a good time for the things this way dangerously unknown, but it will always be required someone do them.

1, the note says Drink the concoction from the vial and wait until it takes effect. You’ll feel it clearly. As an estimate, it should probably take around half an hour.

She pulls out the tiny cork and puts it down on the nightstand, hesitating for a split-second before she puts the vial to her lips and swallows. She feels her face contorting into a million different grimaces in sequence from the horribly bitter liquid going down her throat and into her system. This cannot possibly be healthy, she thinks justifiably. The first ten minutes nothing changes, the next five the only change is that she feels herself getting drowsy, attributing that change to the fruitless waiting for some effect. Then, bit by bit, she feels her body changing. Everything feels a thousand times stronger, it seems. The air touching her skin is suddenly a sensation to the touch very much like velvet, every scent becomes broken down into its smallest components. Her vision changes and everything looks different. Everything becomes surreal, and she imagines this is what a different dimension must feel like. If anyone asks her to explain it later, she thinks, she will not have the faintest clue where to begin – and she won’t come near painting a realistic picture of the experience. After a little while, the extreme sensations give in to a more mellow version of themselves, still something extraordinary but giving her the room to breathe now.

2. Relax completely, Oceané’s handwriting reads, you need to be in a calm state of mind for this to work, so just breathe.

She does as the note says.

Breathe, in – out, in –out. That’s what I’ve always said, deep breaths, foolish girl. You have no idea what you’re about to put yourself through, but calling upon ghosts? Have you even found an object yet, you know you need something to trap the spirit with, once you call her she’s probably not giving you a second chance…

She’s long since learned to ignore the perpetually negative voice inside of her that has been there for as long as she can remember, but this time it has a point. The object – she’d completely forgotten. Not wanting to move should it have a bad effect on the strange effects of the drug or something else unexpected and unwanted, she tries desperately to think of what she can use. It has to be personal. Has to mean something to you. After much consideration, she takes off the necklace she is wearing, that she has always worn. It is the only thing left from her real parents, it and a faded photograph. There comes a day to relive yourself of any trinket, you will still be left with the memories. She doesn’t quite believe her own thoughts, but tells herself none the less wishing it to be true. She takes off the locket, kisses it. It rests in her hands for some minutes as she says her goodbyes before laying it down on the bed right in front of her.

She breathes, relaxing both mind and body as well as she can. She always knew the meditation classes she took a couple of years back would be good for her someday, and this is that day. Her heartbeat has slowed, as has her thoughts, and she feels like this is it. This is as low as it will go, it is time for the next step.

3. Read what is written on the note. Don’t worry about not knowing what it means or not being able to say the words, they should still do what you want them to – call upon the ghost. To trap her in your chosen object, all you have to say is “you do not belong in this world, and I relieve you of roaming the realm of the living to bind you to this” as you hold the object up against her. Good luck, you might need it, she is a strong spirit.

She doesn’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. What she wants is to talk to Alex or Tin or maybe even Taj and John but she can’t tell Taj and John because that would put them in more danger than they already are. Fuck all of this, why the fuck did I have to come to this town. It’s all indirectly Tin’s fault. He’s the one who pulled her out of the rut she was in – out of the gutter town she used to live and work in. At least, when she was there, things like this never happened. Admittedly it was a dark and dangerous place where bad things not only could happen, they did, but if you lived there you were prepared. She knew of quite a few who hadn’t been able to handle it, which all left in a matter of days or weeks, but she liked it. She always thrived in the dark, the light never ceasing to burn her eyes.

For a while, all she does is look at the note. She doesn’t even know how to pronounce half the words, she thinks to herself, so how in the world am I going to do this. The answer comes as she lets the first syllable slip past her lips and the rest follow like a string of pearls. She doesn’t know how, but she feels like she knows these words so well – it is like recognize a lullaby you no longer remember the words to but still singing along to it.  Reading the words doesn’t take too long, and she is scared of what will happen when the last has been spoken – but nothing does. Everything remains the same, or so it seems. Something feels different though she can’t quite figure out what. The air feels colder, reminds her of the old city. The light looks different and almost tangible as if it had mass. She shudders, this is not right. It isn’t right. Whatever is happening, it is not good.

Before her eyes, the air starts to take on actual shape, she watches it move in waves and currents and it is unlike anything she has seen before. It is actually happening, she thinks. This is the moment when she will actually see Malika for the first time; meet the ghost she’s been chasing for what feels like so long. The face of a young and beautiful girl appears first, then follows her pale body clad in a green dress typical of the era she died. The spirit smiles, but there is nothing kind about it, rather it has a malicious glint to it, fearful.

“You’ve called for me,” she says. “I’m Laura Malika Emmerton, who might you be?” The feigned politeness in her not-really-innocent voice clearly not meant to be convincing.

“You’re here.” Not quite believing her eyes, she reaches out a hand that passes through the air that is the ghost, but it doesn’t feel like nothing as she imagined – she can feel the current pulsating, the energy of the spirit trapped in a realm between living and dead. “I don’t give my name out just like that, especially not to ghosts I’ve just met.” There is no such thing as being too careful when dealing with ghosts, Oceané had said. Most of them are spiteful, malevolent things, this one for sure. Make no mistakes or it could easily be the last thing you do.

“Well, how am I supposed to have a conversation with someone I can’t call anything, pray tell.” For someone who hasn’t been alive since the nineteenth century, the girl’s language is well adapted to current day, she finds herself thinking.

“You’ll just have to manage.”

“Oh, Theda, Death, don’t be a fool. I know who you are. I know everything about you, it is one of the privileges of being dead, we know all sorts of things.”

How does she know, you ask, stupid girl. Well, if the Mr knows, why shouldn’t his mistress, ask yourself that. She wants to hurt you, and what better way, tell me. Breathe. Don’t stop, that won’t do you any good, darling. Don’t take too long before you bind her, you never know when things turn from pleasant to you becoming the underdog here, becoming the one trapped forever in a nightmare. Soon. She will trap the devil soon, but she needs answers that maybe the dead can give which no one else has been able to.

“What is your connection Mr K, Malika?” She never meant to be so straightforward, but it might just be the best way, she thinks. The ghost isn’t there to play games, that much is clear to her.

“What makes you think I’d tell you, Theda.” That soft, light voice now laced with cruel intent.

“Why wouldn’t you. Do you really feel like you need to hide these things from me when both you and he could probably have me dead in seconds?” She plays on the cruelty, the wish to dominate that is radiating from the spectre.  

“Let’s just say I bargained well for him to be mine. He is ever-so reminiscent of someone that I used to know, and that is all you shall know, Theda.” She spits out the name like poison, and that is what it feels like. Fangs sinking into flesh, contaminating blood. “Your parents must have hated you, giving you that name.”

Too far. Some topics are not to be touched. She wants to scream at her unwanted, invited guest, but she doesn’t know what keeps the spirit there or if she can leave when she wants, so she swallows down the anger boiling up in her and smiles, a fake plastic expression upon her face.

“Oh, no. No, you’re all wrong I’m afraid. They gave me that name so I could better deal with the likes of your kind, isn’t it obvious Goddess?” She both feels and sees the change in the ghost. The currents pulsate slower, the apparition weakens, flickers almost unnoticeably. She’s found a weak spot.

Something unwanted. She hears the familiar sound of footsteps outside of the door. A couple of knocks, then the metallic click of the handle being pushed down. Fuck, did I forget to lock the door? She did, she hears someone walking in and out of desperation – even though she wants more answers, has so many questions she kicks them from her mind and quickly grabs the locket, mumbling out the words.

“You do not belong in this world, and I relieve you of roaming the realm of the living to bind you to this.” It’s barely audible, but seems to be enough.

The chain of events that follows will be the worst-case scenario, but she doesn’t know that yet. She still hopes she’ll make it before the unannounced visitor comes too close, but he already is. He’s far too close, and as the spirit starts to flicker like a bad image-transmission and a sound like white-noise beings to buzz in the background it feels as if the air shakes the same way that the earth sometimes does when pieces of land collide. She is frozen in fear and struck by the surrealism that surrounds her. Everything appears blurred, out of focus, but in peripheral vision she sees a familiar shadow entering the room, trying to yell at it to get out, out and far away, yet her voice will not make a sound when she tries no matter how dearly she wishes it would. The guest comes closer, seemingly blind to what is happening as he walks into the apparition now barely even visible to her that hovers by the window. He, it is a man, she recognizes that now, looks at her and says something she cannot hear, reading the vague outline of his lips it looks like a million different alternatives. She wants to signal him to get out, but even her body will not bid her command, remaining paralyzed.

The spirit of Laura Malika Emmerton seems to be torn in two, and the ghost screams. It is a horrible noise, the sound of nails on chalkboard, screams of agony and technical disturbance. It feels like every atom is being pulled apart in her body as the ghost is torn in two, and she is flung into the back wall and falls unconscious to the bed when the spirit is trapped within the locket. But it is only half the spirit. The second part of the ghost slams into the visitor, hurling him against the window behind him. With luck, his shoulder hits the wall first and breaks his speed so the window can take the weight that slams into it. The last thing he sees before everything turns black is a red-tinted vision of a room that looks like a hurricane came to visit, a girl lying in an unnatural position on the bed, against the wall and almost falling down.

When she wakes up, the memories of what happened are unclear and scrambled together, and there is someone else in the room with her, slumped against the wall but with open eyes. It takes her a while to gather her thoughts and figure out exactly what might have happened – and also why there is someone else in the apartment at all – then she remembers. She tries to move, and it feels like a million needles piercing her body when she does but she pulls through and drags herself across the bed for a closer look at the other, her blurred vision and the dizziness making it hard to tell who it might be from afar.

Oh fuck no. Fuck fuck fuck no no no. This can’t be happening. Fuck. It’s Tin. That explains how he got in, she never once forgets to lock a door – old habits die hard and she’s lived in the slum for a long time before moving up. Fuck, Tin, why couldn’t you just give back that damn key when I asked you to when I left?

He isn’t moving, and she is worried. With great effort she manages to get down on the floor and over to his side, screaming at him name, rank and number – anything she thinks might work. Nothing. Not even a twitch. She lifts her hand with help of the adrenaline now rushing through her body and slaps him hard across the face, then with the back of her hand the other way. This time he groans, moves his head jerkily from side to side and the muscles around his eyes look to be moving.

“Tin!” She yells at him although her throat feels like she’s swallowed a handful of thorns. “Tin, wake the fuck up!” In response he makes some kind of grunting sound and blinks a couple of times before his eyes find her. He tries to focus, and it takes a while but at least he manages. “God, you’re awake. Don’t you dare fucking worry me like that, I thought you were fucking dead, asshole!”

“Uh… What - What’s happening…?” His voice is groggy as is his mind, and however hard he tries to recall what happened his mind is nothing but a black hole after the moment he walked through the apartment door. He doesn’t even know how he got to the bedroom or what she’s so worried about.

“You fucking idiot!” She is screaming, and at first he isn’t sure whether it is anger or worry or what it is, but he recognizes it in his eyes. It is the same as when his letters hadn’t been delivered for the last month before he came home after a bad mission in a worse area of the world. Worry. “Why couldn’t you just give back that damn key when I asked for it, huh?” She’s pounding his chest weakly with clenched fists, not really trying to harm him as much as that she is in despair and needs an outlet. “You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you? You’ve fucking doomed yourself, Tin. Part of her is in you now, and there’s no way of separating the two of you…” Her voice is breaking but her fists keep pounding his chest, the strength (or lack thereof) waning with every hit.

“What are you talking about, doll?” He doesn’t understand a single thing, but then again she didn’t really expect him to.

“The fucking ghost, you know. The god-damn goddess I told you about. I found her, and I… – I got this potion and this spell or whatever from a girl named Oceané and she told me how to trap her in an object and I had to cause she’s evil, but then you have to come along and if anyone interrupts then there’s a chance the spirit will bind to them and now it’s probably bound to you but I’m not sure but if it is then you’ll… She’ll take you over and you might die, Tin. She could kill you. “ By the time she is finished speaking she is out of breath, panting. She had to finish saying it all at one time or it would be too hard, news of death are never easy to bring.

Of course he doesn’t comprehend a word of what she says, he never had a chance, so over after a splash of cold water to her face they sit down at the kitchen table and she explains it all from the beginning over about a dozen or more cups of tea. She starts at the very beginning, right from what she told him before he had to leave, and doesn’t leave out a single detail other than her personal relationship to Alex. Even though there is nothing between Tin and her anymore it feels wrong to mention it.

“Why’d you come back?” Suddenly she realizes how unexpected his return came upon her.

“It was hell, you know. This time as well, but isn’t it always. I almost died, a pretty new scar on both sides of my chest this time,” that means a bullet went through, she knows more than enough about what they can do to a man, “and all I could think about was you. I kept seeing your face as the other guy cleaned the wound out with some strange jungle-alcohol that burned like hell and when It bled so much I could hardly stand all I thought of was getting back home to you. That kept me on my legs, doll, kept me alive and moving. I still love you, but you know that. I’ll always love you.”

Breathe. It’s ok. It will all be just fine. He loves you. You love him, you know you still do even though you won’t admit it to yourself, silly girl, but now you’ve complicated it. Now there’s another one as well. So, what are you going to do? He’s dying now, and it’s part your fault. All of the dangers he’s been in and it’ll be loving you that kills him in the end. Feeling guilty, doll?

“What were you saying, anyway, about the ghost and the spirit and all hell breaking loose, by the way – I couldn’t understand a fucking word. You were practically speaking in one long word, and the parts I did get didn’t make sense at all. You sure you didn’t hit your head, doll?” He doesn’t believe her. Fuck, how do I make him believe something this far-fetched?

“The summarised version,” she says, “is that the damn ghost, well, half of it anyway, is now part of you. It’s latched onto your soul and there is no way to make it let go. I guess it’s weak now from having been torn apart or something, I don’t know, but it’ll take you over. You’ll…” She can’t finish what she is trying to say, words failing her, stuck in her throat behind something that feels like a giant lump stopping her from breathing. She begins shaking, again – it seems to be the norm lately, and crying. Her shoulders move up – down, up – down, but she doesn’t make a single sound. They just won’t come.

“What’re you trying to say? You – You’re not…?” He realizes, she knows, what she’s trying to convey, but that doesn’t make it easier. No one wants to realize their own death is waiting on the doorstep ready to take them away. Least of all under circumstances like this, when death means being taken over by a malicious spirit, and when it’s your own fault things turned out the way they did. “This can’t be happening. Things like this just doesn’t happen. Ghosts don’t even exist, for fuck’s sake.”

She wishes so desperately that she could tell him no, things like this don’t happen, none of this is real, but she can’t. It is the cold, harsh truth, and they both have to face it or go under, this is the way it has to be. He kept the key, he walked through the door, and now he shares his body with half a ghost. The ghost that will kill him, his bane. She knows he will not break down – instead, he will stay strong and pretend that everything is going to be alright. That is what he always does, ignores the truth and pretends, keeps on smiling. Even after being clinically dead for an hour having tried to save another soldier from a shell-grenade, he smiled. Nothing ever show on the surface, but beneath the currents are going wild, she can tell from the look in his eyes and the way he is leaning just a bit too much forward and how his hands have the slightest, almost unnoticeable tremble to them now.

“You don’t have to stay so damn strong all the time, you know? For fuck’s sake, Tin, nobody would expect you to be ok after this. It’s not just a bullet wound this time, not just a tear in the flesh. It’s your fucking soul. You’re going to fucking die, and you don’t even let yourself go a little…” The fear and worry is turning to anger now. Anger because he will not react. Anger for all of the time he never showed himself for who he truly was. Most of all, she is angry because it didn’t have to be this way, things could have been so different.

“I do.” That damned smile. “I do have to stay strong, because if I don’t, who’s going to take care of you, make sure the ghost doesn’t hurt you. When I lose control of this body, I will end it all on my own terms, doll. Don’t you worry, it’s all going to be ok.”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to fucking die, you idiot!”

“That’s exactly it. I never wanted you to have to read my letter, but at this rate you’ll have to, and I’m sorry.” Sorry. That’s the first time she’s ever heard the word coming from his lips. The time he let her think for months that he’d died in a forest somewhere in the deep south he just smiled, patted her on the head and fucked her. The time he came stumbling through the door with a knife still lodged between two ribs he collapsed and she was just so happy he woke up later in the hospital that she didn’t care. Even the time she found him drunk and about to go home with another woman he didn’t seem to even consider the words, apologizing in every other way. This is bad. Really bad.

“What’s sorry going to help, you won’t be here anymore and I will have to read that fucking letter and I don’t want to. I DON’T WANT TO READ THE LETTER!” She is screaming, and what she does is out of her hands now. She places a hand on his cheek, turns his face towards her and kisses him like she was the one about to die and it was the only thing that could save her. “You don’t get to fucking leave me, you idiot.” What am I doing? What am I doing? This isn’t supposed to happen, it can’t be. I don’t love him anymore. I can’t fall for him again now, he’s fucking dying and I’ve got Alex and…

None of the trivial things her mind comes up with to stop her seem to make the least bit of difference to either of them now, and she kisses him again, longer and harder. With shaking arms, still weaker than usual but also still strong, he moves her to sit across his lap, their lips all the way touching those of the other. His arms are around her and his are moving down his body fast, pulling at his shirt but he won’t let go of her, so she drops it and skilfully opens button and zipper on his worn and torn army pants. He moans as she touches him with experienced hands, doing just the right things to just the right places, now kissing his neck instead of his lips.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Her heart is beating so fast and hard she can feel it in her throat, and he takes advantage of the one second she isn’t paying full attention, flipping them over so he is the one on top.

She is pinned down by his weight, pulling off her own top as he pushes her jeans down to her knees along with her underwear. He looks at her, where she lies small and vulnerable in front of him, bites himself in the lip not to growls at the sight like a primal animal. He fucks her. Slow at first, but that isn’t good enough for either of them, and the pace picks up. It is raw, animalistic passion, and when he finally reaches the peak his fingers dig into her skin and she screams. He collapses on top of her, and she can barely breathe but loves the close proximity, not wanting things to change. She really does love him, still.

They fall asleep on the floor, naked and embracing. She wakes up as evening falls, noticing the light change even in her sleep. She looks out the window still lying beneath him and sighs, wishing things could just be as simple as the courses of planets and the way they are all decided by the gravity of various suns and stars and such. After a while, when it becomes cold to lie like she does awake, she gently rolls him off her to the side and gets up, putting a blanket over the still sleeping man. For a while she stands in the bedroom doorway simply taking in how peaceful he seems, then she notices the hunger sneaking up on her – another first time in a long time. She goes to the fridge and picks out a couple of eggs and various vegetables Alex must have put there, not recognizing half of them. She makes a small omelette with a salad on the side, eating it slowly in the windowsill as the sky darkens outside and the heaves turn dark. The stars look beautiful tonight – last time she remembers them shining so bright was when there was a blackout in her part of the city, without all the light-pollution the light from light-years away seemed much brighter, and she could see so many constellations she’d never even known existed before that night. She fondly remembers that night – she went outside and sat on a swing in a deserted park looking up at the sky hoping Tin would come home safe from some god-forsaken area of the planet where the cities had all burned and there were men to be hunted. Men wanted dead.

Her phone is lying on the kitchen table, she must have left it there when she got home, and she picks it up and sees a message. It’s from Alex. This is such a mess. Not that I’m not used to those, but not this kind. Not emotions. This is why I don’t tell people how I feel, or even let myself feel, it only complicates things. Makes everything difficult. She reads the message; it is short and rushed and says he’ll be over soon, that there are just a couple of loose ends to tie before he gets there. She received it two hours ago, soon would have been a while ago, the door probably isn’t locked – Tin never could remember. Has he been there already, she wonders, maybe left when there was no answer from her on the other side of the door, or has something happened? If something has happened to him as well she doesn’t know what she’ll do, she can only handle so many bad news in a day. Just in case he got held up and is coming over, she pulls on the sweater that hangs draped over one of the chairs, it’s just long enough to cover the parts of her that need to be covered.

A groan from somewhere else in the house, then the sound of footsteps across the wooden floor. It’s not her soon dead almost former lover, he would make more sound. Just as she is about to get down from the sill to see what is happening, worried as she is, it is Alex walking into the kitchen looking terribly tired.

“Where the fuck did you just come from?” She is shaking her head at the tired man that walks into her kitchen in mismatched socks.

“I slept on the couch. I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you, so I figured you were out. I wanted to wait, you said you had important news or something like that.” His voice is calm and disoriented and she thinks maybe, somehow, that he actually didn’t see them sweaty on the bedroom floor. They were on the far-side of the bed, if he only looked quickly he could actually have missed them and the clothes kicked to the corner.

“So you just happened to walk right in to my apartment and… You are a strange one, aren’t you?” She sighs. Then she realizes she will have to get him out of the apartment before he and Tin meet, or there’ll be some difficult explaining to do no her behalf.

“You sounded like it was important, so I came over as soon as I could.” A pang of guilt shoots through her at the exhausted expression of his eyes, and she notices the scratches and bruises on him that weren’t there the last time she saw him. Should I ask.

“Let’s go out,” she needs to get him somewhere else, doesn’t need the worry of her boys meeting hanging over her shoulders.

“Can’t we just stay here?”

“I need a cup of coffee for this conversation, and I’m all out here. Let’s go out.”

“Fine, fine. As tired as I am coffee can only do me good, it’s the moving to wherever there is coffee that I’m worried about.” He smiles, she laughs.

She walks into the bathroom and finds a pair or tights in the laundry basket, not wanting to risk the perilous journey to the bedroom, and puts them on. They are torn and full of holes, but she doesn’t care. A minute later they’re in their shoes and jackets heading out, and she makes sure to lock the door behind her.

It doesn’t feel right leaving him there like that. Doesn’t feel safe knowing he is the ghost and she is him and all is bad, but I can’t keep him around me all the time, that’ll make matters even more difficult. She sighs, no use thinking about it right now, rather focusing the situation at hand.

She herds Alex out of the apartment and they roam the streets like drunken teens not knowing what they’re looking for until they get to the café she always forgets where is even though she’s been there many times. She likes it there. Light always shines through the windows and into the dark alley where it is, and it is always open. The staff is nice – they recognize her, know she takes her tea without sugar or milk or honey or any of that, and also that if they don’t have tea she’ll take her coffee with a dash of cinnamon. They know her, and she knows a few things about them, and there’s always a friendly face. When she first moved to the city, in those never-ending months of long, dark days when Tin was away and work was done for the day so there was nothing to keep her mind busy she came here almost every day. Eventually they opened up a tab, she always came back anyway.

Tonight Melinda is serving and George is in the kitchen. They’ve been together for five years, and Melinda’s belly has grown large lately with the baby that’s due in only a couple of months now. She really is radiant, so happy to finally have the life she always wanted – a loving man and little child. She’s that kind of girl. She smiles when she sees the familiar guest and another friendly if tired face.

“What’ll ya’ll be having tonight?” her voice is loud and cheerful. “I take it you’ll have the usual, darlin’, but I don’t know about your friend here.”

“He’ll have a cup of coffee – and make it strong yeah? We got some stuff to discuss and this one’s just going to fall asleep without anything to give him a jolt.” She smiles, nudges Alex’s side, and Melinda laughs.

A couple of pleasantries are delivered, some catching up done, then she finds a table and pulls Alex with her to it. She almost pushes him into a seat, herself sitting down opposite him, then all she does is look at him. She can’t figure out to tell him all the things that have happened – much less how they have happened, and she wishes she could just sink into the ground and disappear, but she knows that she can’t. She sighs, then, like always when she doesn’t know what to say and tries to come up with something eloquent and gentle, she blurts out everything.

She tells him, from the very beginning, how she went to Oceané and got the story and the potion and the note with what to say and do. She talks about how she went back to the city and tried to call him but he didn’t answer so she went to the bar and then home, and how she was so afraid she’d change her mind that she just went ahead and did the deed and then Tin walked in and now he’s going to die and she’s to blame and half the spirit is locked in a locket and half is where it shouldn’t be and that there’s no undoing it and… What she doesn’t tell him is what happened between her and Tin or who Tin even really is, and she what she never mentions, never will mention, is that she still loves him and probably always will and that he loves her too and it is breaking her heart that he will die not in a war like she always thought but because he came back for her. He was going to choose her, and now he’s doomed. She doesn’t show that all she wants to do is break down and cry, lock herself away from everything until it is all over and just sleep, because she can’t do that. She has to stay strong, like she always is, and so she smiles.

Alex doesn’t know how to respond – who would after such a tale told? He simply looks at her, into her eyes, as if searching for some kind of answer that she doesn’t have. She wants to scream at him to stop, but she can’t find it in herself. She was the one who asked him to help, who convinced him to join her side. Maybe she never should have, because now yet another person is in trouble because of her, and it is someone she I will only ever admit this to myself and nobody else cares too much about.

This is why she doesn’t deal with emotions on a day to day basis. This is why she learned long ago how to cut people out of her life or just up and leave and not care. This time is when it comes to haunt her – when she can’t.

He asks if she has the locket with her, and she lifts it from around her neck over her head and hands hit to him. He holds it in his hand for a couple of minutes, looks at it and opens and closes it without saying anything. After a while, he concludes that it seems to be nothing but a locket, saying he doesn’t understand how the magic of ghosts and spirits and locking them away works. She says she doesn’t either. She wants him to hold her, desires to kiss him, but it would be wrong when the faint taste of Tin still lingers in her mouth. He hands the amulet back, and she looks at it for a while herself to see if anything has changed. At first she doesn’t see anything different, but just as she is about to put it back around the neck, as the locket dangles before her eyes, she notices an indent the shape of a round-cornered star, almost unnoticeable, that wasn’t there before. That’s her mark. This is where this part of her spirit shall remain forever; I will never let her go.

Once again the locket hangs safely around her neck, Alex still has barely said anything. She wonders if he understands – if he sees the unspoken truth of her and the former lover. She hopes not, but really she doesn’t think there’s any way he could have missed it. She asks him, without hoping for an answer, what they’ll do from this point – where they’ll go.

He says they could just run away. Then he shakes his head, but you would never do that, would you? She shakes hers. No. She could never, not when all of this is her fault and someone is going to die and fuck. I was so worried it was you. He puts a hand on her shoulder, smiles with great effort.

“We try to find a way out,” he says, “and if we can’t – we will be here until the end, you for him and I for you, and when the day comes that there is no more him, only her, we will end it for him.”

She knows that every word is true, that this is exactly what will happen. Still she wants to cry. There will be no way out of this, she is sure, and it is heart-breaking to have to watch it happen. Suddenly she realizes one thing – she will have to confront Mr K. Someone has to tell him he will never have his goddess back, and she will not risk Alexander’s life – this was her job to do, and so will telling him be. She tells Alex to go home and get some sleep, and he isn’t hard to ask, then she bids farewell to both him and the staff and walks for hours following only her gut before she finally reaches the large warehouse she recognizes as where Mr K has had her brought once before.

Do or die. Do or fucking die. Just remember to breathe.

It is already dawn when she is there, and she knocks on the door harshly, many times, before anyone opens. The face that greets her is tired and unhappy and female. The poor girl has bruises all over her arms, and it is worrying to see. No time to think of such things right now, however much she wishes that was all she had to worry about – something she has handled before and could handle again. No, this time it is not only for quality of life, but life itself. She shudders, focuses all her energy on stopping her hands from shivering and her voice from breaking, then walks into the now refurnished, strange home to find Mr K.

The building is even bigger from the inside than the out, and she walks around for what seems like an hour but could have been a matter of minutes before she walks through the right door, finds K sitting at a desk looking half dead and like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

“I was expecting you,” he says calmly. She is worried now.

“Why so?” She tries to seem casual, like this doesn’t bother her, but she doesn’t think she is doing a very convincing job, and neither does he.

“I could always feel her, but now I can’t. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my chest, and then nothing.” He breathes, heavily. When he speaks again his voice has changed – his whole demeanour. There is something very threatening about him. He sounds like thunder when he speaks. “What have you done to her?”

“That’s what I came here to tell you,” she doesn’t want to do this – absolutely does not want to, “I have put an end to her endless roaming and cruel actions, she is now ensnared in this – “ she holds out the locket for him, and he takes it – almost rips it away from her.

“What is this? What are you talking about, stupid girl? What have you done?” If he was threatening before, she is now scared for her life.

“She was threatening both me and those around me, and when I found a way to stop her I saw no reason not to. There was no other choice for me, and I know that this conflicts with your intentions for her… and I don’t know why I came here.” It dawns on her that her actions may have been too rash and that she might have put herself in a very bad spot with her short-sightedness. “I guess I thought you’d come after me anyway, so why not come to you.” She doesn’t tell him about Tin. That is her secret. She has to keep him safe.

“I don’t believe you,” K says. “There is something you’re not telling me, I’m not an idiot – I’ve been in this game for a lot longer than you’ve even lived. You can either start speaking by free will, or I can make you. The clap of my hands or even just the right look and I can have that annoying friend of yours, what’s her name, Taji or something, here in a minute. I can make you watch as I skin her alive if I so please and she will know it was entirely your fault she had to die, and you will know it as well. You will never stop blaming yourself, and you won’t be able to outrun your past this time, I’ll make sure of it.” He is not playing games any longer. This is not for fun, he is deathly serious, and he makes sure she knows. Still, what is she to do.

“There is nothing more to tell,” she tries. “This is what is left of her.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, child. I have known her for centuries, and this is not all of her being. Where is the rest of her soul – what have you done to it?”

“I have done absolutely nothing else than try and lock that devil’s soul to an object I could later destroy, I swear on my life.” It is true, she never tried to do anything else, it just happened. An accident.

“Is that so…” He says nothing for a moment, and the silence is even more terrifying than his voice. “Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“Give me your hand.”

It is yeses and noes for a while, but he tires soon and grabs her by the wrist – pulling her half way across his desk so she is leaning over it, the edge cutting into her stomach. This is too familiar, too uncomfortable. She struggles. He doesn’t do what she was expecting – he does something that, at least physically, hurts even more. Out of a drawer in the desk he pulls up a pair of pliers – proceeds to clamp it down on her nail and –

She screams, the pain is absolutely unbearable. Her whole body shivers and she has never felt anything like the intense burning sensation that spreads to her hand – the head of the blood running down her fingers. When she manages to pry her clenched eyelids open, she first sees the mess of blood – then the strange way her index-finger looks with no nail. She freezes, like she can’t feel a single thing in this world, and stares. He will do it again, he says, if she doesn’t talk.

For a second he makes the foolish mistake of letting go of her hand to light a cigarette, and she takes what she thinks will be her only chance if she doesn’t – she runs. With all the adrenalin rushing through her veins she can barely feel the pain any longer, and she never looks back. Somehow, she finds herself out on a street after events that she cannot remember, all a blur of memory.

I can never go back to the places he knows. That means the apartment, the bar. Who does he know? Alex. John. Taj. Tin. Thank god I don’t keep much company. I’ve got to get them to safety. I’ve got to get Tin. Fuck. Tin, he’s at the apartment. That’s probably the first place he’ll send them looking…

Her thoughts are racing, as is her heart, and she runs without noticing the pain building in her hand or her legs, without pause or hesitation. She runs for something that feels like a year,  and finally she is at the apartment-building. She sprints up the stairs and she almost kicks in the door before she realizes the key is probably a much better idea, quickly getting herself inside. She screams for Tin, waking him up, tells him to get dressed in a hurry. No need to explain, she says, they have to go now and talking happens later – put your clothes on faster, moron.

As he dresses she stuffs a couple of things she thinks she might need into a bag. A set of clothes that Mr K yet hasn’t see her in, a pocket knife and a bigger knife and a bottle of something drinkable that was on her nightstand table and… The paper – the spell, where did she leave it. She scours the room for it, eventually spotting it half-way beneath the bed. Tin is ready to go – so is she as soon as she has kicked off the high-heels and swapped them for a pair of shoes that are easier to run in. They leave, out the door not even bothering to slam it shut as it’s bound to get kicked in sooner rather than later if they do – down the stairs so quickly they almost tumble and then out the door. They sprint to the nearest subway, time could mean everything now. In a matter of minutes they’re above ground again, and soon they’re both standing breathless in John’s apartment trying to explain the inexplicable to him and Taj. It’s not going well, but she’s never been a liar and so her friends are giving her a free pass – there’s no reason to doubt her now, she wouldn’t joke about this. They get the summarized version, leaving out details and bad decisions. When they are done explaining she excuses herself and runs to the bathroom, throws up. There is nothing left inside her when she manages to stand up without retching, and everything hurts. She is tired, every muscle burns from running and the fear is rising in her as the adrenaline wears thin. When this is all over, she thinks, she wants to sleep for a week. That would be nice.

She tells John and Taj to go somewhere safe, somewhere far away. Just get on a train and go anyplace you’ve never been, that’s where you’ll be safest. Please, I beg you, just go. I don’t want you to get hurt. Tin says it’d be best if they were to split up – that it would make them even harder to trace. Out of the lot of them, he is the one with most experience with these kinds of things. They settle for the middle road – the two of them will leave town separately and meet up at the airport in the next city, then figure out where to go together.

This is the point at which Taj notices her fingernail – or rather the lack thereof. She looks sick, turns pale – points it out to the male company.

“Did he do that to you? Did K fucking do that to you?” Tin is almost screaming the question at her.

“We don’t have time for this now.” Avoid for as long as possible.

“Did. He. Do. That. To. You?” This time he is speaking more controlled, calmly.

“Did who do it to her?” Taj’s voice rings loud, she sounds utterly confused, which is exactly what she is. John stands silently by, not knowing what to say.

It would take too long to explain, she says to Taj, but she’ll catch her up when they meet again after things have calmed. To Tin she simply nods, and he looks disgusted. She the same, knowing what the old man is capable of. Taj insists on wanting more information, but is interrupted by John silently pointing out the window – men are running towards the building.  Fuck. This is the end of the road for us, isn’t it?

Breathe. Sometimes, all you can do is close your eyes and breathe. Like when the world comes crashing down around you. Sometimes, that is the best thing to do. Like now.

She takes a second to clear her head, tries to think of a way out. John is silent like he has been the entire time, Taj is freaking out and frightened – frantic, and Tin doesn’t know the building well enough to devise the plan himself. She pieces together a model of the building in her mind, remembers the night they spent on the roof after having climbed up from the top-storey through a window, on a ledge and up the last bit by aid of an old drainpipe. If they’re lucky it will hold them this time as well, get them out of the situation they’re in.

“The Roof.” John and Taj know what she means, she knows – Tin wasn’t there that time either; it was one of the many months spent overseas in some little warn-torn mountain country. “There’s a way up – but we have to do some climbing, and quick” First she looks out the window to see how close they’ve gotten – too close, then at tin as she speaks.

“Lead the way.”

She does, again running as fast as she can with the others at her heels. They make it up the stairs to the top floor in record time, one after the other making their way through the window hoping no one on the ground will notice. Luckily, they don’t, for now.

Suddenly, she realizes they are missing one person; Alex. She doesn’t even know where she lives… but he’s called her before – she can call the number back. The thought again slips to the back of her mind as she has to make her way up the drainpipe – twelve storeys off the ground and climbing it in sober condition makes her wonder how no one died when they tried it drunk.

They’re up now. Where do we go next? They can get to the next roof, at least. It’s a short jump, but they should all be able to make it, she thinks. She points it out – runs and jumps, makes it. She’s on the other side, and the others get there one by one with only one almost-accident as Tin lands on a loose tile, but John takes his hand and pulls him up. Relief. They have to keep moving. It gets easier from here for a while, most of the rooftops are the same height and a manageable distance apart if any at all.

As quickly as they can they make their way towards the train station, realizing they don’t have any kind of plan to get down. They won’t need it, Tin says, there are bound to be some fire-escapes they can get down to from the roofs with the amount of them there are in the city total. He is right, and when they are close enough they start looking – finding one within the first ten minutes. It leads them into an alley, small dark place, perfect when you don’t want anyone to see you. It’s better if only the two of them go, Tin says, and they all agree. Fewer in the ground troop, and it will give those staying behind more time to think about their next step.

They say their goodbyes, and she watches her closest friends disappear into the city not knowing whether she’ll ever see them again. It hurts, but she is used to that feeling, people leaving. There have been so many of them.

Tin is resting, sitting on a chimney with his head in his hands. She feels terrible for having dragged him into the mess – he’d probably be in less danger even out there in the big, cruel world, she thinks, than right here and now. He looks up and sees her, smiles upon noticing worried, weary eyes. For the first time in so long she sees that same spark in his eyes as the first time they met, and she almost walks over and kisses him right then, but she can’t. There are other things to do, more important things.

Her phone is somehow still in her pocket, and for the first time of the day she is actually glad her holed-up black jeans are as tight as they are, keeping it there. At least there is plenty of battery left. She calls Alex.

The first try there is no answer, but she keeps trying and eventually hears his voice on the other end. She tells him quickly, leaving out the part about torn fingernails and her own doings in making the situation what it is for now. He says he’ll meet them somewhere, asks for ideas. She doesn’t have any, and Tin simply sits there.

“How about just giving up?” It is his lips moving, his body, but it is not him speaking nor is it his voice. It is hers, it is Malika. “You know you don’t stand a chance, poor fools, so why don’t you just give up? That’s what you should have done at the very beginning.” She is taunting, pulling Tin’s lips into a smile so uncharacteristic it is sickening to look at.

“Fuck you,” she replies. “Leave.”

“Now why would I do that? I like this body.”

“Leave.”

“No.” Malika as Tin gets up, comes walking towards her.

She is scared now, doesn’t know what to do but figures Malika is about to do something to her, and instead of letting the ghost get the first move and upper hand she jumps towards Tin’s body, grabs his shoulders and starts shaking him.

“TIN!” She screams. “Tin, you’ve got to fucking fight her. Wake up, Tin!” His hands are moving to her neck now, but she will keep trying to get him back for as long as it takes. Her phone has fallen to the ground, and all Alex can hear are muffled sounds of a fight.

“TI-“ She tries to scream, but hands are tightening around her neck and there is no air and she claws. She claws desperately at his face, his neck and his arms trying to make the ghost of her let go. This is not him, she knows, but still she is terrified. Still she knows things will never be the same.

Suddenly the hands let go, and she can breathe. Deep breaths. Calm down. She draws air into her lungs in great amounts, gulping it down like it was water and she’d been in a desert for weeks. I was going to die, that’s how it felt. Tin is back, she can tell from his eyes now the same that tell of the love he holds for her whenever he looks in her direction. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away.

“What happened? He asks. Confused. Hurt.

“She happened.” She sighs. Why did it have to come to this?

“Fuck… Tell me I didn’t do anything else than what I remember snapping back… Please?” He’s known soldiers with various mental disturbances from too long spent at war, the way they can do things without remembering a second of it, and he is worried what he might have done to her, waking up to his hands choking her.

“N-nothing. It’s ok.”

“It’s not.”

Fuck… Alex. She realizes the phone is no longer in her hand, looking around her for a couple of seconds before she spots it on the ground, the conversation still running. Tin wants to say something, but he motions him to stay silent and puts the phone to her ear.

Alex is still there. He asks what happens, she replies with nothing but a name. He wants her to leave Tin behind and go, says it’s dangerous, but she won’t and he already knew before he asked, really. He came up with an idea, he says. A place that should be safe for now – asks if she knows the abandoned fairgrounds outside of town that closed down years ago when the Ferris wheel came loose and killed tens of people. She does, and they decide to meet there by sunset – should he or they fail to show, they’ll get in touch again, find out what is going on. He has to go, he says – his apartment isn’t safe any longer. Click. He hangs up, and she is left in uncomfortable silence on the roof with Tin.

Breathe. Sometimes, all you can do is close your eyes and breathe. Like when the world comes crashing down around you. Sometimes, that is the best thing to do. Like now.

Eventually they have to speak. They make a plan, staying on the rooftops for as long as they can until they are at the outer edges of the city, then making their way down to the ground. From there they can get on one of the suburban tube-lines to the fairgrounds, it should be possible.

Making their way they come across several of K’s men, spotting them and avoiding being seen themselves. At one point they almost are, but he turns his back for a moment and they manage to run for shelter, continue when he leaves. She is so scared of dying.

Don’t be scared. It’s the only certain thing, isn’t it, that you’ll die someday. At least this very moment you’re living, more so than you ever have. Be honest, have you ever had your heart beat so fast, felt the blood rushing through your veins like now?

“No.” They’ve stopped running for a little while, to catch their breath. The voice inside her head is so loud she sometimes thinks it is Tin or some other person speaking to her and almost answers before realizing it’s all in her head.

“What?”

“Oh…” She’s back to reality. “Nothing. Let’s keep going.”

It’s getting darker already, heavy clouds have appeared on the horizon telling of a storm on its way and it is cold when they block the sunlight. In a couple of hours the sun itself will be below the skyline of the city, and it will be night. They are both tired, hungry, exhausted, but they have to keep going.

They are finally so far out of the city that they deem it safe to take to the ground. They have had to do so sometimes earlier as well, but it’s been a risk only taken because there were no further roofs to jump to. Unfamiliar, it takes them a while to find a subway station, but eventually they do and wait for a train to where they’re going, which doesn’t take long. A twenty-minute ride and trying to seem extra ordinary and blend in so as not to risk anyone spotting them through a window or something such at one of the stops, and they arrive at their stop. Almost there, so close.

It is a barely five-minute walk to the fairground, and a great relief when they can finally see the entrance – the sign that once shone brightly now dangling diagonally across the main gate, missing about a third of its letters. The place looks post-apocalyptic, she thinks. If the world went under to a plague or some such thing, the old, run down funfair is what she expects everything would look like in the end. Deserted, rotten, rusted and broken. Void of life other than the rats that have taken over.

Now they have to find Alex. The fairgrounds is huge, a million places to hide, and she decides calling him will be a far simpler way of finding him than trying to look. She takes the phone out of her pocket, it still has some battery left, at least, and rings him. Ring. Ring. Ring. He doesn’t pick up, and she is worried. Tin lays his hand on her shoulder trying to be comforting, something he was never good at.

“He’s probably just fine,” he says. “maybe he got delayed or something, he had to get out of the city centre too, and it wasn’t exactly easy.” For once, he’s doing good, but the things that calm her also worry her.

“I know. I just hope he’s alright That that’s all.” Her heart is skipping beats out of fear, and she crosses her fingers silently hoping that the superstitions might be real.

“Of course he’s not ok. He probably didn’t even make it out of the building before they found him. K was really mad with him after he found out the stupid boy helped you, you know.” Malika again. Most  unwelcome.

She turns around, brushes the hand that is no longer in Alex’ control off her shoulder and stares into changed eyes. Again the fear. She feel sit rise in her, fill every last atom of her being making her shiver and sending chills down her spine. This isn’t good. Last time was bad, this time will surely be no better.

The phone still in her hand she writes a short, cryptic message to Alex saying where she is, in case something bad should happen. She presses send, hoping she put in the right digits for it to reach him. Hoping it will, that someone can come to her rescue. She screams, trying to get through to Tin, as she back away from the ghost of Miss Emmerton, the phone falling to the ground as she raises her hands, ready to protect herself.

“It’s not going to be that easy this time, Theda.” The smile that isn’t his is back on the lips that are, and it looks so very, very wrong. “And he will find me, you know – and by finding me he will find you as well. That part of my spirit you left in his care so thoughtlessly, the locket… I’ve known him for longer than you’ve existed, my dear, longer than you ever will, and as long as a little piece of me is by his side he will find a way to be with me, because he loves me, and I love him. Without love we have nothing, we are nothing, so I will do anything to keep my love, and he will do anything for me.” One step closer. One step back. Her back is against a wall now, there is no backing away from this.

“What are you going to do? Exactly what is it that you are hoping to accomplish? And if you so do love him and he so does love you, why did he need me locking for you in the first place, huh? Why’d you ever leave?” She doesn’t even know what she’s saying, the words just keep coming, the questions flowing out in her voice before she’s even had the time to think them.

The scene freezes, The Goddess stops dead in her movements stunned. These are questions she has never been asked – never been asked these things by anyone other than herself. Doubt and anger wage war within her each wanting to be the emotions she chooses as a reaction. This isn’t right, she isn’t supposed to doubt this. She loves him, that’s why she’s done all the things she’s ever done. Why did she run away? She never ran, she had to go. She had to let him live his life, and it hurt too much that he didn’t remember her for who she was back then, rather for who she has become. She had to go, there was never a choice for her.

As the ghost with the body of a former current, former, I don’t know any longer lover stills, she seizes the moment to get away. She leaps forward towards the larger body, reaches out her hands to push, tip it out of balance. It is a good try, but Malika regains her posture in time and, with new found strength grabs on to her wrists, bending them backwards and forcing her to her knees. She sits on the ground, hands at unnatural angles and the pain shooting through her arms so great she can’t move. She wants to scream, but she won’t. She will not show that kind of weakness. She feels one of her hands being let go and almost falls forward, only now feeling just how exhausted she is when she is no longer being held up, and everything around her blurs when a fist connects with her temple, sending her toward the ground. It feels like her arm is being torn off, but she doesn’t have the strength any longer to pull herself up, every last bit of her body aching.

The ground raises to greet her, slams into her cheek and now everything is black and she cannot feel the pain any longer, but she can hear something happening in the background. It sounds like a fight, brute force noises and grunts, and then a scream. Something, someone falls to the ground, and she doesn’t know who or what, but this frightens her even more.

Someone turns her to her back, lays her flat out on the ground. It is hard to breath. The person grabs her by the shoulders, starts shaking her and screaming at her to wake up, and she screams back, in pain. She opens her eyes but still sees nothing but darkness and shadows. Eventually reality starts to show itself, the shadows fading into actual things. She doesn’t manage to focus on the face right in front of her, it is too close and her head hurts something so terrible, but not far away she sees Tin’s body lying on the ground, lifeless. Fear and pain builds in her chest and her heart starts to beat impossibly fast, hurting like nothing she’s ever felt before. It feels like someone ties a rope around all her organs and tightens, and she screams again.

“Hey!” The voice, she recognizes it now, it’s so familiar. She can’t quite place it, trying to focus on the face of the person in front of her. “Are you alright? What did she do to you?” It is Alex. Of course it is.

“Uh. Ow. Stop shaking me.” She manages to get the words out, and he stops immediately. He is crouched in front of her, worry painted on his face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, fuck… I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

“I just couldn’t. I was so tired and I couldn’t keep running and there were guards – they’re everywhere. I think they know we’re here… We have to leave.”

“We have to do something about him…” she gestures painfully towards the limp body, “her, whatever. We can’t just leave her, she’s all K is after.”

“Well, what do we do? Is there some way to separate the body and spirit?”

“The only way is death.” It is not an option.

A heavy silence falls like a blanket over them, everything is static for the next few minutes that feel like days. She looks at Alex. He looks back. She looks at Tin’s body lying on the ground. He doesn’t look back. There is a trail of blood running from his left ear, and she ignores what it might mean not wanting it to be true.

They stand there, the sun slowly falling below the horizon, and he smiles. Out of all things to do in a situation such as theirs, the action he chooses is the one she never expected – lips curving upwards and he shakes his head. He is laughing, and although she doesn’t know why, she starts to laugh as well. The both of them are laughing hysterically, and as always when this happens to hear tears begin to form in her eyes and run down her cheeks. There is nothing even remotely fun about their situation. Nothing amusing or friendly or any other thing that should warrant what they are doing, but they are beyond caring at this point. This is the exhaustion, the fear and anger and all the emotions that have been building up through everything that has happened letting go.

You should still be scared. They are coming, and they will get you. Breathe. Stop the laughter and breathe, then find a way out of this mess.

For once, she chooses to ignore the voice. She knows Mr K is looking for them and that if he finds them before they find out how to get out of the quicksand they’re so quickly sinking into they’re screwed, but it feels so good not to care.

“Theda.” He’s stopped laughing, but he’s still smiling. “Theda Karoliina Andrews.” She stills, the laughter that came for nothing she wouldn’t be able to get back for anything.

“Why?” How could you do this? You’ve doomed yourself, you stupid, stupid man.

“We’re dead men walking already, and I want to be able to say your name at least once before I’m dead.” A slap across his cheek. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing before she’s already done it, dumbstruck by what she did. She is ashamed at the strange feeling in her hand, wanting to look away from the red colour rising in his face.

“I-I’m so sorry…” She wants to say something more, but words elude her, leave her gaping like a fish on land. “It’s just, well, see…”

“What is it?” He is holding her chin so she can’t look away. “Tell me.”

“It’s just that no one has said my name for years, you know, not since I left my last home where they used to scream it at me whenever they needed a scapegoat…”

“I shouldn’t have…”

“No, you shouldn’t. But you did, and it’s ok. I don’t really believe that my name is cursed, but there are just so many bad memories from back then that I can’t just forget or ignore. I want to, but I’ve tried everything and nothing works.” She sighs. He surprises her by suddenly pulling her into a hug, holds her tight. It feels safe.

“When we get out of this alive, I’ll help you put the past behind.”

Her heart skips and she barely manages to stop herself from flinching. She knew this was coming, that he wants her somehow, but she didn’t expect to hear it looking at a the lifeless shape of a former lover on the ground right by them. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. And it hits her, why didn’t she think of it before, Madame Oceané. She has to get to her before K does, because if he knows as much as she thinks it won’t take long before he’s there, before he knows what she does. And if anyone has an answer, it will be her.

She quickly retells her line of thought to Alex, and he agrees. Fuck. Tin. What are we going to do about him? She checks his pulse – it is slower than she remembers it to be, but it is regular and there, and he is breathing just fine. It will be hard to bring him, but they have to. If the psychic can help them they want that help as quickly as possible. The more travelling, the more time – the more time, the more danger. Less time is better, it’s a simple conclusion.

But how? There is nothing there to help them – nothing nothing nothing. Wait. She tells Alex to stay, keep watch over Tin and the area, then she runs. She remembers seeing something with wheels closer to the entrance. She doesn’t remember what it was, but it had wheels and wheels would if nothing else at least make it far easier to transport Tin wherever they decide to go.

She sees it still a distance away, and praises herself lucky it’s a little wagon just the size that they might be able to fit most of Tin in it. She runs the remaining distance even further, glad to find the wagon in working order and pulls it with her jogging back. Once there, they move tin onto it and pull it with them in the general direction known as out of here.

Where to go from here? They’re out of the fairgrounds, walking the streets. The train out to where they’re going doesn’t pass this side of town, another way is needed. She proposes the subway to the other side of the city and then the train, but he deems it too risky, says K surely must have men stationed anywhere they could go to get away easily. It is true, of course, yet she still feels it weighing her spirit down. She’d thought maybe they could get an easy break, how could she be so ignorant?

They’ve been walking for a while already, the moon lighting up the streets with no clouds in the way. This is too slow, they’ll never get to Oceané before they’re either caught up to themselves or the very same people that are chasing them find her – there has to be a quicker way. There is a sign-post telling them the nearest train stations is far away, the city centre even further. There is, however, a scrapyard not far away. She touches her palm to her forehead as she gets a revelation – how can she not have thought of this before. Alex is about to go in the direction of the train station when she grabs hold of him and turns him the direction of the scrapyard. If they’re lucky, she says, maybe they can find an old car or some sort of other vehicle. He asks how they would start it without the key, and she simply shakes her head and looks at him in a way that makes him feel small and like he knows nothing of the world. The first time she ran away she was ten years old, she says. She ended up with some strange people, not good for her at all, but they thought her quite a few things that came in handy later in life, like for example how to hotwire a car.

“There are many things you do not know about me,” she says, “many things you do not want to know.” It is true. She is not exactly the nice girl, nor the innocent. She’s been through more than most, thereby also doing a far greater share of stupid, dangerous, reckless and illegal activities. “Don’t judge me by my former actions or the many lives I have led,” she looks at him with eyes hoping he will not be too harsh, “judge me by who I am now. Make your verdict on who all these things has made me become rather than the actions themselves.”

She has a point, he must admit, and smiles. He wouldn’t judge her on the past, that would mean she could judge him as well. Giving up, he says, is far worse than anything she could ever have done – and he gave up on life until she pulled him out of the gutter and forced him to join the ranks of the living yet again. There will be no judging.

Their conversation ends as they get to the gates of the scrapyard. It is locked with a chain and heavy padlock, and they realize they will have to climb it. They also realize this means getting past the barbed wire at the top of the fence without being torn apart before getting to the other side. It is a challenge they are prepared to take – leaving the still unconscious body of Tin as well hidden as they can between two large dumpsters outside the fence. They manage to get across although it takes them a while and quite a few scratches on their hands and everywhere else. Once on the other side she drops herself down to the ground and goes snooping around as Alex takes the calmer approach and climbs down to where his feet meet concrete. She calls him from somewhere in the dark, and he follows her voice until he find her standing by something that looks more like a heap of scrap-metal than anything else. She tells him to try and find some gasoline, then gets in the car and makes magic happen with the wires. The engine starts, but like she thought the tank is far from full. She tries to drive the piece of crap, pushing down on the gas pedal, and it works. The motor produces a bunch of screeching and squeaking sounds, but it moves forward. Now the breaks, she prays they work. Fuck, they don’t. Hand break. Thank god. She praises herself lucky her mentors of the illegal mostly drove old stick-shift cars. They said they were more fun – which was true.

She leaves the car running, the hand break pulled up, as she can’t be bothered disconnecting and reconnecting wires, then goes to find Alex. He’s found a couple of cans and they grab one each – throwing one in the back of the car and filling the tank with the other. Now it’s getting through the gate. Alex looks at her, asking how they’ll manage. She tells him to get in the car, then she starts it up, ignores his objections and rams the car into the gate, breaking it open like she anticipated it would. It makes a loud, metallic clinging noise as the chain breaks and the gates are forced aside, and out of fear of having woken the people in the surrounding buildings she makes Alex get Tin quickly and stuff him in the car whilst she has it ready to go. Two minutes and one screaming neighbour later and they’re as far away as the low speeds of the old thing will have them, running every red light as the breaks aren’t really an option. She conveniently forgets to tell him this, not wanting a freaked out passenger in addition the unconscious one already lying in the backseat.

Wait. He’s not lying any longer. Tin is no sitting up in the backseat. At least it looks like Tin, but she can’t be sure. Alex has noticed too, he sits turned around to keep watch; they’ve already tied his hands behind his back as a preventive measure should Malika surface. She looks at him through the mirror, his eyes locked onto the reflection that he sees of hers, and a million words pass between them without even one being uttered out loud. These are all things no one else could understand, things they have shared and words they have spoken and emotions they have felt in each other’s presence.  Somehow, she knows that this will be the last time. He doesn’t have to tell her, doesn’t have to find those impossible words. She understands, silently, stops the car in the middle of the road and turns around to face him. For the last time she kisses him, leans her forehead on his and reaches her hand behind his back to his so that he can hold it to endure the pain. This time, he kisses her and it hurts when his grip tightens around her hand. This is it. She is taking over now, and he will never be himself again, she is sure. They were so close, but there is no other way. She pries her hand loose and tells Alex that when Tin’s eyes open again they won’t be his. Glad that no one is looking at her, she keeps driving with tears in her eyes, choking down sobs.

They are going far faster than they should. She is desperate to get to the only one that might be able to help, even though she’s quickly losing faith in any remedy for ghosts. Alex is grumbling something, but she can’t hear it over the sound of the metal screaming or the steady murmur of her own thoughts.

Breathe. Just breathe. Keep the tears back, you can’t let them see you this fucking weak. You can’t be this fucking weak. Just keep going, push on. And to think you could have avoided this entire situation, little girl, had you only done what he told you to. Had you not brought all these other people into your problems everything would still be just fine – but you had to, didn’t you? Selfish bitch.

No. This is not the time to listen to the voice in her head. There is no going back – you cannot undo what has been done. All there is, is all there will be. She knows this at heart, and now is the time to believe it more so than any other – if she doesn’t it will be the end of her. She checks the rear-view mirror. Bad call, eyes are staring back at her the exact colour of Tins, but they are not his any longer. Alex moves in the way – this is no time for her to be thinking of anything but the road.

The moon is almost in zenith when she pulls the hand-break and slides a little too far up the road from where they want to be, but not that far. She gets out of the gar, helps Alex get the struggling captive out and from there almost runs to the door of the small house, knocking desperately and hoping someone will answer. Please, please be here. The sound of a lock opening, then another, and the door opens. To great relief it is Oceané standing there, but something still isn’t right. Her body language is tense and so is the atmosphere that pours out the door. The gypsy girl bites her lip, looks at the one she knows as Karoliina with eyes crying please no, please go.

Something is so very wrong, but they cannot leave now. They cannot just go back – there is nothing to return to any longer. No safety or home. Their lives are uprooted until they settle the score, play ‘til the end and see what happens.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is but a whisper, and the young girl truly looks to mean it. “I’m so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about.” None of this was your fault; I was the one who brought you into what was my mess. “Let us in? The girl is hesitant.

“Of course,” she says, but her body language disagrees. She is trying to keep them out, and there must be some reason for it.

“They’re here, aren’t they?” Alex seemed out of the loop until this point, struggling to keep a certain goddess in check, but now he seems to catch on. The ghost grins balefully.

“I’m sorry.” This time it is barely audible.

She begins to notice the differences now, tiny changes and rearrangements of things inside the house. She should have expected this. She should have known, but she didn’t, and this is beyond the point of no return.

The girl is suddenly yanked to the side by arms that come out from behind the door, pushed to the floor. Someone is holding a gun to her head with fingers that look well trigger happy. She makes a whimpering sound as whoever holds the weapon slams the muzzle into her temple and knocks her to the ground. The door opens further, and inside Mr K himself is standing alongside two goons – big and burly men that look like their combine IQ is approximately that of an earthworm. Still. They are big. They have the weapons.

This is when she begins to feel powerless. When she wants to give up and let them do whatever it is that they want to her and to the whole situation. It is so tempting to abandon all hope and not be disappointed yet again, but she can’t. That just isn’t the way her mind works. K sneers at her. It feels wrong, looks wrong. He seemed like a man of more class than that. I guess people do unexpected things when you push their limits too far.

Seeing Oceané lie on the floor whimpering with a gun to her head, knowing Tin will never come back. These are the things that keep her going. These, and the faint hope that maybe she can save Taj and John and maybe maybe even Alex. She doesn’t care about her own life any longer, not even sure if she could live with herself when all of this is over

You should have listened to yourself in the very beginning, not gotten them all involved.

I know. I know.

Good.

A hand smacks across her face, send her to the floor in her unprepared state. K is pulling a white glove back on when she looks up, looking more ominous than even the darkest alleys on even darker nights. She is genuinely frightened, wants to look at Alex, but doesn’t dare to turn her head away from the man of the hour.

“Finally. I’ve been waiting for you.” So you always knew.

“Fuck you.” The words were never meant to pass her lips, even so she cannot feel any kind of remorse when they do. After all, it is exactly what she is feeling towards him.

“You’d like to, wouldn’t you? Whore.” He motions to the unoccupied goon to walk outside and get Alex and – more importantly – the one all of this is about. “Thank you for bringing her straight to me, makes my job a whole lot easier than having to chase after you. Did you really for a moment think that I wouldn’t be here before you, honestly?” The answer is no.

“Well, considering it is you we are talking about, and how you had to have a girl do your dirty work for you, old man, I had my doubts.” She needs to buy time, to think of something. This might not be the best way, but it is so hard to keep the words back when they are face to face like this. The faint pain at the end of her finger where there should have been a nail serves to remind her that she has to find a way out of this. She has to win.

The goon shoves past her through the door, where she is still standing, and pulls Alex with him into the dark room, down to the ground with him like the owner. Malika walks just fine on her own, long strides until she is by K’s side. It looks so terribly wrong as she places Tin’s hand on the man’s shoulder, the situation becoming even more absurd when she parts his lips and her words come out saying how she has missed him. How is this reality? How can this possibly be reality – I’d rather believe in talking chickens and flying pigs. They’d be far pleasanter, as well.

“Look what you’ve done to my beautiful ghost,” K says, his voice now calm, almost pleasant. He looks at Tins body, his Malika – she cannot look at them any longer, turning her gaze away. “You’ve caused – no, you are causing her tremendous pain when you do reckless things like splitting a soul in half, ignorant girl.”

(c) Silje Kleven