Now, I have nothing.
My body again breaks and crumbles. Erik watches as I gag on my own existence, emptying all of myself—the anguish and pain, the anger and regret.
And the love.
I am utterly spent.
Or am I?
More emotions swell up from the depths.
Longing.
Hunger.
Need.
The feelings weave through my heart and awaken new fantasies of Kiera. New truths. I’m more than the flesh and bone that defines me. More than the pain that consumes me and the madness radiating through me. I am a man. And I am
still
alive…
13.
“The defects of the mind are like wounds in the body.
After all imaginable care has been taken to heal them up, still there will be a scar left behind.”
~Francois de La Rochefoucauld
~
Another month streamed past Ien in a haze of meaninglessness. Memories played through his thoughts, every moment with Kiera warping until day and night, reality and illusion, were indistinguishable and his hunger for her, insatiable.
Images of the fire continued in his dreams. As did his memories of the revulsion in Kiera’s eyes. Worse, Erik continued to invade his thoughts with promises of a better life, one unbroken, beyond the reach of Mother. One that could include Kiera.
A lie.
Ien pushed against the visions and the chaos, refusing to concede to the madness threatening him. Every night he reached into the haze of his thoughts, determined to yank himself free from the ever-changing images pressing against him.
My name is Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.
His mantra, a new defense against the encroaching insanity, oriented him.
I survived the fire. I survived Mother. I am alive.
The phrases continued to circulate through his thoughts, soothing his fragmented nerves.
I am not insane. I can control my thoughts.
The phrase stuck in his mind and jammed against his fears. Part of him screamed ‘liar’ and clung to the doubts consuming him.
He pushed through the noise, repeating the mantra again.
My name is Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.
Over and over the words continued, each phrase offering its own shelter of sanity. Some days it took more than thirty repetitions to chase away the nightmares and the madness.
Today was easier, only nineteen.
Ien sat up, slowly breaking free from the loop of contorted thoughts that lingered in his subconscious. He shook away the last of the fog and mist, the fire and ash, the screams and horror.
Ien’s feet hit the floor with a light thud. Cold and hard, it was just like everything in his life now. He stood and stretched, thankful for the lack of bindings. Sister Agnes had ignored Mother’s warnings, despite his previous episode. Ien worked hard to make sure she never regretted that decision. He did not leave his room, nor did he violate the sister’s rules about keeping his face hidden. He remained a free prisoner, bound only by the guilt of her blind trust and the walls of his room.
He paced the small room, covering the distance in a few steps. The room was dank despite the white walls. Thin ribbons of light streamed through the tiny slit of a window in the corner, bathing the room in the orange hues of sunrise. The bed, nothing more than a cot covered with a scratchy woolen blanket lined one wall. A small writing desk and basin covered the entire section of the adjoining wall. Nothing adorned the walls now, not since Ien broke the mirror after seeing his reflection. The nuns ensured there were no more reflective surfaces of any kind. No pictures or linens. Only books and paper—a gift from his mother. Nothing else remained from his previous life.
Nothing except his thoughts.
He fingered the heavy paper, thinking of his Mother’s words to him when she left him to die. “Take this with you, son,” she had said. “Maybe you can write down your thoughts. Read them back to keep yourself occupied while you’re there.”
Why did you bother, Mother? Why?
Ien pondered where he actually lived now, a convent, a hospital, some other dismal facility? The presence of the nuns suggested a convent, while the never-ending supply of medicines suggested something else.
But it was the occasional screams that made him ask the sister for the truth, something she never supplied, no matter how relentlessly he questioned.
Heavy footfalls outside of Ien’s room signaled the start of another day. The routine was always the same. Meals. Prayers. Solitude. That was the sum total of his life. It aged Ien, making him feel more like a man in the twilight of his life, not one who should be embracing a vibrant future.
“Mr. Montgomery.” Sister Agnes’s rough voice cut off his thoughts as she pounded on the door. “Mr. Montgomery, are you decent?”
A younger man, a different man, would have smiled and plotted a furtive reply. But there was nothing suggestive in her words; they were not about modesty.
“Just a minute,” Ien replied as he grabbed the linen bandages. His face still hurt at his touch.
Perhaps it always would.
He wrapped the rough fabric around his head with great care, cringing whenever his finger brushed again the skin. He had to hide the mangled mass of flesh and bone, the truth of his existence. The shame.
“Almost,” Ien said as the last of the cloth mask was tied into place. “There. You may come.”
Sister Agnes opened the door, avoiding Ien’s gaze. Mask or not, she could never bring herself to meet his eyes. No one could. Some things you just can’t hide, no matter how thick the material.
“Your breakfast.” Sister Agnes put the meal, a bowl of something Ien had no desire to try, on the wooden desk before moving the basin to the floor. “I trust you are feeling better.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And your face?”
Ien did not know what to say. Lying would be of no help. She would only examine him and discover the truth herself, a truth that worried him. “No change.”
Silence grew in the space between them, deafening in its emptiness.
Sister Agnes swallowed hard and turned away.
“How long has it been, Sister? Since Mother brought me here?”
“Six weeks. We are out of time.”
“Where am I, exactly?”
“Where your family wishes you to be.”
“And may I leave now, since the pain is tolerable?”
Sister Agnes walked to the door without responding.
“Has she come to inquire about me?”
“Not in the past few weeks. I suspect she will come. Soon.”
“And then?” Ien knew what Mother expected. He even suspected that the sisters would honor her request. But, he needed to hear it for himself.
Sister Agnes turned and looked at Ien, pinning him with her stare. Her actions startled him and he turned away, unable to handle the scrutiny.
“We will do what is required, Mr. Montgomery.” The cold timber of her voice infused his skin with an icy terror.
She left the room before Ien could respond. He wasn’t ready to die. He had worked too hard to stay alive. He stripped off the tight linen mask and allowed his fingers to roam his face. Every curve and indentation, every texture and sensation painted a mental picture of his deformities. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered. Maybe there was a hint of improvement. A tiny speck of hope bloomed. Until he felt his bones and tendons and a familiar sinister laugh echoed in his thoughts.
Who was he kidding? He was cursed.
And he would die in this place.
“You’ve run out of time.”
Ien whipped around, spying Erik in the shadowy corner of his room. “Get out!”
“You can’t control me. Besides, I’m here to help you, and this time you really ought to listen. You wouldn’t want another unnecessary tragedy would you?”
“You are not real!”
“Can you really be so sure? With your mind in such a state? How do you even know what’s real anymore?”
“Get. Out!” The walls rattled from the intensity of Ien’s voice. “I am Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.” He whispered his mantra, his heart pounding in his chest.
Erik’s laugh sent a chill down Ien’s spine. “It won’t work, little brother.” Erik’s breath seared Ien’s neck. “Not this time.”
Ien pinched his eyes shut. “I survived the fire. I’m alive. I will survive…survive it all.”
“I’m still here, Ien. You can’t hide from me.” The words came from everywhere, coiling around Ien like a snake.
His heart beat wildly out of control, his breath coming in rapid bursts. “I am not insane. I can control this.”
“You’ve never been able to control me.” Erik’s words hissed through the shadows as he faded into nothing.
“I am not insane!” The shriek echoed throughout the room. “IamnotinsaneIamnotinsaneIamnotinsane.” The words repeated over and over, louder and louder.
Ien paced like a caged animal, smashing his fists against the wall. “You’re dead, Erik. You. Are. Dead!”
The door to his room swung open. “Mr. Montgomery! Mr. Montgomery! You have to calm down. Ien!”
He barely registered the other voices in the room, continuing his assault on the shadows and walls of his room.
“I’m still here. Always here.”
Erik’s words ensnared Ien’s thoughts until the only thing he could hear or think about was him.
“Get out of my head!” Ien yelled. A stream of fire rushed through his arms, his legs, his body. Hands steadied his frail body as he felt himself fall.
And his mind splintered again.
14.
“O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven:
Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!”
~William Shakespeare (King Lear)
~~
Fire burns through the whole of me as my nightmares take over what’s left of my mind. I fight against the images and emotions crashing into me, stiffening against the onslaught. A warped and distorted terror coats my senses until one by one the pictures begin to retreat and I fade back into the nothingness I crave.
I take a breath.
And another.
There are no more thoughts in this moment. Nothing of the fire or ash. Nothing of Erik or Mother. I am at peace.
Or maybe, mercifully, I am dead.
Why am I here?
My respite is cut too short as questions spring from the darkness.
Why have I stayed a prisoner, too scared to reclaim a life, my life? Why do I indulge in fantasies that can never come true?
The questions come faster and faster in the dark, carrying their own type of silent torture.
Why has my brother come back from the dead to haunt me once more?
Why?
Why?
Why?
The questions push me further into the space in between, the place where my madness lays waiting for me. I struggle with each inquiry, determined to extract some sort of answer, an explanation for everything that has happened so far. But no answers come and I’m forced to acknowledge the feeling lodged between my two worlds
Terror.
It is the only explanation for my complacence. Terror for the monster that hides in my dreams, whispering in my ear until I almost believe the voice to be real. Terror for the images the monster brings, heinous acts committed by me. I’m not capable of such violence, I can’t be. And yet, I fear the monster is real; a precursor to a life that lies in waiting.
Just for me.
Here, in my waking prison, my home, I pretend that I’m whole. Here, my fantasies stay in my mind. But what will happen if I leave? Will I find Mother and Father and make them pay for all they have done to me? Will I hunt James and take Kiera back? Will I become the thing I fear most of all?
The madness grows too fast now, the constant noise too hard to quell and the delusions too difficult to deny. I dream of Kiera and our love, weaving a lifetime within the parts of my mind that are still whole. In that space, we have a life together.
Until darkness descends there as well.
The truth bleeds into that fantasy and she no longer sees me as Ien. My death mask is no longer hidden. Kiera screams in my thoughts.
Always.
She cannot see the
me
behind the mask, cannot remember anything but the horror facing her.
Even in the calm spaces untouched by madness, Kiera is not mine.
My thoughts spin the landscapes around me and I imagine I am sitting again at the piano, playing Kiera’s song. I watch my fingers float across the keyboard and cling to the sounds emanating around me. I let the notes caress my thoughts, hoping it is enough to satiate the longing I have for her.
It’s no use. All I hear are the gaps within the duet, places left empty just for her.
My mind abhors the void the music has created. Kiera shapes from my thoughts, filling in the pauses, completing a song that can only be ours. I will myself to pull away, resist falling into the vision, the myth.
But I can’t, won’t. My fingers continue and I am again trapped within the maze of my thoughts.
Kiera plays with me, matching the cadences. We play every pause, every pulse, slowly becoming the music we create. For a moment I lose myself to the fantasy.
But only a moment.
Kiera eventually opens her eyes. Screams.
The moment is shattered and the scene vanishes. I’m engulfed in darkness once more, forever waiting to see where my mind will take me.
Am I as cursed as Mother believes?
No
.
I am worse. Much, much worse.
Confused images emerge and coil around me, overlapping in a collage of pictures I need to forget. Fire. Kiera and James. Mother and Erik. I wake with a start, clinging to the truth of the small room. Sweat beads from my brow as I fight the blankets covering me.
A haunting melody invades my ears. It feels real, this song that should not exist outside of my nightmares. The kaleidoscope of thoughts and images continue to swirl and turn, tossing my stomach. I grab the bed, begging for respite.