My room, being awake—they offer no solace.
The music grows louder, punctuated by an occasional pounding foreign to the melody. I strain to focus, pushing the madness aside. Again the pounding comes and again I reach for it. There is a wood timbre to the sound, like an object striking something hard.
More pounding, louder this time. It drowns the sounds of my melody. Over and over the thuds repeat, coming closer. It’s mixed with something new, soft, light, breathy. Like a whisper.
The horrific visions fade as the knocking continues, until finally my world goes black. I blink my eyes once, twice. My room comes into view.
The bed.
The wooden table.
And the incessant knocking on my door.
“Ien. Ien. Let me in. Please, Ien.”
I don’t know the voice coming from the hall outside of my room.
“Please, Ien. I will explain everything once you let me in.”
The woman sounds much older than Sister Agnes or the others that bring my meals and collect my linens.
“Now, Ien. I must see you now.” Her pleadings are punctuated with coughs and wheezing.
I rise from the bed, still unsure if I am awake or lost in another dream. I open the door, revealing a woman at the threshold, old and frail. Her eyes are milky-white, unusable. Her skin resembles parchment. I’m certain she’ll turn to dust at any moment.
“Thank you,” she says, pushing her way past me. She walks as though she can see every inch around her.
Was I wrong about her eyes?
“Who are you?” I ask. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Sister Agnes said—”
“Sister Agnes holds no dominion over me.” Her voice rattles with phlegm. But there is strength hidden beneath the excess fluids. A strength that reminds me of Mother. “I’m Sister Anne. I’ve come to help you.”
A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “There is no help for me,” I say a little too loud.
“There is always help for those in need, son.” She speaks with such endearment that I’m tempted to believe her.
“The only help for me lies six feet under the ground.”
A smile plays on her face. “Your death is not what I had in mind.” The sister sits on my bed and faces me.
I know she cannot see; there is no terror reflected through her one good eye. But her gaze leaves me feeling exposed, and I walk to the table to grab my linens.
“There is no need to cover your face for me. In fact, there is no need for you to cover it for anyone. Not anymore.”
My brows pinch together as I recall the horror painted in the eyes of everyone who has ever seen my face since the accident. Everyone except Jenna. And this woman.
“Trust me,” she says, again reading my thoughts.
She can see me. It’s the only explanation.
“Please, come sit with an old woman.” She motions for me to join her.
Her voice pulls me to her.
Is this another dream
? I stab my nails deep into the fleshy parts of my palms. Pain radiates up my arm, too real for a dream.
“Come,” Sister Anne says again and I comply. “Let me.” She touches my face before I can respond. Her fingers pass over each contour. The bone, the hardened skin and pieces of tendon. Nothing escapes her. “Oh, you aren’t cursed, Ien Montgomery. Not even close. You are striking. I think you have simply forgotten.”
My eyes fill with water, my heart with relief. Her words reach inside my soul, nurturing a part of me long since dead. I wish the words were true, fantasize that they are. But I know better, her
truth
is as blind as she.
“Do not mistake blind for unseeing, Ien. I have more clarity than most.”
“How did you—?” Again I scratch at the flesh of my palms. This is one strange dream, so palpable.
“The world needs to see the real you if you are to survive. Not the mask you wear, but the person who composes such beautiful music and risks so much for love. Make everyone see, Ien. Then you will be free.”
Her words cut me to the quick. How can she know what lives in my heart? How can she see so much of me?
Only one answer makes sense…
This isn’t real.
“You doubt your five senses now? Here, touch me.” Her frail hands wrap around my own. She guides me to her face. It’s soft and warm. “I am as real as you.”
I recoil, my mind riddled with confusion. So much has proven false these last few months. So much I don’t understand. She must be an aberration, a phantom sent to confuse me further. I glare at her, searching for proof. She seems so solid, so real. My hands begin to shake and the tears overflow my eyes.
“I assure you I am real, sent only to help you heal. You do want to heal, don’t you, Ien? You do want to get out of here, yes?”
Before I can process her questions fully “yes” escapes my mouth. She smiles and for the briefest of moments I feel more than see something sinister within that smile.
I pull away, trying to decipher my emotions. I’m warmed by her concern and chilled by whatever it is I feel behind her eyes. All at once I am consumed by this frail, slight woman in front of me. I want her to be real, want the optimism she brings to mean something.
In truth, I need it.
I force my misgivings aside, giving into the hope I covet.
“Tell me about your mother, Ien. Tell me why she has sent you here.”
A new flood rushes through me, unleashed by thoughts of Mother. Answers rise up from the hatred kindling in my heart. Should I tell this stranger that Mother has no capacity for love? That I am nothing more than a failed project, sent here for disposal. Do I speak of the fire that took my face, or the days I writhed in pain as layer upon layer of skin peeled away?
Or maybe I should describe the look on Father’s face when he ordered my death. Or the sound of Mother’s voice while she prayed for it.
“Mother condemned me the day I was born.”
Sister Anne opens her mouth to say more, but her voice fails. There is nothing left to say, no way to heal the truth of my words.
To Mother, I am but a cursed shadow.
15.
“Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”
~William Blake (The Clod and the Pebble)
~
Ien watched Sister Anne, waiting for some sort of reaction to his words. There was none. “We will talk more tomorrow,” she said as she rose and left the room.
He stared at the door, a strange mixture of sadness and hope swirling around him. She did not come back the next day, nor the day after that. But she did visit sporadically over the next few weeks, bringing seeds of hope in her words that bloomed in Ien’s chest. Maybe there would be a way through this yet.
Maybe.
His face still wasn’t healing. Sister Agnes still refused to tell him where he was. And Mother—Mother never visited. Not once. Every day that passed brought Ien closer to death. Even Sister Anne’s visits couldn’t change that.
“Why do you focus so much on dying?” she would ask whenever Ien lost himself in thoughts of Mother’s threats.
“It isn’t that. I just know Mother. She doesn’t say anything she doesn’t intend on carrying out.”
“You are wrong this time,” she always responded.
Ien prayed she was right. And knew she likely was not.
Time passed in that slow monotonous way it does when nothing changes, one day bleeding into the next without meaning. Sister Anne’s visits became more frequent, and always in the afternoon. She asked Ien questions about his life, never answering his. They talked about Mother and Erik, Kiera and the accident. She never judged his actions or words, never insinuated disappointment or fear. Nothing like the reactions from Mother.
The visits with Sister Anne never lasted long; she always left as abruptly as she came. And he always waited with anticipation until she came again, desperate for the hope she represented.
More than hope, she gave him a normalcy he craved. Even Ien’s nightmares seemed to abate with Sister Anne’s presence. As did Erik’s taunts and Kiera’s screams. Sister Anne had proved to be more than someone to help him pass the time, she became a reason to stay alive.
“Come, I have something to show you,” she said one afternoon.
Ien hesitated at the door. “Don’t you have evening prayers? Sister Agnes said—”
“Trust me.” Sister Anne pulled on his hand, guiding him from the room. He did trust her. Completely.
Fear and excitement set Ien’s nerves on fire as he walked down the long corridor. It felt like he was in a dream, pulled by an invisible cord attached to Sister Anne’s voice. They walked past gardens and endless hallways. Past dining areas and great rooms. Stone wall after stone wall passed them. Ien had never seen such a large facility, bigger, even, than his family’s estate.
Adrenaline mounted an assault on his senses as he walked. Thrill and fear increased with each passing moment, an addictive concoction he couldn’t resist. He was trapped by Sister Anne and the promises held within her words.
“Your life can be more than this, Ien.” She motioned to the windowless corridors and dark rooms they passed. “So much more. But you have to have faith in me.”
Sister Anne had a motherly kindness that coated her words. He wanted to drink it in, allow it to soothe and feed the deepest parts of his soul. Through her, he felt healed and the curse of his deformity seemed less important.
Through her, it felt possible to live again.
They walked down the last long hallway to the furthermost point from his room. He saw no one save the sister on their journey. No patients or nurses. No nuns. No attendants of any kind. Everything was silent except for the sound of their footsteps against the stone floors. Again he wondered about the place he called home.
Crucifixes hung on the walls of every room they passed.
It must be a convent
, Ien mused. The irony circled around him. Condemned to die in a place of worship; only Mother could make this happen.
“They won’t be finished for at least an hour.” Sister Anne motioned to the group of nuns seated in a small sanctuary they passed.
“Shouldn’t you be with them?” Ien didn’t want her to leave and he didn’t want to go back to his room. He drew a deep breath.
“I’ll join them soon, after you’ve seen what I must show you.” Sister Anne pushed the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway open, her breath marred by gurgles and wheezing.
The room opened into a large dark space filled with only a few chairs and an old piano that appeared to be abandoned, just like Ien. He walked to the instrument and his fingers began twitching, playing an invisible song. Hesitating for just a moment when he reached the piano, Ien glanced at Sister Anne.
“It’s alright,” she said. “A piano is meant to be played. Please. Go ahead.”
Ien sat down and stretched his hands. It had been months since he touched a piano. He longed to feel the keys under his fingertips and create music, to feel control over something in his life. He looked at his hands. The skin had healed, but his fingers were deformed and misshapen. Broken, just like the rest of him. He wondered if he could still draw out the music as he had before. He stretched his fingers, his hands, his arms, and settled in to play. With a heavy sigh, he began—first Bach, just to warm up, then Mozart and Chopin. All of the songs from his youth.
Sister Anne sat in the nearby chair, her useless eyes staring through him. “You play well.”
“Thank you. It’s been a long time. I’m afraid I am a bit rusty.”
“Not at all. But I wonder, would you play the other song for me? The one most special to you?”
Ien stopped mid-note. He hadn’t told her about that song. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about it save Kiera.
“You mentioned it when you spoke of her, Kiera. I would very much like to hear it. Please.”
Ien recalled his previous conversations with Sister Anne, replaying every mention of Kiera. He was certain he’d made no mention of the music he shared with her alone. But he must have. How else could she have known? His thoughts began to fragment with the uncertainty clouding his mind. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.
I am not insane. There is nothing wrong. I survived the fire, death. I am alive. Everything is fine.
The words cleared his mind. He swallowed hard.
“Please, Ien.” Her voice pulled him back to reality. “Trust me. It’ll be a good release for you, help ease your pain. You must let go of it now. Let go of everything.”
She was right, of course. Ien needed to unload the grief he’d been carrying for too long. He stared at the keyboard, hesitant. The song had only existed in his head since the explosion. The last time it was played life was hopeful and he and Kiera had a future.
The last time he’d been whole.
Ien trembled slightly. He placed his hands on the keys, his fingers cautiously playing the first few notes.
“Yes, Ien. Keep playing.”
Her voice seeped into his skin, urging him forward. Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes and allowed the music to pour from his fingers. The notes of the duet struck a strange harmony that sounded different.
No longer filled with hope and promise of a life together, the music had become dark. Even sinister. Every measure of promise was now filled with dread and an impenetrable pain. Each note of hope replaced by fear. And every cadence of love now brought only longing.
The despair in the music crept through him, awakening a familiar terror from deep within. Anguish rose to the surface with each note. He tried to stop it, tried to end the music all together. But he was compelled to finish, trapped in the song that was meant to set him free.
Ien played the last notes with trembling fingers and opened his eyes. Tears trickled down the ligaments and bones that now defined his cheeks. He was spent, broken. The one piece of music that should have comforted him, now reminded him of everything he had lost.
Ien looked towards the now empty chair. Sister Anne was gone. Hopelessness and desperate longing welled inside of him, swirling up his throat. He stretched his neck and hands, wiping the last of the tears from his face. The feel of his deformed skin pushed him further into his grief. Sister Anne couldn’t save him from his life, not now that he remembered the depth of his losses.