Nothing, just the same distant look and hard features he had grown accustomed to over the past few months.
“We will do our best, ma’am.” Sister Agnes looked in Ien’s direction.
He quickly shut his eyes and held his breath.
“The Montgomery estate has left a generous donation to assist your efforts.”
The word
generous
lingered in the air, churning Ien’s stomach.
“Thank you.”
“I do have one request, Sister Agnes.” Ien’s attention perked as Mother continued speaking. “If you cannot heal him, he must die. I won’t let my son suffer. Purge him from the curse inflicting him, and help him pass. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Ien’s stomach tightened further. This was not a place to heal. This was where Ien would face his death at last.
~
Days and weeks tumbled into each other as Ien did little more than simply exist. He opened his eyes, woken by the sound of muffled voices and footsteps echoing in the hall. He focused on the sounds, trying to discern if they were real or just another fantasy he could no longer control or avoid. He burrowed himself into bed, grateful that his caretakers—nuns or nurses he couldn’t be certain—had released the bindings on his wrists. Pulling his blankets over his head, he created a private cocoon of safety against the world.
Who was he kidding? His safety ended the day Mother prayed for his death.
The distant voices became louder and louder, drawing closer and closer. Ien had no choice but to accept them as real. He didn’t want visitors. Didn’t want to see any more terror-filled expressions as his bandages were changed. Or hear the choked revulsion. He just wanted to be left alone.
Ien sat up and swung his legs to the floor. He stretched his neck and back, again thankful for the freedom to move around his tiny room. Brushing his fingers along his face, he felt the rough bandages that hugged the contours of his skull. More than once he’d thought about removing the scraps of fabric himself to see what scared everyone. Fear paralyzed every attempt.
The footsteps and voices settled just outside of his room. His mother’s familiar tones mixed with those of Sister Agnes.
“Are you sure you want to see him, ma’am?” Her voice was harsh, just as it had been every day for the weeks since Ien was forced to call this cell home.
“He is my son.”
Son.
The word seemed foreign on Mother’s tongue. Rage swelled up through Ien. She had no right to claim him now.
“His face, ma’am, it has not healed. His wounds are still open. Maybe infected.”
Again Ien touched his face, sending a wave of pain, more emotional than physical, through him. He waited for the response he knew would come.
“Our agreement?” she finally asked.
“Yes. We will give it a little more time. Perhaps the prayers and medicines will still work.”
A cold chill wove through Ien. He knew that a few weeks would solve nothing. After all, it had already been four months since the accident. A few more weeks would make no difference. He would never heal.
He stood and paced the room.
Do something
. He tried the door.
Locked.
He looked at the slit of a window
Too small.
His mind swirled, searching for an answer, some way out of this hell. Every thought brought him to the same conclusion—he was trapped.
Again he fingered the small bandages engulfing his face. He may be trapped, but that didn’t mean he had to hide behind them and wait for death to arrive. He spied a tiny mirror that hung on the far wall over a small basin. Ien looked at the reflection of himself. His hair hung in thinning strands around his face. His eyes appeared to be held in place by the bandages themselves. They were still clear, still blue, but they held a craziness that seemed to rise from somewhere in the abyss of his soul.
Nothing about the boy looking back at Ien seemed familiar. He took a deep breath.
I have to do this
. Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the bandages and began to strip them off. One by one they peeled back, no longer sticking to his flesh. The cool air hit his skin like knives scraping against exposed nerves. His flesh, hard and dead, hung from the bone in some places. In others, it had melted off completely, exposing his skull. Tendons and ligaments replaced muscle and skin. His eyelids were missing in places and his lips were charred. None of his face had been spared save a small section of cheek and jaw on the right side. He looked more dead than alive.
Bile swirled up from Ien’s stomach, settling in his mouth. He emptied it into the basin and closed his eyes. His hands shook as he traced his face. Bones. Muscles. Tendons. Blinding agony riveted through him, mixing with the bile still churning. He again emptied the mixture into the basin. The air thinned around him. Tears welled in his not-so-human eyes and spilled over what was left of his face.
For the first time Ien understood the reaction of those around him.
I should have died
, he thought. “I should have died!”
Ien continued to stare at his reflection for a heartbeat, too numb to react, until a blood-curdling scream ripped through his throat, slicing the air around him. “No!” he screamed over and over, unable to stop. He pounded the mirror with his fists, sending shards of glass deep into his skin.
The door swung open. Mother and Sister Agnes plunged into the room.
“You let him loose?” Mother yelled. “I told you to keep him bound.”
“But he is in no danger here. Since the day he came, he has only ever slept.”
“You ignorant fool! Look at him! He
is
the danger.”
Ien continued to scream, shifting his attention from himself to Mother. “You did this to me. YOU!” Images of the explosion flooded Ien’s senses, forcing him to relive every terrible moment.
The clicking sound.
The fiery rain.
The laughter.
His mother’s laughter.
He lunged forward, rage filling every cell. “I’ll kill you!”
The room erupted into pandemonium. Sister Agnes blocked Ien’s path as several attendants rushed into the tiny room. Mother backed away from him, a mixture of pain and rage coloring her face. Ien released a feral growl, clawing through the crowd and pinning Mother with his wide eyes that he knew must look crazed. A familiar river of fire invaded his veins. “No,” he screamed. “I’ll kill—”
Ien’s voice stopped mid-sentence. His body crashed to the floor with a thud, tossing him back, into himself.
12.
“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
~William Shakespeare (Macbeth)
~~
Chaos swirls around me as I run through the emptiness that now defines my existence. Mother caused this curse, this affliction. I don’t know how or why. But, it’s the only explanation for the distortions of my face, the wounds that will not heal. And the madness that seeps up from the depths of me; a madness I have always known…
“They’re back, aren’t they? The scary dreams?” A young Jenna, eight or nine years old, sneaks into my room.
“Yes,” I manage to reply in a shaky voice. “I know they aren’t real. But…they scare me.”
“It’s okay. I’ll help you.” She sits on the bed next to me. “Tell me about your music. Anything to get your mind off of things.”
I told Jenna everything back then—all about the visions and the voices. She never judged. And somehow telling her made the noise stop. Until we grew up, and she became a member of the household staff.
The chaos came back after that. Only music could quiet the noise. Music and Kiera. And now they’re gone.
Because of Mother.
The noise grows in my thoughts, enveloping me in a madness I can’t control. I want to die in a way I never thought possible. Need to die.
Please God, help me. End this curse, let me die. Show mercy on me.
Music weaves through the wreckage in my mind, filling the spaces around me. Every note acts as a haunting reminder of what I’ve lost:
James.
Music.
Kiera.
I can’t control the growing torment. The landscape of my thoughts churns with my anguish, a kaleidoscope of emptiness reforming with my mind. I don’t want to be here, but I can’t find a way out.
I touch my face, prepared for the mixture of bone and flesh I’m sure to find. Only smooth skin greets my fingers. There are no traces of the wounds, no sign of Mother’s curse. Impossibly, I’m whole.
“Were you expecting something else?” Erik emerges from the shadows. “You’re not broken here, in the recesses of your thoughts. Here, you are whole. Here, you create your world. You are in control.”
Control
. The word envelops me as my breathing slows.
“Are you ready to listen to me now?” Erik’s voice sends a sliver of fear, forcing the landscape to bend.
“You aren’t real. You can’t be.”
“How can you be so sure?”
The landscape continues to twist as vertigo threatens to overwhelm my senses. I focus, quieting my thoughts. My world responds and the dizziness fades.
“If you do exist,” I say to my brother. “Why can I only see you when I dream?”
“You only want to see me then. I can bleed into your waking thoughts if you wish. Be with you always.”
“Why are you here at all? I don’t need you.” A familiar hate blooms in my chest, darkening the world around me.
“Haven’t I always tried to help you?” Erik rounds on me, exploding chills down my spine. “Haven’t I always protected you?” He hisses in my ear.
My mind drifts to our days as children. Erik. The older brother. The stronger brother. Smart. Handsome. Determined. The only one of us destined to fulfill every Montgomery expectation.
Thankfully.
I never wanted to be Mother’s puppet, never wanted to give up my life, never wanted to live without music.
“I gave you your own life,” Erik whispered. “Let you ditch our family’s responsibilities.”
“And then you died.”
“You’re blaming that on me?” His voice carries a familiar malice.
“No, it’s just—”
“Ien, stop.”
I can’t trust his saccharine tone.
“I’m here to help you, like always.”
I want to believe him, ignore the panic swirling through me. I
need
him to be real, to save me from my life.
“Dream up a life with Kiera. Or music. Anything. Hide here and live in that life. Just for a little while.”
His words are soothing. The landscape responds, becoming the meadow once more. I look toward Erik.
“Go. Trust me.”
I know I shouldn’t.
Kiera appears in the meadow, her arms open. I walk to her as a cloak materializes around me, covering my face. I stop, panic gripping my chest. Is the deformity back? I brush my fingers over my cheek, finding only smooth skin. My heart relaxes and I am again able to breathe.
“Trust me,” Erik whispers in my ear.
I reach Kiera and pull her into a tight embrace.
“You’re here,” she breathes into my neck.
My skin trembles at her touch. “Where else would I be?”
Our lips find each other, igniting a familiar hunger. My pulse quickens as the kiss overwhelms me, sealing my fate. This is where I will spend my eternity—away from my cursed face, away from Mother and her death wish.
Away from the truth.
“I love you,” Kiera professes. “Forever.” Her lips cover me in more kisses, leaving me breathless.
I’m lost to her, trapped in her love.
She pulls away, a smile playing on her mouth. Her fingers wrap around the hood of my cloak, pushing. She stares into my eyes, as the blood rushes through me and my heart pounds too loud in my ears.
Thump-thump.
Her eyes darken with terror.
Thump-thump.
Her hands move to my chest, shoving me hard.
Thump-thump.
A scream rips from her throat.
She turns and runs. My hands rush to my face only to feel the truth I saw in Kiera’s eyes. Broken skin, protruding bones, raw flesh.
Death’s mask.
“Kiera!” I yell. But it is no use; she’s afraid, terrified.
And she should be.
Her screams fade in the distance as the world around me crumbles. I don’t follow her; I can’t. This is who I am. Kiera deserves someone whole and undamaged, someone like…
James.
The thought crushes the air from my lungs and I drop to my knees. I have to let her go, even here, in the world created by my own thoughts.
Shadows swirl up beside me as the weight of my losses bear down.
“Why are you settling for this?” Erik’s voice sends fire rolling through me.
“You lied to me,” I spit through gritted teeth. “You said I was unbroken here. You said everything would be fine. You said—”
“I said you were in control.” Erik’s unyielding voice surrounds me. “You made this happen. Your face, her scream, all of it came from you. From your doubt and your fear.”
I can’t breathe.
“This was all you.” Erik taunts me as my life rains down around me.
I want to argue with the phantom, blame my failures, my regret, on him. Just as I have every day since his death. But Erik’s words are correct, I am afraid. Terrified.
I retreat from the meadow, willing myself to fade into the murkiness. There is an empty pit inside that will never be filled. Not in either world.
Part of me wants vengeance on Mother, on the explosion, on God himself. I did nothing to deserve this.
“But you did,” Erik says, answering my own fears. “You ignored my warnings, fought against Mother’s expectations, distrusted your own misgivings. You have more control in your life than you assume, and it’s time you accepted the truth.”
“I am the only one to blame.” My words burn as they leave my mouth, my body unwilling to accept them.
Kiera’s song rises deep within me, shredding what’s left of my mind. I should have died the night of the explosions. Needed to die. At least then I wouldn’t know the terror and revulsion in Kiera’s eyes. At least then, in my own death, I could hold on to Kiera forever.