I

Love

Love.

One word, one syllable. Unfathomable and weak in the strongest way. It takes away all my reason.

I love and hate it at the same time:

I love the madness of joy it brings. I love the way my heart speeds up and for a brief time I lose my sanity. I love the look in your eyes when I say, "I love you." I love your smile when you say, "I love you." I love the tender way you hold me. I love your lips on mine.

I hate the loss of sanity it brings. I hate the way my heart speeds and I can't control the blood rushing in my face, my ears. I hate the helplessness I feel when you say, "I love you." I hate the fear of it ending. I hate living in constant dread that perhaps today is the last day.

Why?

I can't answer. I can't think.

I can't remember.

I look you in the eyes and I'm gone.

Do you know the power you hold sway over me? Can you even begin to comprehend what I would do for you? Can you imagine what would happen if you left me?

I know what would happen. I've seen it happen in you. But you don't remember; you can't remember.

I hold you closer.

II

Life

Life.

So many unanswerable questions.

So many puzzles, mazes, twists and turns. So many incomprehensible phrases, so many mirrored passages.

I used to stumble along it, wishing I could scream, fumbling with the many keys I had to various doors off the passageway, doors that would only ever lead to more passageways.

But now I stumble along with you, and that makes it just bearable. I can rely on you to help me if I trip up. I hold your hand as we walk and it is an anchor for me: a place to turn if I can't face the doors. You help me find which key I need to open my chosen door.

There are three things I can see when I look up:

The first is blue. I think it is the sky but I can't be certain. Always flawless and unchanging. Unreachable. There are never any clouds but maybe clouds don't exist in this place. This corridor I call life.

The second is black. I think it is the sky but I can't be certain. Always clear, blank, empty. Terrifying in a comforting way. There are never any stars, no moon, but perhaps they don't exist in this place. Though I can't feel it, it is heavy and thick. I squeeze your hand and turn into another door.

The third is silver. The same as the walls; a mirror, but I can't see my reflection, or yours. It is always unblemished, always serene. It looks close, but I can't reach it, even if you lift me onto your shoulders. And though I can't reach it, it is always smooth as silk, cold as metal, and white-hot.

Looking up intimidates me. I look at you instead.

III

Reality

Reality.

I feel like I'm being shuttled between two worlds.

There is the one I call "life" — the mirrored corridor that I fear, that I endlessly travel. I call it a dream, something I can escape by waking.

And there is the one I call "reality" — a world of sunlight, trees, buildings. Where there is more life than just you and I. I call it home, a place I am wrenched from when I dream.

At least, I call it reality. I can't be sure. Perhaps "Life" is reality, and "Reality" is the dream.

I try not to dwell on that. It frightens me too much. Because if I accept it, perhaps I will be forced to stay in the corridor, and perhaps I will forget "reality" — like you forget a dream when you've accepted you've woken.

It is a horror I can't face.

IV

Ghosts

Ghosts.

I used to not believe in ghosts. Not the common sort, transparent spectres who roam the Earth.

But now my ghosts are real. At least my one ghost. And I am forever haunted by her, by the memory of her, the one before me, when I am alone; when you are not there to provide me with your love.

Her name is taboo.

Always behind my eyelids I can see that horror scene. I can see the blood, your face, his face. I can hear your screams and howls of grief as you held her lifeless body to you. The crazed look in his eyes he ended his life like he ended hers.

I know you remember sometimes. I know you sometimes feel our love is wrong. I can see it in your face. If I take you by surprise, if I catch you at an unguarded moment, I see it. I don't know what he did to you, how he could make you forget for almost all the time. I can't forget. Yes, you remember when you concentrate. A flash of her face, the memory of her voice. Only enough for a spasm of emotional pain.

I miss her. I loved her too. I don't wish I could forget.

I can't decide if I want you to remember or not. She was your life. She defined who you are. But now she exists only as a ghost, in everybody's memories but yours. But if you remembered — would you still love me?

V

Angels

Angels.

Someone mentions "Angel" and one thinks of a white-clad, winged demigod.

I think of you.

My own personal angel, to guide me, to save me.

Sometimes I wonder what you are saving me from. From fear, which all but consumes me when you're not here? From pain, which I think of only as inevitable? From my ghost, who you don't remember, but who will follow me for life, if not eternity?

Or from myself?

Why?

"I love you," you say. And I believe you, my angel. I see my face in your eyes. I can't read my own expression. I can't read my own heart.

Except that I know I love you. I need you.

All my regrets, my doubts, my ghosts, fade when you call me your Angel.

VI

Demons

Demons.

Like I have one ghost, one angel, I have one demon.

A murderer. He killed her.

On one hand, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have my angel.

But what he's done doesn't make up for that. He killed her, my friend, my all-but-sister. I have to live in her memory, with her ghost.

He killed her then killed himself. From beyond the grave, he broke my love to pieces then messed with his mind, made my angel forget everything but the occasional flickering shadow.

So now I have to carry the burden. I have to support her memory in his stead. I have to feel her pain of my loving him, pay the price of my irrevocable happiness. I owe it to her, to him, to uphold what is left of her. I wish I couldn't.

I have to.

VII

Echo

Echo.

A repeat; a reflection of sound.

But it can mean so much more.

I can't speak in the corridor; but my footsteps echo down the unending passages as I walk. Your footsteps are silent.

Is that because you're not actually there? I grip your hand for reassurance; I can feel it there, feel you squeeze it back.

I look up. I can see you. You're there. You turn and smile at me, but I'm still worried. Is this the last day? I fret, not for the first or last time. Is it even a day?

I don't have answers.

I stop; there is a final echo, then silence. I turn to you and open my arms, and you come to them.

Then suddenly you're not there.

For the first time since footsteps, there is sound in the corridor. I scream. The echoes of the piercing note drive into my skull, drilling into my brain, my heart.

And I'm not alone anymore. The space around me is crowded with people; everyone. Everyone except you.

She's here. My ghost. And he's here. My demon. The fire of hatred that's been eating away at me for who knows how long. Everyone I've ever known, except the person who means most to me. Except my angel.

My ghost and my demon are right in front of me. My ghost looks at me with an expression of heartbreaking grief, proud resignation and even happiness. I want to ask her why. He doesn't remember her. He doesn't love her.

"He loves me," she says. "He just doesn't know it."

My demon looks at me with terrifying fury and triumph. I want to ask him why, too. He's happy. He loves me. I remember her. I have my angel.

He gestures around with his hands. "And where is your angel now?"

I don't reply. I can't speak in the corridor.

"He's not here," says my demon. "You have no angel."

Yes, I do.

He plants his hands on my chest and throws me backward. I slam into the wall and the mirror shatters; a mark on my otherwise impeccable passageway. He defiled my corridor.

For the first time, this place means something to me. He was my demon in Reality; now he's invaded my Life.

I slide to the floor. There's blood in my hair. Blood on my hands. Blood everywhere. Everywhere. Like that day, that day when I met my demon, she became my ghost. When her angel broke into pieces and became my angel.

Echoes of my life.

"You're free of him," my demon whispers.

Free? Free of who?

"Your angel," he whispers delightedly.

I don't believe in angels.

"Are you sure?"

Positive.

"You did."

No, I didn't. I don't believe in angels. They don't exist.

I stare up at the figure bending over me. I know him. I can't remember properly. Something bad… something about a demon…

"Free of her," he smiles.

I feel déjà vu. Free? Free of who?

"Your ghost," he says, in a friendly patient voice.

Don't be stupid. Ghosts don't exist.

"What about angels?"

Another twang of déjà vu. Angels don't exist either.

"And demons?"

A word spins around and around in my head. Demon. How strange. I don't believe in demons.

Something's wrong. Something's missing. I look up and down the corridor. Nothing but mirrors. Just like always. Why is there blood on my hands?

Something's missing. Something disappeared.

My scream shatters the silence of the corridor but I haven't made a sound. I turn around.

There's someone there. Someone in my corridor, crouched on the floor.

She's me. I look down on her, on me. Blood in my hair, blood on my face, on my hands.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

Like on that day…

My angel.

The loss is there and both of me scream again. Three screams in my corridor now. I feel like my heart is going to die.

Blood on my chest. Blood on my hands.

My demon is there. He's triumphant.

My corridor hears its first words from me.

"I hate you!"

But I can't speak in the corridor. But I just did. I march up to my demon and throw him against the wall.

I can remember. I remember he did that to me. Revenge is hot on my tongue. He smashes against the unreflecting mirror, but there's no blood. Instead blackness explodes from him and spreads quickly. Too quickly. Before I can blink I'm drowning in the inky void.

Help.

VIII

Home

I wake up screaming.

I am blind. No. It's dark. I'm in a bed.

Soothing sounds come from next to me, and I turn to see my angel. You pull me down from my sitting position and envelop me in your arms. I'm home.

"It was just a dream," you say. "It's okay. It's not real."

Real. Reality. Life. Dream. "A dream? No, not a dream. Life. Reality. No, no, no…"

"What are you talking about?"

"The corridor. My life."

I have to see. I lean over you and turn on the light. I can't see for a moment, then I look down. Nothing. The sheets are clean. The floor is clean. My hands are clean. I run my hands through my hair, over my face. Nothing.

You take my face in your hand. You ask me to tell you about it.

I tell you most of it. I can't tell you all of it. Her name is taboo, and besides, you don't remember. I tell you about Reality, and Life, the corridor; about my demon; about the blood, and the crowd, and the blackness that engulfed the corridor. I ask you what it means, and I can recall the exact words of your reply.

"It means it's gone," you say. "This is reality. The corridor is just a dream. It's gone, and it won't ever haunt you again."

Haunt. What about my ghost?

But she's not here. You are. My angel. And I'm not in my corridor; I'm in reality.

Gone. The word echoes in my mind. It's really gone. The passageway I called life, I called a dream, is gone.

And I can understand that now.

I can live my life, my demon nothing but a ghost.

I can live my life with my angel.