Monday, October 7, 2013

Blackwell Academy, Girl's Restroom

Nathan

'You are doomed, Nathan. Just give her what she wants.'

Nathan had not had his medication today. The prescription ran out Saturday, and he wouldn't get a refill until the fifteenth of this month. Not because he wasn't prescribed enough; rather he simply preferred to sell the pills and self-medicate with more fun substances.

Unfortunately, the Others were louder after extended absences. Maybe over time they grew louder, anyway.

I don't owe her anything. She gets nothing.

Give her drugs, Nathan. Like you did with the last one.

Do not bring my Rachel into this! That was a mistake…

He was walking at a brisk pace: enough to signal to stay out of his way, but not so fast as to draw too much attention. He neared the bathroom door, and managed a stealthy exit. There needed to be no prying eyes for this.

Blue eyes briefly scanned the room; ears below gelled and styled blonde hair detected no signs of life. A weary teenage face, carrying the warring barbs of three voices in the brain behind it, faced the mirror.

"It's cool, Nathan, don't stress."

Yes, stress! You need to fight!

"You're okay, bro. Just count to three."

His psychiatrist had taught him the counting trick years ago. It rarely worked. The Others had been building strength for much longer than he had been seeing the doc.

'You're weak, Nathan. Just give up'

"Don't be scared. You own this school, if I wanted I could blow it up!"

Now that's not a bad idea, Nathan. Violence.

"You're the boss."

His pep talk finished, it had all the calming effect of clicking the safety off a gun; not quite explosive, but closer to ignition.

'You have never been the boss, Nathan.'

Shut up shut up shut –

'You follow. Never lead.'

The door to the restroom opened. Nathan need not look up to anticipate the newcomer. His eyelids attempted momentarily to press themselves into diamonds as a rough, volatile mix of anger and fear collided in his stomach. "So what do you want?" He managed through tight lips.

Look at her, Nathan. She has no power. Show her power.

'She has all the power, Nathan. Just surrender.'

And the newcomer, who wears a black jacket over a white tee, black beanie over blue hair, faded jeans over black boots, says something about "bidness," and Nathan feels suddenly very tired.

When is he not discussing business? Negotiate with teachers for grades, negotiate with Frank for drugs, negotiate with Father for money. Every interaction for Nathan is a deal. There is no one left, save perhaps Victoria (and isn't she hard to read sometimes), who truly cares about him.

"I got nothing for you."

Neither a truth nor a lie. A bait, see what the other party wants. It works, and the intrusive bluenette speaks about cash.

"That's my family, not me."

Another ambiguous statement. Another bait. See what she intends to do, what her bargaining chips are. She says she'll tattle to the Prescott family, and Nathan almost laughs.

Let her. You know Father would handle her harshly. It would be fun.

'Just give her the money, avoid the whole conflict.'

And the simmering mixtures of emotions bubble up to boiling, threatening to overwhelm their containment in Nathan's chest.

"Leave them out of this, bitch."

The troubled boy isn't really sure why this made him angry at all. He hates his family, because they never learned to love him. Because they can't help him, and he's seen too much to escape, and that punk bitch is still fucking talking and Nathan just wants her to stop.

He levels the pistol at her head, "You don't know who the fuck I am, or who you're messing around with!"

Feel the control.

'She's scared, like you are.'

She's backed up into the wall, eyes darting frantically around, searching for a way out.

Oh god. What am I doing? I'm sorry…

But Nathan isn't the single force of will that resides inside his mind, and he is lost in the struggle. It's not the first time. Not even the first time another life was on the line. He hopes this turns out better than last time, but the Others have different opinions on what exactly "better" means.

"Don't ever tell me what to do! I'm so sick of people trying to control me!" It's a strange feeling, to say something with truth to three voices inside one head, and yet have no agreement between them regardless.

So, so sorry…

The words that fall out of her trembling mouth do not register as such with the gunslinger's ears. They are just noise now, drowned in the rushing rivers of thought behind his scowl.

"Nobody would ever even miss your punk ass, would they?"

Please, I don't want to hurt…

Like a trapped animal, and perhaps here she was, a desperate shove is levied against her captor's shoulder. But the trigger on his handgun was already half depressed in his anger, and the sudden movement caused a reactionary squeeze, jerking the trigger rearward and firing a single nine-millimeter projectile into the abdomen of his now-victim.

The proximity to the blast burns her shirt, and the bullet casing begins its flight off into the nearest stall. Nathan recoils, shock currently overpowering the emotions and voices in him. He loses grip on the weapon, and it falls to the floor, even as she does.

In that moment just before she hits the floor, crimson liquid already coating too many surfaces to overlook, Nathan thinks that there's a scream of "NO" from behind him.

There are three voices in his head. One anger, one sorrow, one fear.

They agree, for once.

I wish it were me.

But the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not a line but a spiral, and sometimes the world is bent by the will of more powerful individuals. And so it was that this confrontation occurred again, perhaps several times, yet always just the once.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Price Residence

Chloe

On the high definition television, credits began to roll. They were familiar. For some, watching a movie could be a social event, an excuse to get together with friends and enjoy a flick. For others, a movie might be an art exhibit, a commentary on some aspect of life. But for others, they might be an escape, a window into another world, a chance to forget the reality of one's own frailty.

Chloe belonged to this last group.

From her bed, she had no recourse to turn the movie off. There was an extra weight, on her left side, and despite the lack of feeling in her arm a chill of comfort radiated from the contact made there. I still can't believe you're here, Max. The bed-ridden girl wished, not for the first time, that she could reach out for her long lost friend. Just a touch, to brush back brown hair, to graze a freckled cheek, anything.

Maybe, moisture pooling in the clouds of her eyes, in another Time. But not here, not…ever.

The blonde could still control her eyelids, at least, and she leveraged this against the flood threatening her face with a flurry of blinks. I will not get mushy over this now. Not with my Max so close.

When the floodgates were secure, the DVD had returned to the title screen. Quick scenes from the film splashed in rapid sequence to a rather muted soundtrack, offering the viewer a sneak peek at the roller coaster waiting. Of course, Chloe had seen Blade Runner so many times she could place each of these flashes chronologically in her mind. She even knew most of the dialogue.

Not much else to do sometimes when you're just a really expensive, foul mouthed, mood swinging vegetable. The self-loathing was a recurring theme tonight, apparently.

Perhaps the juxtaposition of the person Max had become and the shell Chloe had regressed into. This popular (how many times is that phone gonna buzz, Max!), sharp dressed, letters-on-cardstock Max that travelled and partied and had friends versus, well, me. Can't really be your first mate like this, huh Cap'n?

The memories conjured up like demons. Images of running, sword fighting, and climbing trees. They were both full of smiles and laughter back then. Joyous. And while Time thought it ok to allow a fraction of that happiness to seep through its twists to the present, there was also pain. Had Chloe the mobility, she'd have clutched her chest.

Can't run with broken legs. Can't swing a sword with useless arms. Can't climb without –

A mouse's squeak had left her throat, a strangled groan of pent up angst and rage against herself, because I can't do anything, but also that all I do is take and take, never give, because how could I?

The shorter girl stirred slightly, adjusting the awkward angle her head rested on an unfeeling body. Chloe would have held her breath, were it not for the respirator that actuated her breath in the first place.

What is it like, Max? She imagined questioning her childhood partner, what's it like, out there? There's so much I never, didn't have time to do. And it's been so long now, I just… Have you ever been to California? Been to a concert? Been to a dance? Been… kissed? Gone… farther?

In the back of her mind, there was a flash of thought. A miniscule, wordless thing, more a notion than an idea. A notion that perhaps that there had been a trade, one life for another, at some point, and she had given up so another could retain. But she could not dwell, for in the moment she tried to grasp for the words, the flicker of enlightenment faded back to the folds of the Time it had left.

The floods she fought so hard against before pressured against the levies she erected. This time, Chloe did not have the strength to fortify her position. Slowly, suppressed and noiseless, the waters started down her face. A mixture of emotions pooled in her tear ducts, waiting to ride the streams down. Sadness, for a life that was not. A life that was less about living than it was about surviving. And anger, though tempered by the wisdom of suffering, for an uncaring world content with her pain. But also a gentle, damp glee that her parents and Max were still alive, and that they could still live, even when Chloe could not.

After a time, the tears stopped. Long ago now, a newly broken sixteen year old had accepted her condition, her limitations, and her half-life. But only on this night, with Max near again, did she accept her fate. Because Max had a life in Seattle, without Chloe, I held her back all that time. And now, my parents are drowning just to prolong the inevitable end.

She knew death was near, could hear the Reaper sharpen his scythe in the next room. She was waiting. Just waiting. There was no choice, no decisions that were hers to make. She bore the consequences of actions taken by others with as much grace as she could for years. All Chloe wanted now was rest.

There's nothing left for me. I don't have anything, no worth. Nothing to give, not anymore. Hopefully all these years made for some good karma, or whatever. Just let me, let me choose, for once. I'm so sorry Max, but please help me. Help me… end this.

With this decision made, her last, an ease fell to her. Sleep did not come easily for the tetraplegic young woman, not on this night nor any other. But this, this idea of sacrifice for those she loved, this idea of finally improving their lives instead of extending her own, it gave peace.

She glanced down at her snoozing Pirate Captain. She's beautiful when she sleeps, innocent. Why did I never notice that before? And as sleep finally arrived to claim Chloe's consciousness, the spark of thought that bridged Time returned. A sentiment that Max had lived in this Time but only survived in another. An impression that Chloe had already sacrificed her life for another, unwittingly, but not necessarily unwillingly. It didn't ease the pain, but gave purpose, that maybe her worth was always tied up in protecting another, anyway.

She fell to dreams.

I'm glad it was me.

But the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not immutable, but pliable, and sometimes critical moments are altered by the choices of well intentioned individuals. And so it was that this night never occurred, not in this way, and not this Time.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Lighthouse Clifftop

Max

"…Ma….ax…..ake up!..."

Darkness. There had been images, no, nightmares before. A terrible dreamscape of torturous bastardizations of those Max had known. Corruptions of friendship, of innocence, of love.

Was it real? Is any of this real? Did I break something, or… break myself?

The darkness, the lethargy, the absence of sense, it left Max utterly alone. She knew she was not, of course, she had fought all week to find her. Chloe. They were together, before, heading to the lighthouse. She needed to get back.

Back? Back where?

Confusion sat in her heart. She was unsure about so many things. But not this; never this. The blue haired girl was her center, now. Maybe she always was. Five days ago, Max hadn't spoken with her lost friend in five years. On this Friday, they had faced hardship magnitudes greater than the hours between then and now.

"Plea… can't… Max…"

Muffled sound. Not from a location, there was no space here. Her ears heard less than her heart, and she listened to the songs it sung. No music, but emotion was written there, and Max read. She read herself.

Who am I? Why am I here?

Answers were there, knowledge through experience, discovery through action. The brunette had thought herself a leaf in the stream, years ago, and she sees now the incorrectness there. No, the stream had not carried her. She stood immobile, and the waters parted before her. A stone. Proud and defiant. A week ago, self-imposed mousiness restricted her.

Days later, the mouse had investigated the lion's den, escaped a wolf's jaws, found the missing doe, and saved a fragile butterfly. The mouse roared as a dragon.

She knew herself, was happy with who she became. Confidence without overbearing. Kindness without surrender. Identity without self-doubt. Clarity swept through her mind like winds through the fields.

Winds.

"Tornado… a little more, M…"

Warmth, there. The sounds were warmth. A soothing, weariness gone, determination in its place. The wind could not extinguish the flames burning, there. A bonfire, reawakened after an absence.

The lost soul felt the wind bring rain, now, too. A pelting upon skin she didn't have. Wind honed itself into a weapon, lashing as whips into her phantom presence. But the Time Warrior was not a stranger to pain.

She drew power from the flames in her chest, struck out with limbs she didn't have. Max felt a shift, a tear in existence.

Nothing will keep us apart.

She meant it, more than she had meant anything before, even as she grew to know there was only death down that road. That what she felt, for her, was too much, was beyond linear causality. Too strong for Time itself to handle, and thus Time became confused.

Snows too early, eclipse out of position, moons from different times.

Pain seared through her mind, as she combatted the emptiness attempting to take her. An ache began in her abdomen,and she felt gravity again, after immeasurable Time, because some struggles happened outside chronology.

Senses returned, but groggily. A question floated to Max's ears on a shaky breath, and she beheld the other drenched girl in still-blurred vision. She's safe, oh, she's still safe.

"Chloe… I, I must've passed out. Sorry."

There was no time now, no pun intended, to discuss what had happened prior. No chance to discuss the developments in Max's head, nor her heart. Only time to discuss the end of all things.

From relative safety on the clifftop, they watched, as damage accumulated below. The bluenette discussed fate, like she had when she occupied her literal deathbed yesterday and a lifetime ago. She produced a picture, of impossibly iridescent blue wings, and offered a choice.

"I won't trade you, Chloe!" The time traveler challenged, already knowing she had lost this fight. Lost it when she first grew to love her friend, lost it when she moved away and when she moved back, too. Lost it when she held the butterfly photo in her hands, and had a chance to be an Everyday Hero.

Max kissed her mate, claimed a moment of joy in the face of tragedy. Soft lips, so used to hard cursing, now molded so perfectly to her own. It was unlike before; not quick, not experimental. Chaste, but purposeful. To let her know, without the stumble of words, what their time together had meant. To show the enormity of conviction behind Max's passion for Chloe. To impress upon them a memory, soon to be lost to Time, of a love that could not be, for it was too pure.

The words aren't enough, not really, but they exchanged vows of I love you, and don't forget about me, never.

Max held the photo, and let her mind slip into the little piece of time it held.

And she held no fear, only an anxiousness. There were more choices on the board than Sacrifice Chloe or Sacrifice Arcadia Bay. She had made her choice already, it was just a matter of waiting.

If there was one cause for all this, one domino to start the chain, then that is the true Sacrifice.

It has to be me.

And the flow of Time in Arcadia Bay is not malicious nor angry, but sometimes its paths are broken and require mending by the most worthy individuals. And so it was that this week found its savior, built her up to a goddess, but traded her for peace.