Stirring. In my ears and rustling behind my eyes. I shoot up straight. Vision sleep-blurred. Hearing everything outside and within the floral-print walls. Spools of starlight and moonlight merging creep through the gauzy drapes. I think I see a figure by the door. But maybe it is only leftover dreaming. I listen hard, so hard my head begins to throb with my fast beating heart.
Nothing. There is nothing there.
My palm goes to my temple, trying to still the raucousness of the quietude in here. I had been so sure. Yes, the image of a black hand. Long fingers. Pale as the snow outside. Cold creeps in and up my back. Perhaps it is only my own cold fear I suffer.
Another nightmare has come and gone. Ebbing and flowing. Like a tide, it swells so quickly I think I cannot escape it and then, so suddenly, it dies and falls back. Sweat drenches the pajamasI am wearing. They are cotton and striped navy blue and black a little long in the legs. The top of it consumes my abdomen conceals me in its cloth mouth from existence and it helps to dry my sticky-damp skin. I feel safe in them somehow. Another layer of skin to hide under. I could be a turtle for a moment and hide behind them and would they know? Silly, yes too silly.
I climb out of bed. Like a diver would climb out of the depths of a hugging ocean. Or a root would dig its way out of a fresh bed earth. Hot hands. Wide teeth smile. Bruises. Cannot see his eyes. Fingernails lodged into frail skin arms. Tall-backed chair. No no no.
My brain nearly breaks in two. Too heavy with yesterdays gore. Master had been smiling at me in the dream. The milk-eyed man was there too. He was the administrator. The tormentor. I had misbehaved again. I had said the wrong word. I hate to say the wrong word but I had always wandered after the right ones – though I did not know their path, their ways, the consistency of them on my tongue. I wonder what they would have tasted like; the right words. The correct way to speak. Not of blood.
Over by the door. The end table. Yes, that had been where the make believe hand had been. It had stolen into the chink in between the door frame and the brassy unused locks.
Maybe if I locked the dreams out. Would that work? How do you pin down a specter of the past? If only I could ask the warm blue eyed man. If only he had a name that I could call. Or if I knew it well, kept it on the banks where no forgetting may ever come and take it away.
On the end table, there is a stack of books. My heart feels on fire. Lungs are pumping ashes. Books. Only master had been good enough for books. Even the milk-eyed man could not read. He had been a tool. I had been a tool. Tools cannot read books. They are not allowed. I had often seen them, stared without seeing at their spiny spindling letters. Some had gold others bold black and some were silver.
I cannot read. I had never been taught in the art of it. But I can still touch and smell and breathe in the scent of new and old and middle-aged pages.
I look to the door, a book in my hand – Alice in Wonderland – and the black arm had been in here. A smile and a caressed title page smelling of new ink and fresh print and no age anywhere to be found.
Thank you I say for I have no need of talking to ghosts and nightmares now.
The woods outside crackle with thick new snow. Sometimes a deep and low thud will resound throughout the scattered trees and I know a lump of burdensome snow has fallen off a weak branch.
The house is bleary-eyed and accustomed to dim starlight to see. I think no one must be awake but me. Not a footstep has passed my door in the hours I have spent perusing the great and beautiful treasure boxes full of words.
It has been morning a while now. It has been since I woke in the midst of the frostbitten dark. The lamp is on too. I have forgotten to turn it off since the sun rose and everything turned glassy and radiant and alive. She is high now. The sun. She spreads out her golden fingers on the pages. Maybe she wants to read too. If only I could read to her. Would she not read to me if I could hear her voice?
Her sheaths of light spread to the edge of the door. I can see it is still early. Very early. Not quite withering down from dawn. Still too young to be near noon.
At the door, a knock strikes. Once. Twice. Thrice. The book slams shut, by itself it seems. It knows I have been caught. It is a kind old thing and does not want them to catch me. What if they had been put there to tempt me? Test the level of my weakness? I would not pass such a test. Certainly they would have mercy knowing how pitiful I truly am.
I rip open the drawer in the end table. The book goes in there for now. They may take away the others but they cannot take that one from me. It is mine. All mine. I will hoard it away and keep it far from their reach. One last time the gold letters flash at me. Goodbye they say. Alice in Wonderland. I take them and slip them into a drawer in my head. There. All mine. I have staked my claim.
"Miss, are you not awake yet?" A pause. One that would occur in between words and checking a watch. "It is nearly nine o' clock! Come now, miss! Time for breakfast. Master would wish you to come and join him if it is good with you. He says only to knock on your door and give you a little jolt out of bed and wait and see if you answer. If not, then my task here is done."
He waits. And waits. And waits some more. I know it is a he as the voice that soaks through the door is low and rasping and deep in timber. Not at all like the girl's voice. The pretty girl with that speaks as though she is always laughing. Or close to the brink of it. Hers is higher and softer and lovely.
He is done waiting. "And my task here is done. The master waits on you. There is tea. Good day to you, miss."
Now he is gone. I am certain. I cannot hear is breath hitting the door and fanning out in all different directions out in the hall. His footsteps, too. They faded fast. And then the creaks and groans and squealing of aging wood and he is picking his way carefully down the staircase.
Once he has reached the bottom I peel the covers off me. There is a robe hanging on the back of the closet door, on a simple gold colored hook. There are clothes lying in wait behind the door but I do not wish to soil them with my inferiority. Perhaps I will never wear them. I do not mean to stay here at all. I am beginning to find that I do not belong to him - no, not really no. He does so little with me. It is as if I am no one to him but an occupied room. Not a servant, not a tool. Nothing. What he has in store for me I do not know. But I am afraid, still, to discover his intentions.
Never mind that. I am hungry and my stomach painfully reminds me of this with its gurgling and sharp little pangs. My arms slip through the cotton robe. A lovely smell wafts up to greet me in layered tendrils. There it is. Clean. And it has become my favorite for it has many full-bodied faces.
Slow. Slow and steady. Like the tortoise not the hare. He is too hasty. It is being like the hare that has earned me so very many scars that I do not like and that I wish away whenever I get around to remembering they are there. I detest the hare. It is his philosophy and following it that made those scars and let them take residence on my flesh. The tortoise. Yes, he is a turtle, a slow and creeping creature that takes his time and thinks his way through the lingering nature of his life.
I consider each step down the flight of stairs that I take. I clutch the banister, sleek and polished wood sliding under my palm. Many seconds have gone from me when I arrive at the bottom. But I was slow. I was slow and steady and good. My heart thrills at that. I was good. I did not need think of being thoughtful of my steps because I had done it naturally. That makes me good. The feeling is what flying might be like if I had wings and spread them out and drifted on the currents of wind.
In truth, since I have been here I have seen little of my new master's dwelling place. What I have seen of it is staggering. Tall ceilings. Some glass and the endless stretching sky peeks through them. The one in the kitchen is mute and nondescript. White and grain. I have kept my eyes on the blinking twinkles of blue that cast themselves over me. I realize this is reflection. The light bouncing off the glass.
Now I am at the end of the long and broad corridor. Under the frame of another entryway there yes I see him now it is an unfamiliar face. He has his hands knotted in one tangled appendage. They hang limply over his middle. A pressed black suit with a bow tie and hair gleaming and brushed back. He is nearly as polished as this house. I stop dead still. A few feet away he is in the same motionlessness.
"Ah miss you came."
The man from behind the door then. Yes that is him. I recognize the voice made of gravel.
"Master Xavier waits in the breakfast nook for you. You will like it. It is a very sunny open place. Lots of windows since it seems you like them so much."
He gestures for me to follow him with one of his untied hands (I never even saw them come undone). I follow. As I am told. I try to mimic his long and sweeping footfalls but my legs are too ungainly and short. I settle for my own pace. It is good enough to get me where I need to be.
The breakfast nook is as beautiful as he says. A room made entirely out of framework and windows and the ceiling is painted to match a sky brushed with cotton white clouds. I stare up at it as I walk inside, the gravel voiced man shutting the door behind me. I glance over at them just as the knob flicks upward and the way out is closed.
Near one of the windows, my new master sits, one leg propped over the other. His back is a leaning angle. He looks like what comfort would be if it tried to become human – or at least its likeness. There's a bird flitting its wings outside the window. He watches it glide off and out of his sight. Then, he rises. Leg back to its original place. Back straightening. Eyes – those eyes. They fall on me.
I twist up inside. Like hands plaiting new rope. Hands at sides. Eyes down. Hair slides down narrow shoulders. Numbers. Yes numbers burn green and bright like grass. I wish he did not unnerve me so. I wish I did not have nerves for him to dismantle with ease.
"You came," he tells me, confirms to himself. It is like a whisper.
12345678910…12345678910…one two three.
"I have tea for you." He rounds the length of the small plain wooden table. It is round and so his movements make a circular sort of shape. He pulls out a chair for me. Pats it once, like for luck. "Will you not sit with me and talk? Remember it is only if you wish to. I like to think I am a patient man. Come, sit."
I stop counting. Numbers released back into their secure little coves. Feet out. Left first. Right follows. Legs carry my body that feels like lead. If only it was lighter. Something thin and see through. Then I could disappear. I would so love to disappear.
He sits down across from my chair and resumes his old position. Leg over the other. Back slumped comfortably. But still there is an air about him. What is that word? Aris- what? Aristo…arista…aristocrat. Yes! That there. That is it. Aristocrat. All masters are aristocrats. They must be because the old master had the same air.
It helps my fear of him little. Perhaps not at all.
He folds his hands together. They are like pale creamy links. They fit into the slots in between their opposite counterparts and give him a determined look. "You slept well?"
I nod quickly. Liar.
He throws back his head. A hearty laugh makes his throat shake. I cannot help but watch the mesmerizing white length of it bob up and down. His head falls back into place. Still the tendons tremble. But his eyes. They are very awake. Perhaps the angels are watching me through those tunnels of blue – tunnels of heaven looking down on me.
What do they see I wonder.
"You are not a very skilled liar," he says.
Oh.
"But," he goes on, holding up one finger. His other hand is busy reaching for the plain china white tea pot steaming and steeping. "I understand your plight. I have found that, for myself, often the best means of distraction are the simplest ones. I left books on your end table in the midst of the night. I do hope you saw them."
I nod again.
"Good!" He says and his face is like cream silk stained with blush and bent to fit that of a human smile. "Perhaps it will do some good for you as it has done me. Now. Before we commence – here you are a little tea to calm you – I believe I should confess to you a little sin of mine. I only hope you may forgive me."
Forgive him? Forgive him? He is the strangest master I have ever heard of. I am no one to forgive anyone of anything. No authority. Nothing. I am nothing. A tool. A string of permanent ink numbers on the underside of an arm that no one cares to grip unless in anger or malicious intent. Who am I to forgive him? Much less sin. I am walking bloated sin. I reek of it. The stench of red guilt is on me. I bow my head a little under the weight of conviction. His. I need no more burden of anyone's sin but my own. I have my own weight to bear.
"You see," he says, fingers unfolding, taking on a new form. They are now pressed against each other. Like a teepee. I can almost imagine smoke coming out of the top of them. "I have decided on a name for you since I know you do not have one. There it is said. You may forgive me if you wish. I know I said I would never traipse your past unless it was asked of me but it could not be helped. I apologize, but my curiosity could not stand its own ignorance. But! In my defense, I have only looked for a name. No memories, no other details. Simply a name. And I could not find one! It is not that I missed it but that it is not there. Never spoken, never given! It is only that all of us have names. It offers identity, I believe. And you – I have unearthed the perfect name for you. Would you care to know it?"
For a moment, a beautiful and blessed lapse in time, I look on him. Straight. No lowering of gazes and we are equal beings if just for a few seconds. I nod and this time I can see the spectrum of sunlight and natural light falling on his eyes. Celestial blue.
"One of my favorite women in literature - Luciana. Gentle, quiet, modest, and loyal as all get out! Perhaps it is chauvinistic of me, to take to adoration of a subservient woman, but I always found her loyalty and tenderness refreshing. Raven detests that I love her so, as she loves Adriana you see, but I cannot help what I love."
"Luciana." I have to strain my vocal chords to get it out. It is raspy and strangled sounding on my voice but nonetheless it is beautiful and my heart swells with pride. I have a name. I am no longer a number but a name. And a beautiful one. Yes. Yes I can think of no name more lovely.
"So you do have a voice! My, that is quite a proverbial monkey you have taken off my back," he laughs and leans forward a little, leg still crossed. "You have a very beautiful voice, Luciana. It would be such a tragedy to let it waste away in silence."
My own fingers tie and untie an invisible tether in my lap. They bury themselves. Disappear. I cannot see them through the creases in my robe.
"Do you wish to tell me at last, Luciana?" The way he says my name is like the way God might speak to a praying and dying man – a resurrecting murmur. "You needn't hide in yourself any longer. I will listen. But only if you are ready. I would not dream of pushing you when you are not ready. Are you?"
This is it then. No backwards. Only forwards. I have resisted too long. He must be growing impatient. Yes I must tell. But how? Simply thinking of speaking of it makes my throat go terribly dry. I cannot. No you cannot. I am afraid. I am a coward and I am afraid. What a waste of a beautiful name I truly am. I bow my head. Tears come. No, no, go back to your stations. There is no need of them.
He is so hushed it almost feels as if he is not there. I do not want him to see the betrayal of tears. One of them finally falls. It grazes my cheek. Burning. Salt burning. White hot and they leave a small red trail behind. I hear him get up. No! Do not come any closer!
I push the chair back too sudden and it nearly falls and I almost fall and god I cannot do this he said I did not have to but I am a coward and I do not like being a coward. I feel something on my hand. It grabs me. I gasp and try to retrieve it from the thing but I find it is another hand that has it in its clutches. I look up. Warmth. Blue.
"I-I do not…" I try to look at him but I cannot and I falter and look down at his shoes. I realize I am not good enough to look at his shoes and so I look at my bare feet instead. "Speak of it. No. Painful."
"All is well," he utters in softness. Squeeze. My hand. Such gentleness I have never known. How can he be my master when I have seen no cruelty from him? "You needn't speak of it if you feel you cannot."
"I want to tell you," I say. "I think…I think I want to. I don't know." I shake my head. Faster. Dizzy. "I don't know…"
His fingers trace my temple. Calm. I am serenity. My breath is the wind tapping the white-capped swells. Eyes half-mast. I can still see him. He is there. "May I?"
"Yes," I say, and I am gone and so is he and we are lost together.
Pain. Oh god it is everywhere. Bruising form and bleeding form and burning form and splitting open of skin and flaying and beating and please stop it hurts I will never talk back again please I will never I swear I will never.
Screaming.
Mine.
My voice
I am.
Finally it all stills on one memory. Her. I know it is her. Mother? A tiny and fragile creature holding a baby in her arms. It is not crying. It is sleeping against her collarbone swaddled in a scratchy stained wool blanket. She is gaunt and her bones are sharp and her skin struggles to stretch over the thick and greedy structure of her body. Clothes dangle off her. Ready to slip off. She huddles deep into her cage, like the one I used to have, and the straw is soiled and old and turning almost brown-orange with filth.
You're getting old. Too old. Perhaps it is time.
No, please! I am not too old. I can still…I am able!
We have tried. But you are too stubborn, my dear. You do not want to live. I know it as you do not try. I am afraid you will not yield. I am sorry. It is time.
She is begging him. The baby still in her arms. It is crying now its mother's distress pressing down on its velvet head.
Horace, it is time.
No please no it is not time I am not done I can still go on please I have a daughter she needs me what will you do with her no, please – NO!
The woman is dragged away by her hair.
The milk eyed man laughs
She sobs with all her mangled skeleton body shaking
Rivers down her cheeks and chest
All the time
She is dragged off to her death
She cries out for me
Her daughter
Her last.
"Luciana!"
Where have I gone?
It is too black here. Where he cannot touch. I cannot feel his probing mind in mine anymore.
Nothing. There is nothing here. And I am here with the void.
Do you know why you are here?
Yes.
What are you here for?
To make things.
What kind of things?
The kind that breathe.
And that is what you are, isn't it? A thing? A nothing?
Yes, sir.
It is all you are good for, isn't it?
Yes, sir.
And what will happen if you do not produce a thing?
I will die.
And who will kill you?
You will.
My soul is restless. In pain. It surfaces from the dark pools of me but it cannot scratch the surface with its wispy breath too harsh against its lips. It cries out in vain. Help! Someone help! No one can hear it so deep inside. There is too much wall of flesh to scream through. Only I can. I wish it would stop, shut up, no one can help you. You are in vain. You are a nothing.
I awake and it is like being born again. Learning to breathe. Learning to let the heart beat on its own. Mouth open and wide and sucking in air as if there is not enough in the world for me to inhale. I tremble. The roots of my skin ache. Wild-eyed. Yes. Wild and caged.
Shh. I am here, Luciana. I am here.
Raven, please. Have Remus fetch water and a warm cloth for her head. Hurry!
Do I look like the Pony Express to you?
This is no time for your dramatics. Please, I would be utterly grateful to you if you will go. She is having a panic attack. We must keep her calm.
Her voice. Her sweet music voice. Near my ear. Finding me and pulling me close to her. I feel my head leaning closer so I can hear it. Luciana, I'll be back. Hang on, okay? Hang on tight for me.
Footsteps
leaving
door closing...
It is only us now. She is gone.
Something heavy is on my hand, curling around my palm, fingers. I feel them anchoring me here. To this life. I cannot see him, the flooding of soul clouding my eyes and locking me inside tight. A flash of angelic blue on the edge of my sight. He is here. He is holding my hand. Am I safe? Is he here to save me?
Please. I force out the words. They are reluctant to leave me. Please, don't leave me.
I will not. I promise you I will stay. Luciana, do you hear me? I will stay with you. Hold my hand. I am here.
He is here. Next to me.s Yes, I can feel him.
He is near.
Disclaimer - I don't own Charles Xavier. He belongs to Marvel. I am basing his character off the portrayal seen in X-Men: First Class.