Eternal Return
Fire eyes and dragon's breath, he wouldn't come out of the trees.
Show yourself!
Too dark this night for tricks and surprises, voice from leaf clusters, too far from home and cold, I want to be on my way.
Clown calls half and half laugh and laugh!
I have no idea.
I'll laugh if I can see you! Who are you?
Not tonight, girl. I climb, you know. I swing from the branches, a leaping lemur, though be assured I lack the tail.
Night all around, night full of sound.
Why are you following me?
It's not following, it's accompanying.
Why do you accompany me? I haven't asked for it.
Not asked. I'm here nonetheless. The woods are crowded. The trees are hungry.
Hungry trees? Now I've heard everything. I suppose you're going to say they might bite me.
Might bite. Fright night. Very nice.
I didn't mean to be out so late. I was visiting, running errands, trotting about full of purpose, now ankle-deep in mud. No more trotting for Isabella. It's a trudge, a slog, a slither and slide.
What's your name?
My name is my own.
Well, I wasn't thinking of taking it from you. If you loan it to me I'll give it back.
Isabella.
Ah, Isabella. There, see? I can't claim it, though you gave it. It's still yours.
Where are you going?
Oh, I follow a path. As do you.
Not the same path, I'm sure. Ignore him now, and he might go away. But no.
Onwards. On words. O words. Your house, your mouse. Where are they?
It's really nothing to do with you.
Quite right. Still, I'll see you there, if I may. The woods are angry.
What does he mean? How can woods be angry? Or hungry, for that matter? How can they be anything other than woodsy?
You haven't been around here after dark before, have you? You don't know about the obs.
Obs?
Creatures of dark intent. They entwine, they slither, they wind, not unwind, they like little girls. They follow, they swallow, they stare and they scare they don't care
I'm not a little girl! How many are they?
You're quite little from where I'm sitting
Leave me alone. Go. Jump in a lake. And on and on, pointless conversation going nowhere. Can barely see now.
Evening, twilight, purple light, half light.
I can see in the dark, you'll be quite safe with me to act as your guard. And I'll keep the obs away.
Will you step down, then?
I'll step down, but try not to react.
React? To what? What are you?
See now, and make your mind up.
He stepped down. Arms long, as clambering through trees will do that. Legs long, don't know why. Wild hair red, eyes green - camouflage? The face then, coming into view, slowly, following those long legs, long body. Slender, slight, slowly descending. The face. Proud, sculpted, strong, yet unclear. I am so startled, I react.
Relax. I won't hurt you. I'll help you. Come with me. Follow the path. I can see easily.
And then I wake up.
This dream, this dream I'm Little Red Riding Hood. Where am I going and where have I been? And who is he? Who is the stranger?
I don't care, really, although I guess I could talk it over with Esme, my psychotherapist.
I go to her about my anxiety attacks, and some of the rest of it, and her MO is that she chats to me like she's my buddy. I feel great when I see her, I feel like I'm normal, and I can cope. She doesn't blink at a thing I say, she takes it like a friend would, as though I'd have a friend her age. She's gotta be thirty-plus. I told her I've slept with more than twenty guys, and she didn't bat an eyelid. I said I smoke pot every day - same response. She takes it all, she doesn't judge, she says I've got a lot on my plate and no wonder I'm stressed, and she says why don't I get a notebook and write a to-do list in it, and make it bright pink or yellow so I can't overlook it? She says how about a blackboard on the wall somewhere obvious to write myself notes. She says if you have to make a phone call, why don't you make a booking for the phone call - like a diary entry, so you know when it's coming up and you can psych yourself?
She's good. I wish I saw her every day, because while I feel empowered and okay after my sessions, I backslide a few days later, and then I'm a mess again.
"Come back and see me when you need to," she says, but if I'm not there within two weeks she's on the phone to remind me. She's like a friend - a friend that my parents' medical insurance pays for. We get the signing of the slip over real quick, at the beginning of every session, so then we can carry on informally and it's not like a doctor-patient relationship. She doesn't even take notes.
I haven't told her about the dreams. About the guy.
The dreams aren't all in the same setting, although they take the same basic format. I can't quite see him properly, he's around me, he talks to me, I know somehow that he has to be there, and that I have to be there, and that we can't escape one another, but just when I'm about to see him, the dream ends.
I know a bit of the theory - I've looked it up. Dreams as wish fulfillment, thank you. Yes, I wish I had a boyfriend. Dreams as prophecy, no. I have no firm belief that I'm dreaming of my future. Archetypes - please. Dreams as an expression of my fucking crumbling and wavering unstable psyche - maybe.
"Are you looking forward to your move?" she asks at our last visit. We're allowed to talk about things that unsettle me, obviously.
"No."
"Here's the name and number of a colleague I have over West, I've mentioned you to him and he'd like to meet you. And you know we'll continue our talks, you and I. We can even have regular appointments. You can call me, or skype, with a video linkup - however you'd prefer."
And the first day at the new school. You wouldn't believe it, although I think I saw something in the prospectus. This is special school. Seriously. At first sight I can see how special it is. Everyone here is an identical twin. I start to count the pairs. Five, eleven... Look, a blond girl with two long plaits, squaw style. Right next to her, another one, from the same genetic template. Look, great enormous beefy jock with brown curly hair, next to him exactly the same person. What the hell? But next to me, walking along calmly as though I'd never forgotten her, is the other me. I remember now, she's on my driver's license and in my passport. She's in the baby photos. Her name is Swan. She nicer than I am, and not so mental. People like her.
And here it's as it has been everywhere else. People are drawn to Swan. She's friendly and funny, she knows what to say, she's smart and interesting and a little flippant and snarky, but never truly unkind, and just look, they're gravitating around her, orbiting towards her.
I, Isabella, am standing alone. Sitting alone. Eating alone. Watching alone.
But there are more like me. We're in the shadows, watching our nice selves in the sun. They have the light, they have the right to the light - they are the light. The dark twins lurk on the borders, on the sidelines.
I hear whispers, names, catch glimpses. McCarty, brother of Emmett. Whitlock, brother of Jasper. Brandon, brother to Alice - yes, a girl's dark twin is male, and not the only one. Stanley, twin to Jessica. Identical, but for gender. It's not weird, I totally get it.
Bella? How are you liking Forks High? Is it what you expected? Or are you feeling a little outcast right now? smooth voice, low, purring. An impossibly beautiful, though in a way that somehow isn't right, boy says. I'm Hale. You wanna be in? You wanna join? Your sister's doing great. Isn't she pretty? Isn't she nice? Don't worry about it, you can get in, Bella, you can hang with the real crowd. You can be one of us. There's an invitation. There's an initiation. No sweat. Don't worry about it. Come with me, and you'll be all right."
I follow. I follow the him-her. He has a wobbly, tight ass you'd want to eat. Nearly waist-length hair. On Rosalie, the twin, the hair is gold. On Hale, it's a dull, shiny, almost-green. Oxidised. Weather-beaten. His hips sway like sin, but Rosalie's probably don't.
In a room back, behind, away, is another of the characters I've seen. His name is Masen. The brother, Edward, is the boy most likely to. He will be valedictorian. He will go on to medical school and become a research bio-scientist and cure cancer. Masen will go to jail, or be a movie star, either way he'll have a damn good time. He'll charm the wardens, piss off the directors, get out early, be chased by lovesick fangirls, and re-offend. I don't know what he'll do. He'll be a cult-leader. He already is.
"Well, well, who do we have here?" he asks, looking me up, looking me down. Hale shrugs. The others shrug, narrow-eyed, evaluating me despite feigning indifference.
"Your name's Bella, isn't it? Welcome to Fucked High, Bella. How are you hating it so far?" Masen asks. He gestures with his head, and suddenly we're alone.
"There are two ways you can play this, Bella. You're with me or against me. It's that simple. Which is it?"
He's arrogant, but so am I. I cannot be intimated. I took him in at a glance, his torn jeans, long legs and lean hips, flat belly, broad shoulders, torn t-shirt revealing chest hair through the open neckline, he hasn't shaved in days, his eyes are hooded, his expression lazy, his lips full and red. I've seen him before, I've seen boys like him before, though none quite so dirty good-looking. His hair is such a mess.
"What does that even mean?" I ask coolly.
"I run the operation here. I'm the head honcho. You're in or you're not. But if you're not in, you're nobody, Bella. You'll disappear."
"Count me disappeared then, Godfather," I say, and I turn and walk away.
Except that he's in front of me.
"I don't give second chances," he says.
"Neither do I. You asked me to join your club. I turned it down. What are you doing coming after me?" I say.
"Oh, I don't think you understood," he says smoothly. "Did I give you the impression you had a choice? It's my choice, little miss."
With Swan to dilute me I could never have spoken up to him, but she's not here now. She's off studying scripture, or doing her homework, or giving apples to all the teachers so none of them feel left out. Without Swan to inhibit me, I can release who Isabella really is, always wanted to be, and who doesn't give a shit.
I step right up to him. He's tall. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to my eye-level.
"Leave me alone, fucker," I snarl, and he smiles, the slowest, crookedest, filthiest smile.
"Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine," he drawls, no flinching. His hands reach for my hips to pull me to him, and it's pretty clear what he's going to do. The nerve of him. I've got a nerve too, and I'm going to launch a pre-emptive strike. I reach my face to his and bite him right on the mouth, not too hard, because that is a quality mouth.
"Just fine," he murmurs, the grin to my lips and kisses me swift and hot, and his lips burn. He's got a taser in his tongue, the shock lifts me right off the ground and his hands on my hips jam me against him, his arms then coming up to encircle me so I don't fall backwards, his hips, his pelvis, against me, hard, he's hard, and I start to fight and he likes it and I like it and I start to count how long it's lasting and then I wake up.
What the hell was that? This time I saw him. I know it's him, he's the one from the other dream, from every other dream, he's the one.
"And how are things going at school?" Esme asks.
"I don't know. Normal. Boring. It's a school."
She waits. It's silent. She hasn't played this trick on me before and I know what it is, but I fall for it anyway. I fill the gap. Stream of consciousness, I just burble - she asked for it. Ya-da ya-da ya-da. I don't tell her the real shit. The real shit is who is haunting my dreams?
His name is Edward Masen. Finally, once more, I know him. I see him. His voice is the voice. How could I have already known? How couldn't I?
There is a philosophical theory known as Eternal Return. Everything experienced is exerienced again. We repeat our mistakes, we enjoy our victories and suffer our defeats. We never diverge from the path. Deja-vu is all that can tell us that nothing is forever although everything is, that we shouldn't be surprised, that the unexpected isn't, that eternity is a well-worn track.
I dream my fucking memory. Is he my eternal return?
"Walk with me on the pier," he invites and I go down there after to school to see him standing on the edge. Before I can touch him he's dived in and I follow, and it's green and rich down there and I know the way as well as he does and I try to touch him but he's slippery and he laughs and touches me equally as slidey you can't touch with no arms anyway they're but bone remnants within our skin invisible to all but the dissectors who may find us or not. We'll end up in the Smithsonian, remarked upon and remarkable, thought to have been extinct, thought to have been impossible.
"This extraordinary fish has a cranial cavity dissimilar to any other human-placoderm hybrid previously known - see its orbital reach and thalamic cortex... evidence of veracular capacity and advanced structural reasoning."
I really struggle with school. I don't actually know if I'm there.
"Isabella, my colleague tells me you haven't contacted him. I suggest strongly that you do so."
God, Esme, so fucking telling me what to do. You're not my mother, or my boss. You contact him, if that's what you want.
"I'd like to set up a meeting with him myself, actually, so I'm coming over there. We can meet him together. His name is Carlisle Cullen."
Oh, Esme, Esme. Psychoanalyze yourself, woman. I can hear a crush in your voice.
There's a party one weekend, and incredibly, nobody's twigged yet to how fucking mad I am. I've been invited.
Edward Masen has somehow managed to integrate his aspects - they all have, which I'm mistrustful about, and I pretend that Isabella and Swan are one and the same person too - Isabella Swan. Nobody knows any different.
"So, Bella, do you want to smoke some weed?" Edward Masen asked me.
I don't know. Pondweed? Oxalis? Clover?
"Actually, Bella, no, how about you just sit with me and we'll get to know one another?"
I already know him, because of prehistory.
He's so gentle. This is Edward, not Masen. He talks about general things and he waves his hands about restlessly and I talk to him in song lyrics and he smiles at me.
"I've kind of noticed you," he says. "I like the way you express yourself. I like the way you're unfiltered and free, and your language is so vivid."
He's giving me permission. Nobody has ever given me permission.
"I've dreamed about you," I say. "Before I came here."
Quiet, his face now, smiles gone. Bites his lip. Eyes flicker down, then back up to mine.
"I've dreamed about you too."
I stumble away, because.
Because.
I shouldn't even be in mainstream school. I belong in a sheltered workshop. I know this.
He catches up with me, halfway down the driveway. I've run.
"It's okay, Bella Swan," he says.
"I want you to meet my father. I want you to meet my whole family. I can hold your hand, metaphorically. You're beautiful."
"I'm crazy."
"Beautiful crazy. Wayward and visionary and different and precious. My father is a doctor. Don't flinch - he's a kind genius."
"You think I need a cure?"
"No. But if you suffer with what you are you can talk to him."
I could almost relax, almost trust, almost hope, almost believe.
"You'll like him. He doesn't bite. His name's Carlisle."
"You're fucking kidding aren't you? How many Carlisles are there? Is he Carlisle Cullen? He has a date with my therapist. Oh, I have a therapist, by the way."
"My dad has a date? With who? Esme Evenson? Hey, tell me about her..."
Esme and Carlisle, Edward and Bella. How nice. Pairs, couples, twos. How even.
And then I wake up.
Esme, have you heard of Obs?
There is no Esme, or Carlisle, or Edward. There is no any of it. There's me - and the obs.
I know what they are. They are what is me. In me. I didn't already mention this, because I don't want you to think I'm nuts - but I tick everything off, I keep records and notes, I recite, I calculate, I categorize, I define, I itemize. They demand, and I deliver. Details, numbers, lists. I am unthinkingly obsessive and they are the little demons of my condition. I escape into surreality, but still they come. They eternally return.
.
.
.
a) she's completely mad
b) she's utterly mad
c) she's totally mad