Colors were what she noticed first, initially faded but gaining vibrance against the fuzzy darkness. Shapes appeared next, an uncountable number of long, thin streamers of brown brightening to beige, then yellow, then a white-edged gold. They waved gently, their strands mingling occasionally—and where those strands touched there was a flash that echoed in her mind.
Like the streamers, she drifted for a while, unsure if she should feel curious about her surroundings or not. She wasn't sure if any of this was normal. She wasn't sure what "normal" was. She wasn't sure of anything, even herself.
So she stared up, because up was all there was, aside from the streamers. No left, no right. No forward, no back, no down. She floated upon nothing. (But something supported her.) Slowly it dawned on her that if there was a "she" to float then she must have some substance, some identity. The only names she could think of for herself were "I" and "me." They would do for a start.
Dissatisfaction tugged at her. She studied the feeling. Above her two streamers united and there was a brief gleam of light and the impression of a bashful smile and bright blue eyes. There had been a parting gift, she thought; she saw another strand of gold dangling from a small hand.
I didn't want us to go our separate ways. The thought alarmed her. Had she been separated from someone? She waited, but there was no helpful flash of light to inform her. It hurt to ask the question, and she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort.
The presence of her arms surprised her; she'd assumed she had substance but not form. They turned out to be thin arms when she examined them, and pale. She wondered what good such frail arms were.
Frail? The word sparked another picture, a tower of white that loomed over her, laughing and accusing her of frailty. The Tower came closer, and she saw herself stretched out in the Tower's arms, limp and broken. She hit the floor with a thud, and she shrank away—
Her eyes snapped open, though she still saw the vision. No. No. That hadn't been her. Not her. But someone just like her. Someone exactly like her. We're all supposed to be the same. But they weren't, and Daddy loved her best. The shame haunted her. A hundred voices whispered to her, but she made no sense of them.
She tried to think of something else, but the Tower filled her mind, and there was just taking, taking, though she couldn't let go of what she held. The words inside her were as much a part of her as her brain or heart. They were not optional. It was important to hold on to the Words. That was why she was here: to protect the Words. They were the most precious thing she held.
(She felt a phantom weight in one hand, then, a strand of gold with something charmed at the end, and it too was something precious, a link to happier times and rescue—and that smile beneath bright blue eyes.)
Maybe protecting the Words meant staying were she was, with no name and nothing but emotional contexts for the phantom images that kept appearing before her. The idea was unsettling. But she had a feeling she'd chosen to be there, and if she'd made the choice . . .
You can't stay here. You're too needed. By him and by others.
There was a sense of motion and shifting perspectives in that world of blackness and gold filaments. Whatever was at the base of this strange environment moved under her, rose up, steadied her spine and stilled the fears within her. She wasn't alone here? She turned, or tried to; above her the streamers spun with her, and behind her the Other remained.
She was just like the Other, the way the broken sister was just like her. She was supposed to become the Other, but it was both her private shame and her relief that she knew she never could. That seemed to please the Other as well. Above her—above them—the gold of the streamers became rose, like cherry blossoms at sundown.
She hadn't realized she was rising until the streamers were around her. They brushed against her shoulders and face, gently cutting her with more memories:
—a man, with yellow hair and sad eyes, who looked at her, startled (for giving him a name)—
—a woman with green eyes who tried to comfort her, though her own voice trembled (at the sight of the wreckage around them)—
—a woman who was a weapon, but made an attempt at empathy (then denied it afterward because to do so was unnecessary)—
—there was a boy with wise eyes and silver hair, who held her when the Tower said she'd given him the means to threaten them all (and a world besides)—
—and the boy with red hair and blue eyes at her level, who'd risked being struck down (when she'd been threatened by their captors.)
That was right. The Words were important, but they weren't most important; they'd simply been first. She couldn't remain in that place, even with the Other, because she knew the Other had given up everything just so she could be. She owed it to the Other to leave that interior world and see what existed outside. Through her eyes the Other could see the boy she missed, the boy with bright blue eyes who smiled.
He wasn't smiling now.
The dark and the golden streamers receded, replaced by a soft light that grew brighter and took on new shapes and colors. She sat on a porch swing on a summer afternoon, and the boy stood in front of her. He was as important as the Words, even if she didn't quite know him yet. She wanted to say that, but her voice and her face failed her, remaining silent and still.
But he knew her, calling her MOMO and swearing to keep her safe.
She knew it was the truth. So MOMO stood, though mute, and followed him down the steps.
