Into the Real

by Z Brewer

  The slab cracked in two and Caleb grabbed one half, dragging it off the entrance. I watched as he moved the next, and then I called down to Lia, “Give me your hand!”

  The lantern flickered and then died. The cellar was pitch-dark.

  Waking from my nightmarish daze, I dropped to my knees and reached for her, seeing that Lloyd had destroyed the shelves so that she wouldn’t be able to climb. Caleb and I each grabbed a hand and pulled. Lia was shaking as we held her, bringing her up to safety. Just as she was high enough to climb up on her own, a scream tore from her throat. I gripped her tight and yanked her from the opening. Fresh blood drew crooked lines on her calves. The Unseen Hands had only just missed her.

  We sat there on the floor, the three of us—survivors all. Lia was safe. We were all safe. For now.

  No more than an hour later, my back was against a rocky surface, and I was seated on the ground. Before me sat a single lantern. Its fuel was burning out, and once that happened, we’d be encased in darkness and subject to the wrath of the Unseen Hands. My bat rested beside me, its surface covered with the blood of a Ripper we’d killed just outside of the park before fleeing the horrors of this Brume and heading here. Houses were close but the cave was closer, so it became our sanctuary for the time being. Outside, I could hear tortured voices tearing through the night, crying out for help—Screamers, I was certain. The scent of our last remaining sage was all around us. When the light was gone and the sage had burned away, we were dead.

  Caleb and Lia lay huddled closely together near the wall of the cave opposite me, passed out from exhaustion. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t bear another dreamless night, couldn’t face the darkness when plagued with so much pain and too many questions. I watched the lantern’s light dim and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to close out the world—to close out three worlds, actually—for a heartbeat or two. Standing, I trailed my fingers along the wall and around a series of bends. At the deepest part of the cave, I found it. The mirror that I’d seen in the war-torn Brume. Its frame resembled vines, flames, and snakes, twisting upward, reaching outward. The tips of each spike looked incredibly sharp. As I stared at it, I let the memories of the soldier Quinn fill my head. We had a choice to make—which life to live. It was a paradox, the three of us in these three Brumes. But how could we solve a paradox? How could I? And could I possibly manage such an insurmountable task before the light and sage were gone?

  I stepped closer, wondering if Lia and Caleb would see it too if they were awake and standing at my side. Something within me told me to smash it, destroy it, send it back to hell. If there was a hell. If hell wasn’t here.

  Plucking a rock from the ground, I whipped it at my reflection. The stone flew forward and was enveloped by the glass, as if the surface of the mirror weren’t solid at all. I reached my hand out toward my reflection. We touched palms. Glass. The mirror was glass. So how did the rock . . . ?

  Maybe the mirror wasn’t just a mirror . . . or maybe I’d gone crazy. It was easier to believe that I’d lost my mind. Maybe it had happened the moment I’d seen Coe back at the school, just like it had happened with Lia’s mom. Maybe it had happened when I’d killed Lloyd.

  To my left, someone clucked their tongue. “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  I was startled, but I forced myself not to look at the speaker. I knew his voice, even if not from here. Here he was a monster with claws for hands. Here he’d made me see my dead brother rot before my very eyes after torturing Caleb with images of his dead sister.

  I’d been in this cave before. And I hadn’t been alone. Something had been with me. The same something that had dragged its large body through the door inside the school with the use of its long, spindly arms. Two voices—voices that felt so familiar to me that they felt like my own—whispered inside my mind.

  “Coe.”

  Nightmarish images filled my head. The mask that hadn’t been a mask at all. The long, black tongue caressing my cheek, warm and wet. The teeth . . . the teeth.

  My hands were trembling. I hadn’t noticed I’d been clenching my fists until I felt my nails digging deep into my palms, almost breaking the skin. I’d seen Coe’s true face before. Right here in this cave. I didn’t know if I could bear it again.

  A sound, more like a growl than a laugh, but somewhere in between, bubbled up from within him. “That’s also presumptuous of you. To think you’ve seen my true face.”

  With a shaking breath, I turned to see a man standing beside me. His stringy hair hung over much of his face. He wore a black snakeskin trench coat that conjured goose bumps on my skin, and he held a cigarette between two fingers. I recognized him, but not from this Brume.

  “Shall I give you a hint?” A fiendish smile curled on his lips. His eyes looked strange. It took me a moment to see what was wrong. The irises weren’t just dark—they were black as night. But more than that, they looked to be the texture of snakeskin—and the snake was writhing within. Then, as quick as it had begun, his eyes went back to normal. “More? Or is that enough to jog your memory?”

  “That’s . . . that’s enough.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette. His fingernails were filthy, as if he hadn’t cleaned up in a good long while. As he blew out the smoke, he said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Just as horrors are in the mind of the realist.”

  The scent of roses filled my nostrils as I recalled him standing in a garden, offering me a smoke. The taste of nicotine covered my tongue as I remembered him leaning up against the school, asking for a light. Focusing on the man instead of the monster, I said, “I feel like we’re beyond this cryptic bullshit, Coe.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Do you, now?”

  I cleared my throat. “We both know that I’m living three lives, in three different Brumes.”

  “Do we, now?”

  With my mind’s eye, I saw my hand, feminine, brushing hair from my eyes so I could get a better look at him. I saw my hand, masculine, holding out the lighter, shuddering when my skin had touched his. They were me. I was them. He was the Stranger. He was Coe. And now he was here. My tone grew bitter. “You’ve ruined my life.”

  “Have I, now?”

  I glared, but all it did was inspire him to raise an eyebrow. He said, “I don’t ruin lives. I touch them. There is a difference.”

  I snapped, “You touched mine enough to break it into three. Whether or not you think so, you ruin lives.”

  His eyes met mine, his playful tone gone, leaving behind crisp, biting words. “I unearth truth.”

  Not wanting to provoke him, I quieted my voice. “So what’s the truth about me?”

  “We’ve discussed this, genderless—at times, gendermore—Quinn. Don’t you recall?” He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot. “A precious commodity, life. It’s traded, given away, wasted, spent.”

  I snorted with disdain. “Seems pretty pointless to me. Like trying to hold sand. No matter what you do, it’ll slip away.”

  He pointed a long, nicotine-stained finger at me and said, “You miss the point. It’s not how much sand you lose, it’s how long you hold the beach in your hand.”

  I didn’t care about the symbolism of the beach. I was done. I was just done. With all of this. “I can’t do this anymore, Coe. I just . . . can’t. Whatever it is that you want from me, just take it already.”

  He chuckled. “Another point that you miss. This isn’t about what I want. It’s about what you need.”

  “I need . . .” My heart swelled until I was certain it was on the verge of shattering. I looked at the mirror and wondered: If I went through it, would I disappear, like the rock? “I need peace.”

  Coe’s voice, for the first time, softened in what could’ve been mistaken for empathy. “You do.”

  My eyes filled with tears—tears I didn’t bother holding in or blinking away. My reflection’s cheeks remained dry. “How do I find it?”

 
; His attention turned to the mirror in front of us. “I like mirrors. They reveal the truth of things, and there is peace in speaking one’s truth. But then . . . what would you know about truth?”

  What was he getting at? “I know the truth. My truth. I know who I am. And I know I’m going to keep waking up in these three different realities until I figure out the paradox and decide which life I want. I just don’t know how to choose.”

  He held a single finger up as if to pause my words. “That is one truth. But the bigger truth is hidden in the lies you’ve told yourself again and again.”

  “What exactly have I lied to myself about?” The question was as much to me as it was to him.

  “The wall of fog surrounding Brume is quite thick, don’t you think? It’s been there for years.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Hasn’t it?”

  Of course it had. One day the town had been filled with sunshine. The next it had been closed off, or maybe even removed, from the rest of the world. If anyone knew that, it had to be Coe. He was responsible for it, after all. The fog, the monsters, the fracture of my existence into three. Everything. “What’s your point?”

  He withdrew a fresh pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his trench coat and tapped the end of it against the heel of his free hand before opening it. As he placed an unlit cigarette between his lips and put the pack away, he closed his eyes long enough to light it. His movements were ritualistic. He was worshipping at the altar of nicotine and tar—the filth of which suited him well. Satisfied, he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “If you’d see your lies for what they are, you’d know when the wall of fog appeared. When and why.”

  I hated to give a second thought to his enigmatic statement, but I didn’t have a choice if I wanted answers. “Are you insinuating that I have any inkling why the fog came?”

  His eyes flashed with something resembling irritation as he made a point of order. “The day your father piled you all into that boat . . . was he really attempting an escape from the horrors of Brume?”

  Of course he was. We were all on the boat, and Dad was paddling with determination. Somehow, we’d gotten turned around in the fog. Brume wouldn’t let us go. Coe wouldn’t let us leave.

  The corner of the Stranger’s mouth twitched. He pointed his cigarette toward the mirror and tapped ash from its tip. The mirror’s surface swirled, looking like mercury and molten steel, and when it settled, it felt as if ice were moving through my veins. Then the cave was gone. I was still there physically—could still feel the rock beneath my feet. But my consciousness moved through time and memory, until I was standing on the bank beside the lake four years before. It seemed impossible, but it felt so real. I tried to call out, but could make no sound. I tried to move, but couldn’t. Because I wasn’t really there. I wasn’t a participant of this moment, merely an observer.

  I watched as my dad piled my mom, Kai, and me into a small rowboat with him, a picnic basket, a cooler, and fishing gear. He paddled us as far as he could, the whole time without a word to my brother or me. It wasn’t an unusual event. Dad was the type of man who worked hard all day and came home to eat dinner while watching whatever game was on the television. We’d learned to keep quiet around him—especially after he’d had a few drinks.

  My mom dug a beer out of the cooler and handed it to Dad. The two of them managed a conversation about the weather and what a great day it was for a family outing. Dad talked about filleting whatever fish we caught, and Mom asked him how he wanted them cooked. Things felt light that day. It had seemed like the perfect moment to share with them something I’d been feeling for a long while. “Mom? Dad? I need to tell you something.”

  My father’s eyes were focused on the horizon, and my eyes locked on his expression. A determined, maybe angry, crease lined his brow. He didn’t speak a word. Neither did Mom or Kai. Maybe they knew what I was about to say. Maybe not. I clung to the hope that maybe they’d understand. We were family, after all.

  “The thing is . . . I’m genderqueer.”

  “You’re what?” A chuckle escaped Mom as she spoke. I couldn’t tell if her question had been rhetorical or not, but either way, I answered.

  “Genderqueer. Sometimes I don’t feel male or female. Sometimes I feel both. Sometimes I feel like I’m something else entirely.”

  “Goddammit! You’re queer? Are you fucking kidding me?” Dad had yelled, his reaction immediately more horrible than I’d imagined in my worst fears. Gripping the paddles, he maneuvered the boat around again and headed back to the dock. Determination drove each stroke. Mom didn’t seem to notice how tightly she was clutching the handle of the picnic basket in her hands. Kai stared at the lake, as if wishing he were anywhere but here. Water splashed at every lunge of the paddles. Drops of it dotted my skin. The paddles hitting the water were the only sound besides my father’s angry breathing. The boat inched forward until we’d reached the dock. “All of you, get in the goddamn car. We’re going home.”

  “Mom?” My voice sounded hushed. She refused to meet my eyes, just shook her head in utter disappointment. The small shred of hope that I’d been clinging to evaporated like fog.

  Everything that our family had been changed forever that day.

  The visual memory melted away, returning my consciousness to the cave. I shook my head in horror and denial. “No. That can’t be. I remember the fog. He was trying to save us from Brume.”

  The Stranger gauged me for a moment as he took another drag. “Was he, now? And the night you and your brother valiantly fought off the Ripper in the park? Was he trying to save you then as well?”

  He stretched out his hand once again, pointing his cigarette at the mirror. As he tapped ash from its end, I said, “Don’t.”

  Once more the mirror’s surface swirled, but this time I was transported to my house, just after we’d returned home from our failed family excursion.

  Dad got drunk and screamed harsh words at me. Mom put her head in her hands and cried. She went on and on about how I was just saying I was genderqueer to hurt her. Kai had gone out with friends, so I was alone in the tornado of emotions that filled our home. Eight beers later, Dad passed out, and Mom fell asleep on the couch watching reruns of The Twilight Zone. I went to the park to think, but more so to be alone. I’d always liked it there. There was no yelling there. No parental judgment. No cloud of dissatisfaction like the one that hung over our house. I was leaning against a tree, looking at the entrance to the cave, when a beer bottle smashed against the tree’s trunk. It shattered in an explosion of brown glass and stale beer. When I turned to see who’d thrown it, my stomach had shriveled.

  Kai’s eyes were glazed—the way Dad’s got after he’d had a couple of drinks. But more than that, the angry expression he wore made him look a little too much like our father—a man he’d sworn he would never become. “You think you’re doing anybody any good, stirring up shit like that, Quinn? You think Mom and Dad are gonna feel bad for you because you’re some oppressed queerbait? It’s not gonna change a fucking thing!”

  Once more, the memory melted away. My cheeks were wet with tears. I wanted to deny the memories. I wanted to blame them on Coe . . . but I couldn’t. It was true. I’d finally come out to my family, and they’d lashed out against me. Every one of them. Even Kai. “The Ripper . . . the fireflies . . . I . . . It had all felt so real. But Kai didn’t save me that night. There was nothing in the park to save me from . . . except for him.”

  Coe’s tone softened. This time I was certain it was in pity. “And your parents. How did they die again?”

  My gaze locked on the mirror. “Show me.”

  With one last flick of ash, the surface swirled and disappeared again, leaving me with nothing but the painful truth.

  My parents, Kai, and I had been driving to my grandmother’s house two towns over. It wasn’t a trip we made often—Grandma was a smoker with a heavy hand. I was pretty sure both Dad and Mom hated her, but felt some sort of familial obligation to visit. As Dad navigated the stree
ts, he barked at me, “I don’t wanna hear any of that bullshit about you being a queer in front of your grandmother, you hear me? Buncha bullshit, if you ask me.”

  I shook my head. “But it’s not. I’m—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Quinn. You’re only a teenager! You don’t know what you are.” Mom rolled her eyes dismissively.

  “It’s a fad now. Everybody her age is saying something similar.” Kai snorted from the seat beside me. “Gay is the new cool.”

  “I’m not gay.” I all but whispered the words, fearing my dad’s reaction, but trying desperately to cling to my truth.

  Dad erupted again. “Yer damn right yer not! None of my kids are gonna be faggots!”

  Mom said, “She isn’t a faggot, Harold. She’s just confused.”

  “Don’t tell me what she is! Maybe if you spent more time watching her and less—”

  The car had picked up speed, and I wondered if Dad had been drinking before we’d left the house. Kai and I exchanged looks as the vehicle wavered from one lane to the other, but neither of us spoke. Maybe we were too afraid to interrupt our parents. Maybe we knew that something terrible was about to happen. Whatever it was, something terrible did happen. One moment, Mom and Dad were speaking heatedly in the front seat. The next, the car rolled and the interior exploded into a cloud of blood. It took just a second for Kai and me to become orphans.

  The pain in my chest was unbearable as my mind returned to the cave. I slid down the cave wall until I was kneeling on its floor, my tears flowing freely now. “But I saw the Unseen Hands kill them. I swear . . .”

  “Have you ever stopped to consider why those hands are unseen?” He crouched beside me, the bottom edge of his trench coat looking like a broad, thin snake resting on the cool stone. Maybe I should have been afraid of him still, but I wasn’t. Not just then. I was more afraid of myself. “It seems to me that it wasn’t the hands you were trying not to see that day. It was the truth. A truth you’ve hidden under a blanket of lies you’ve told yourself again and again. A truth you’ve smeared onto the canvas of your memories beneath layers and layers of painted falsehoods.”