Panic soars through me once more. I take a deep breath only wanting to steady my nerves. There has to be some kind of explanation for all this. I shiver as the cool fall breeze strokes over my exposed skin. I need to get home. I'll figure everything out after I get home. Maybe I really am losing my mind because, as I look down at my dirty injured hands, even I realize that this isn't normal.
But I can't stop myself from looking back at the creek one last time. Something tells me that it's important. I can feel it. There's something I should be remembering.
Wait...
It's...
I squint, staring at the slow moving water until my head starts to ache. Actually my whole body throbs in pain. When it finally slams into me, I suck in a ragged breath unable to believe that I ever forgot in the first place.
Ryland!
The cottage.
There was a cottage in front of the creek. But it's not there anymore. I focus again, trying to remember every single detail.
Ryland.
The meadow.
The Crystal Palace.
The Faerie Realm.
Every thought I unearth feels like a hard fought victory. I have to focus all of my energy to hold onto these thoughts. I have to remember.
The hunt.
Oh my God, how could I have possibly forgotten all this?
I'm staggered by the realization that my memories of the Faerie Realm are slipping away so quickly. I have to get home. I have to write all this down so I won't forget ever again but I'm torn. I don't want to leave this place because Ryland was supposed to... he was supposed to...
I can't remember what he was supposed to do but...
Wait...
He...
He was...
Uggghhhh. Hot tears of exhaustion prick my eyes.
He was supposed to come back.
Yes! That's it!
He should be here with me now! He was supposed to come through the door with me but he... he did something. The scream of frustration is poised on my lips as my hands fly to my head. They squeeze my head between them as if that will somehow force the information from it. I'm so irritated by my own lack of memory!
He pushed me through the door.
Yes, that's right! He pushed me through it.
The faerie guard! They were shooting arrows at us. And... I think Ryland was shot!
Okay. Take a deep breath. I need to go home. I-I need to clean up. No, first I need to write all this down. Everything is fading so quickly from my mind. It's as if the memories are turning to dust. And unless I can scoop them up, they'll be gone. Forever. He'll disappear from my memory. It's frightening just how difficult it is to grasp onto my thoughts of the Faerie Realm. I don't know how much longer I can keep them safe. The fact that they're simply disintegrating is both frightening and devastating.
As I pick my way through the trees, I chant his name over and over like a mantra.
Ryland.
Ryland.
Ryland.
I can't ever forget.
My heart constricts at the notion of Ryland fading from my mind, from my heart. Even though I ache all over and pain ricochets through me with every jarring step, I start to slowly jog. I tuck my hand under my breasts, holding it so it doesn't jostle painfully with my every step. I grit my teeth as I limp the entire way home.
I can't forget him.
He has to come back for me.
He has to come back to me.
The thought of never seeing him again is more terrifying than anything that has ever happened to me and I would go back... wherever that was, in an instant.
Even if it meant dying.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day 3
1. The meadow. This is where I first saw Ryland; it is also where the cottage appeared that connected our two worlds
2. He is a faerie
3. I was a faerie in a different life
4. I was killed by the Faerie Queen
5. Ryland used an enchantment to make me human
6. The faerie guard was hunting us at the Queen's orders
7. Ryland sent me back to the human world where I would be safe
8. I am absolutely, positively sliding headlong into the murky world of mental illness
I consider putting a line through number eight but it seems frighteningly true. I read over the list one more time knowing that no one can ever find it or the sketches I've made. If they do, I'm pretty sure I'll find myself locked up in a padded room for a very, very long time. Opening up my sketch pad, my breath catches just like it always does. My reaction is always the same no matter how many times I gaze at it.
A handsome face stares back at me. Carefully, so as not to smudge the lines, I run my shaking fingers over the drawing wishing I could touch him again.
Just once.
Just one more time.
My heart clenches because I have no idea if I'll ever see him again. Worse, everything that happened to me is beginning to take on a surreal quality. All the hard edges of my memories have begun to soften into something that more or less resembles dreamlike sequences that don't necessarily make sense. My memories no longer seem real the way they once did.
It's been three days since I returned home a bedraggled, bleeding mess.
Thank God my parents were still out of town or they would have totally freaked out. I remember catching that first glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and being completely shocked by my own appearance. I certainly didn't resemble the girl who left her house Sunday morning for a short jog to her friend's house.
That night I sat in a bath for a long time, soaking away some of the worse moments of the previous thirty-six hours trying to remember every minute detail of what happened. Even then, it was a struggle. Worse, I started questioning my own sanity. Questioning whether any of this really happened the way I think it did. The only thing I am absolutely, positively certain about is that something happened to me out there in the forest.
But what exactly remains unclear and alarmingly murky.
Unconsciously I flex my hand. Ten stitches.
It took ten stitches and quite a few strange looks which I took to mean- I-don't-think-you're-giving-me-the-whole-truth by the physician's assistant whose handiwork I will always sport across my palm. I called my parents, telling them that I fell while out running and needed to go to the emergency room. They took it pretty well. Of course, that wasn't the truth. At least I don't think it was. I turn my hand over staring at the newly stitched gash on my palm.
Several times a day I study the list, trying to recall the details of what happened but other than what's written down, my memories are pretty much gone. When I read through the list, it usually sparks something.
The list is like a neuron firing somewhere deep in my brain and then usually some strange memory will finally break through the surface of my consciousness. But there are other times when I stare blankly at it willing the words to make even a shred of sense. And trying to understand the picture they conjure is almost impossible.
It all sounds a bit fantastical. Like the irrational ramblings of a crazy person. Or maybe something I might have made up for my creative writing class.
Wait a minute... did I make this up for class?
Was this simply a writing assignment?
That's the problem. I don't know anymore.
I just want to understand what happened to me.
Day 6
I stare at the list before reading through it again. Once in a while I actually feel as if there are memories or thoughts that are within reach but I can't quite grab hold of them. They slide through my fingers like smoke.
No longer does this feel like something that actually happened to me. It feels more like something I scribbled down after waking up from a really bizarre dream that I didn't want to forget. And I wonder- is that what all this really is?
Just some freaky dream?
But there's a thin reedy voice in my mind that says- No. This happened to
you. Look at your hand. You hurt it running away from something with him.
I flip to the sketch of the boy.
Him. He's real.
He looks vaguely familiar. But why can't I remember who he is or where I know him from. It's all very frustrating.
And where exactly did all this take place?
Because I can't figure that one out either.
Everything has unfortunately bled together until it's nothing more than a jumbled, chaotic mess inside my head. Wherever this supposedly took place doesn't look like anywhere I've ever visited. But I keep doggedly going back to the list and the drawings. For some reason, I know they represent something important. Something I'm not supposed to forget.
But I am forgetting. Well, I've pretty much forgotten. And that scares me because I wrote all this down for a reason. But I can't remember what I'm not supposed to forget and I can't remember why it was ever important in the first place. I'm having trouble keeping it all straight in my head. And that's alarming because they're my delusions after all!
Sighing tiredly I stare out my bedroom window. After a moment or two I find myself looking blindly outside at the small forest in the backyard and something tugs at my subconscious.
Trees.
I stand up, moving closer to the window.
A really big tree.
My father never built me a tree fort but for some reason that's the image that keeps popping into my head.
Where did that thought come from?
My brows slide together as I study the line of trees. I keep getting these images of sitting inside a tree fort. Just as I start to grasp at the edges of a mental picture, it fades and I can't remember why I even walked over to the window in the first place.
This kind of thing happens to me all the time now. For some reason my mind returns to the boy in the woods outside my house. The boy I originally thought was Callan. I think about him placing his hands over my eyes and the strange surge of feelings that spiraled through me.
That's just another thing I don't understand anymore. I should probably tell my parents to find me a therapist because some of the things going on inside my head don't make sense.
Worse, I don't understand why I feel so sad and lonely, like something important is missing from my life. Almost like I've lost something or someone. But that didn't happened. I would remember losing someone... wouldn't I?
Day 9
I stare blankly at the list now.
I read through it but for the life of me I can't remember why I even wrote any of this down in the first place. It's confusing. And a little disturbing, if I'm being completely honest. My brows furrow together as I read over it for a second time. It all seemed so important when I scribbled it down but now I can't make sense of it.
Then I flip through the drawings.
The first one is of a beautiful castle.
Why would I even draw this? Yes, I love history but what was I thinking at the time? What was my inspiration? That's what I can't quite wrap my mind around. I remember sketching it but I can't remember what drove me to do it. I only know that when I did, it was really important.
It's like I have amnesia or something.
But how's that possible?
I flip to the next picture. It's a meadow filled with vibrantly colored flowers. Hmmm. Pretty. I used colored pencils for this one. The flowers are massively oversized. I've certainly never seen anything like it before in real life. There's a butterfly definitely not drawn to scale. And if it is, then somewhere out there is a meadow with giant mutant butterflies. So weird. This isn't really my style either, so again, I can't understand what propelled me to draw it in the first place.
I flip to the next one and pause. Something squeezes my heart painfully.
My breath catches in the back of my throat but I don't understand why.
It's the one of the boy.
I could study his picture all day long. Sometimes I lock the door, sit on my bed, and stare at it for hours. I have some kind of unhealthy obsession with him. I focus on him because he looks so familiar to me. Like I should know him or something. Luckily I wrote his name under the drawing. Ryland.
Ryland.
Ryland.
Ryland.
I turn the name over and over in my mind but it doesn't give me any clues.
The picture is very detailed. His eyes are a lovely rich brown and filled with a soft light as if he's looking at someone he loves. A sudden pang fills my heart wishing that he were looking at me like that. His jaw is strong and chiseled. His nose straight and aristocratic. His dark hair is a few shades deeper than his eyes and frames his face like a halo of soft waves and curls.
I stroke the picture carefully with my fingers.
Who are you?
How do I know you?
Where do you live?
How can I find you?
There are no answers. My mind is frustratingly silent. Is it possible that I made him up? Again my mind is stubbornly quiet.
Irritated I slam the sketch pad closed.
I pick up my book bag needing to get ready for school. I don't want to go to school anymore. Ever since I wandered back from the woods, unable to remember what happened to me, I've totally lost interest in just about everything.
Well, everything but staring at those drawings and reading over the crazy list that doesn't make any sense (unless it's used as further evidence that I've joined the ranks of the mentally unstable- then it makes perfect sense). I just don't care about anything other than the boy in the drawing.
When I finally stumble my way down to the kitchen, my mother is already there making breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air between us. I was hoping she'd have already left the house for work. I hate the worried looks she and my dad are constantly casting in my direction as if I can't see them doing it. I hate how they whisper to each other when they think I'm not paying attention.
She looks over at me and smiles but its forced cheerfulness. More like a tight line of anxiety she's trying to pretend she doesn't feel. Her concerned eyes crawl over me. I wish I could shrug off her silent perusal because I know she's worried but it's irritating all the same. Doesn't she think I would do something about this if I knew what to do? I don't understand what's going on any more than she does. And I certainly couldn't explain it to her even if I wanted to.
Which I don't.
"Sleep okay, honey?" She pauses before adding, "You look kind of... tired."
This is a carefully made observation. She snags my eyes cautiously as I turn to gaze at her. What am I supposed to say?
The truth?
It's easier to just keep everything bottled up tightly inside.
So I shrug my shoulders like I don't care or it doesn't matter. I don't tell her that I hardly sleep anymore. I refuse to tell her that I dream of strange things that don't make any sense. Glass castles and well-dressed fairies and hunting parties. It's a strange mishmash of images that don't really mean anything to me. Cold water and tree houses. Sometimes I feel as if someone must be slipping me some high potency hallucinogenic drugs because these dreams are so bizarre that I'm almost impressed my mind has conjured them in the first place.
Unfortunately the kinds of fairies I dream about aren't your run of the mill Disneyesque type fairies. Nope, these guys (not even pretty little girls with iridescent wings) are huge and brutish. Hulking and cruel. Dressed strangely in formal attire like they're all going to a fancy wedding.
Most of the time, I wake up bathed in a cold sweat, yelling for someone in a tight garbled voice. When that happens, I usually lie awake for the rest of the night trying to understand what it all means and why I can't stop dreaming about it. Just thinking about them sends a thick shiver of fear sliding through me.
And nothing makes the dreams go away.
I dread going to bed now. I hate the nightmares. They always end with the boy from my drawing dying in my arms. I can't stand it. I wake up crying and feeling heartsick, the place over my he
art throbbing in pain. It throbs all the time now. I haven't told my mom about that either because I know it would only freak her out.
And that's the last thing I need.
"I slept fine," I finally say because I know she's worried. Luckily, if you want to look at it that way, she thinks all this teenage angst is over Callen. It's not. In fact, and I feel bad even admitting this, but I hardly ever think about Callen or our breakup.
Unluckily I happen to be completely obsessed with the picture I sketched of that boy from my dreams. I have absolutely no idea if he's real or just a figment of my incredibly vivid imagination. Somehow that seems so much worse. And watching him die every night at the hands of mutant fairies is devastating.
So no, I do not, cannot, tell my mom the truth.
When I don't say anything further, she fills the silence with her own words of wisdom. "Maybe you should talk to him, Lili. Obviously you're still upset. Maybe you should try working things out with him. You two have always been such good friends. Maybe it's worth giving your relationship one more chance."
I turn to her with a half empty box of cereal in my hand. "Really? Is that what you tell your clients? Don't you think that kind of advice would be bad for business?"
Surprised by my harsh words and my biting tone, her mouth falls open and a crestfallen expression flits across her pretty face before she quickly masks it. I watch helplessly as crimson stains her cheeks and her eyes dart quickly away.
My heart pounds uncomfortably under my breast.
I am the absolute worst daughter in the world.
That's the only thought fluttering through my head as I stare at my well-meaning mother. Her hurt is so palpable that I can hardly bear to look at her. Instead I stare blindly out the kitchen window which overlooks the forest in the backyard. It takes me a moment to wrap my lips around the words and force them out but I make myself do it.
"I'm... sorry, mom," I finally whisper, "I didn't... I didn't mean it." I stare sightlessly down at the cereal box still clutched tightly in my hands. Only now do I realize that I'm crushing the cardboard box. My knuckles have turned white around the edges. "I'm- I'm just tired. I guess I didn't sleep that well after all. I'm really sorry," I murmur the words again because at this point, I'll say or do anything to erase the wounded look I have single handedly put on her face. Tiredly I shove the cereal box back into the cabinet. "I'm really not that hungry." I mutter the words more to myself than to her.
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