by Daryl Banner
It is a nightmare that, strangely, becomes less scary each time. It’s so much less of a nightmare and more just a stray thought she has, except now it’s coupled with: I will never see them again.
A hundred more sunrises and sunsets of scavenging and hiding pushes Kid to finally say something. “What if they don’t show up?” she asks Link in the colorful room while Fae is downstairs.
“We’ve only been here for a few short months,” Link points out. “They—”
“Five months.”
Link frowns and glances out the window at their backs. “Really? Wow.” He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Five? Are you sure?”
“And fourteen days,” Kid finishes. “I can count.”
Link smiles. “Have I told you today that I’m glad to know you?”
“No.”
“I’m glad to know you.” He gives her head a rub, then squints when his hand catches on something. He draws the stem of a leaf out of her hair. “You need a bath.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Even Fae’s taken to washing her hair, now that she has some. Your neighbors have a circle of springtime water in their backyard.”
“I don’t want a bath.”
“You won’t feel the same way after one.”
Back and forth they go until Link gives up with a laugh, then goes to check on Fae. In his absence, Kid ambles lazily around the room, tracing the different sprays of color that decorate the floor and wondering what it would be like to be able to pour colors from her fingertips like Link can do. She gave him his Legacy back, Kid tells herself. Maybe she is a Goddess.
And if she’s a Goddess, why can’t she do anything she wants? Why can’t Fae make her parents appear? Why can’t Fae stop the tragedies of what will befall the slums at the hands of the Banshee King, and then later the Marshal of Madness? Can’t Fae simply blink and make miracles happen?
Weeks later, Kid is standing in the center of the colorful room upstairs again while the voices of Link and Fae chatting downstairs drift up to meet her ears. “I don’t think we should leave you here,” Link is reasoning to Fae. “I mean, us getting food is one thing …”
“But you wanted to see your family,” she says back, her voice sounding hurt. “I hate that I’m keeping you from seeing them. You and Kid should go. I will be safe.”
“We must stay together, always. That’s our rule, remember?”
“Link …”
“If you stayed here and then Kid’s parents show up, you’ll have nowhere to hide.”
“And if they showed up while you’re on a food run? What’s the difference?”
“And you certainly can’t come with us,” Link goes on, ignoring her concern. “That’s too far for a … for a pregnant woman to walk. You are too far along. It is too dangerous. Your health is the most important thing right now.”
Kid walks the same familiar pattern she always mindlessly walks when she’s in this room, tracing a line of royal blue color that runs in spirals out from the center of the room, ending at the right side of the window. Together, we’re safe. That’s what Link tells them over and over again. No matter what happens, we must stick together.
Stay together. Stay unseen. That’s their only two rules.
Together. Unseen.
And of course it would be Kid who, of all people, breaks both of those rules in one fateful night. It’s two dozen sunsets later that Kid waits for the sun to set and for all the lights in the neighbor’s house to go dark before she invisibly slips over the fence dividing their yards. She slips into the neighbor’s springtime pool with her clothes on. The cool, inviting water laps at her skin and feels remarkably cleansing. When she’s finally submerged up to her chest, she begins the arduous process of undoing each and every one of her braids. After her hair becomes an enormous nest of wiry curls and tangles and loosened knots, Kid sinks her whole head, then opens her eyes underwater and watches as her world grows dark with months and months and months of dirt and grime floating all around her.
She hears a noise.
Kid lifts her head out of the water to find a woman standing over her at the pool. The woman is not Fae, but rather the neighbor. Kid realizes, finally seeing the woman upclose, that this is the same neighbor she grew up with. Landy’s mother. Landy, the boy she used to play with as a child. Is he even born yet?
Kid is out of the pool in the next instant, but the words of the woman stop her. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”
She turns to face the woman. Landy’s mother looks just the same as she remembers her. Full of cheeks, full of bosom, full of belly and thick of arm. Her hair is a loose, messy brown bun on her head and her eyes are round and soft.
“I’m sorry,” murmurs Kid, hugging her wet body.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Are … Are you lost? Do you live here? I haven’t seen you before.”
“N-No,” she says at once, slowly backing away to the fence.
Perhaps the direction of Kid’s retreat was her least thought-out action of all. Landy’s mother gives a lift of her chin toward the house. “Are you staying there? In that house?”
Kid stops in her tracks. I’m such an idiot. I’m so, so, so stupid. “No,” she blurts. “I was … I’m …”
“It’s okay.” The woman smiles warmly. “My husband and I own that house. We own both of these houses, see? This one, and that one. It’s simply empty until we find a buyer for it.”
Kid doesn’t respond, holding herself tightly.
“Times are tough,” the woman goes on. “King Greymyn holds a strict rule of ownership and, well, not much can be said of his brand of compassion that wouldn’t be sour-tongued of me.” She sighs and lowers her head to Kid. “Sweetheart, if you need a place to stay for a few days, it is quite alright. Though, I might recommend using the bath in there, as my pool, well …” She glances back at its now-murky waters. “My husband will have to clean it now, and—”
“I’m sorry.”
“I get the odd feeling you’re used to apologizing a lot,” teases the woman. “Really, no apology necessary. But dear, if you are running away from home and … and if your parents are looking for you, I think you really ought to tell me. Are you homeless, sweetheart?”
“No.”
The woman smiles. “Are you in danger?”
How can Kid really answer any of these questions without lying to the woman with every one of them?
“I take that for a yes, and a yes, you’re homeless, and a yes, you are hungry, and a yes, you need somewhere to stay. I have a spare room if you would like to be in the company of my husband and I. See, we have no children. Not for lack of trying, of course, just simply … ah, well, you’re too young for all that talk.” The woman laughs softly, looking away for a moment. “I suppose I’m just saying that if you—”
When she turns her face back, Kid is gone. Of course, Kid is standing in the very same spot as before, only now she’s invisible.
The woman glances to her left, then to her right. After a second of doubt, she murmurs, “Stay in the house if you wish, or simply knock upon my door if you’re hungry. Our door’s open to you.” And then the woman clasps her hands and walks back to her house after giving one last doleful glance at the dirtied pool. The back door shuts softly, and then the lights within the house go dark.
Kid pads across the lawn and quickly slips back over the fence, clothes dripping and her hair raining along the grass. Suddenly feeling too guilty to enter the house and warn Link and Fae about what just happened, Kid spends a few hours drying off by sitting in the grass and staring up at the sky. Her wet hair drips lazily down her back and her face. After a while, Kid’s mind is at ease again, wondering if the exchange was, in fact, a good thing. Did my parents buy the house from her? Will they show up any day now to buy the house from the neighbors next-door, the neighbors who don’t even have a boy named Landy yet?
The stars are like tiny gems in the sky tonight, and for a second, she imagines sitting next to the cold boy Kendil
and musing about how pretty the stars look. He’d agree in his soft, strange voice, and then she wouldn’t worry at all anymore about the neighbor woman or affecting the flow of time or any of that stupid stuff. Why do I miss him?
She lets the stars carry her into a safer place where she need not worry about a thing, whether it’s being seen or not being seen, or worrying over food, or friends, or family … or just simply worrying over the lazy, unfeeling passage of time.
0211 Halvesand
Two Answers.
Halvesand stares at his shirtless form in the mirror. He’s lost so much weight that he nearly looks as thin as his brother Aleksand. He studies his dark tattoos—a network of marks that cut down his left shoulder blade in artful branches, then rush up his right one. He calls them his Two Answers, but lately they look like a million answers. His thinning body makes his shoulder blades poke out, ruining the effect of the design. It makes him sad, looking at them. Not to mention the brand new mark on the wound that’s drawn across his throat—the mark from which the doctor extracted a sample of the poison.
‘We tried to make an antidote, but we failed,’ the doctor told him just this morning. ‘The poison is not one that Atlas has ever seen. Truly unique … and deadly. I can still make you that neck armor to protect yourself from—well, from yourself,’ the doctor finished. ‘Your choice.’
All Halves sees in the mirror is a broken piece of shit that will never talk again, never run again, never fight again …
I’m a Guardian who can’t guard shit.
Halves bares his teeth, furious suddenly, but even that tiny act creates tension in his neck, hurting him. I carry a bomb in my throat, he muses. Not many people in Atlas can say that.
“Mr. Lesser? Do you need any help?”
Halves ignores the voice on the other side of the door. He lets the cane hold up all of his weight as it stabs into the tile by the toilet. He keeps staring at his face in the mirror, at the gash across his neck, at the visible ribs painted down his emaciated torso.
“Knock once on the door if you’re okay, Mr. Lesser.”
He would chuckle at that if he had a voice. ‘Okay’ is so relative.
“Mr. Lesser …?”
Halves picks up the knife from off the sink, the knife he swiped from Ennebal’s belt the last time she stayed in his room. It’s only fitting that if he leaves the world, it’s by a blade from a woman he thought he might someday love—instead of by the poisoned blade of a woman who just wanted to shut him up forever.
“Mr. Lesser?”
Halves lifts the knife to his own throat, watching himself in the mirror. Two Answers. He stares at the knife as it pokes at the left end of his wound. Just a little pressure and I might spill the poison both down my neck as well as my throat. His face hardens as he stares at the wound with mounting ire. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, as if two drops of skin-burning acid were dabbed upon them. Oh, but that is precisely the tears I’ll cry for the rest of my life: skin-burning acid. Halves wants to laugh so hard at his own jokes.
He is such a joke.
Somewhere deep in his mind, he can still hear the mocking laughs from Grute, his very first partner when he joined Guardian. Grute, the man he snitched on to Obert Ranfog. Grute, the man who had a knife thrown into his back by Obert Ranfog. Grute, the partner Halves killed with a word. Words are powerful.
Halves opens his mouth, the blade pressing firmly to his neck. Does he dare speak a final word? Words are powerful. Your blood is thin as water. Two Answers.
The doorknob rattles, the person on the other side discovering it locked. “Mr. Lesser. Can you let me in?”
Halves is breathing deeper now. His hand begins to tremble. He sees Ennebal giving birth to his son or daughter—or his nephew or niece—and he sees Aleks and her happily raising that mystery kid. I hope they name him or her something nice.
“Mr. Lesser.”
Halves grits his teeth.
Acid fills his eyes. He shuts them.
And then he pulls the blade across his throat.
The knife drops to the floor. His hands tremble. His body is as stiff as Sanctum steel.
Halvesand Lesser opens his eyes.
The blade did nothing. Halves’ Legacy stopped the blade from doing a damned thing to his neck.
Halves lets out a sigh—a sigh that aches and sends a sharp jab down his throat. Even my Legacy won’t let me take my own life. Even my fucking Legacy.
“Mr. Lesser.”
I don’t want to live anymore.
A key wiggles into the lock. The door at his back opens. Halves sees the face of his nurse in the reflection of the mirror, who regards Halves with a wrinkled brow and sympathy in his eyes.
“Come,” says the nurse, gently putting a hand at Halves’ back. “I will help you back to your bed.”
Halves shrugs off the nurse, using his cane to direct himself to the door. The nurse, for once, does not stop him, letting him leave to walk the halls of the hospital. Halves doesn’t care if the nurse finds the abandoned blade on the bathroom floor. Halves doesn’t care about anything. Whether he will be a father or an uncle in six and a half months’ time, he couldn’t care less. Let Aleks have the baby, he thinks to himself as he slowly moves down the hall one cane-stabbing step at a time. Let Ennebal have however many fucks she wants from as many men as she lets between her legs.
He stops, then slams his cane three times into the tile, angry. The cane-stabbing carries less force than he intended, for all the strength that doesn’t live in his arms anymore. All that training … All that work … All that focus … None of it mattered in the end.
“Halves.”
It’s his brother who calls his name. If anything motivates Halves to move faster, it’s the presence of his brother. He resumes his walk down the hall, piercing the floor with every step.
Aleks is at his side in the next instant, meeting his stride. “Hey, bro. I heard the news. I’m so fucking sorry.”
What does my brother have to be sorry for? Halves wonders. The fact that this crippled condition of mine is permanent? Or the fact that he fucked Ennebal and maybe put a baby in her?
“Remember, though, that the city is broken right now. We don’t have access to all our resources. Just imagine what a Sanctum doctor could do for you. After Impis is taken down, we can get you the real medical attention you deserve. You’ll be healed, bro, I just know it. This isn’t—This isn’t the end for you.”
Two old ladies in grey robes pass by. They give a small nod to the brothers as they go, their robes brushing along the tile.
“New volunteers and assistants, every day,” mutters Aleks. “See? There were so many people who fled the Lifted City, and I’m certain that a doctor will turn up someday. A smart, talented doctor. Not this nut from the fourth who’s washed up here and can’t even identify a simple fuckin’ poison. What a moron. Hey, let me help—”
Halves shrugs his brother’s hands off of him, annoyed. He leans against the wall to catch his breath, holding the chrome cane with its button pressed, the one that keeps it upright and infallible.
Aleks bites his lip stupidly, staring at his brother. “Alright,” he mumbles. “No help, then. I get it. You probably get nurses and … and idiots all over you all day long. Don’t need one more idiot on you.”
Halves closes his eyes, frustrated with his older brother’s tireless self-deprecation on his behalf. I don’t need you to constantly insult yourself just to make yourself feel better about how fucked up and broken-down I am. I just need you to leave me the fuck alone.
Quite suddenly, Aleks fulfills that wish, giving his brother a brief pat on the shoulder and saying, “I’ll see you later at dinner, bro. I’ll save you a seat,” then walking off, his hands plunged into the pockets of his jeans.
Halves watches him until he disappears around the corner. A pang of hunger hits his stomach, which he resents because every damn thing he eats tastes the same: bitter and foul and acidic. Poison, Halves thinks, hi
s mood as bitter as everything tastes. Everything I am is poison. Poison in my throat, in my tears, in my mouth …
He pushes off the wall and continues to walk. He doesn’t let go of the button, however, and the cane remains stubbornly in place, not moving with him. Misjudging his next step, Halves twists his body to release his cane, then loses his footing and collapses onto the floor with a grunt that hurts his throat worse than the fall hurts his body.
Halves clenches shut his eyes, in pain. He stays there on the floor, the cane annoyingly upright and perfectly in place, ignoring his voiceless pleas and his anguish. From the floor, he stares up at the cane and the button on top of it—a button he’s supposed to use to call for help. The irony of the situation tickles him with dark humor.
He closes his eyes, the pain dancing about in his belly and his neck and his twisted legs.
“Come,” murmurs a voice above. “Let me help you up.”
Halves opens his eyes to a woman in a hooded grey robe. Before he can protest, she grips him by the shoulders and pulls him to his feet. He sucks in air through his clenched teeth—his only way to express the pain of being pulled off the floor—and then the woman guides him down the hall, his upright cane forgotten.
“Come, come,” she urges. “Which room’s yours? This one?”
It’s only seconds later that he’s shuffling back into his room, guided by the woman in grey, who brings him to the bed. She gives him a lift with her hand until he’s settled onto the mattress. Then, she gives the sheets a careless tug, pulling them over Halvesand.
The grey hood drops down to her shoulders, revealing a head of black, spiky hair, as she adjusts the sheets caringly around his body.
Halves looks upon her face for the first time.
She meets his eyes. The smile on her face dies.
