by Sarah Noffke
More bodies are being pulled up the stairs. Dead bodies. Women. Children. Men. Old. Young. Some half breathing. Some being rushed for care. Some already with masks on. Some burned. Some looking past the verge of shock. And then a man carries a limp figure in his arms. He lays her with the bodies. The ones that no longer breathe. The ones that are meant to be catalogued and sent to the morgue. But I recognize this one. And I know I’m not mistaken. She would have been on her way home from the pub. She’d been stopping by my booth every day this week. Her shift over, mine beginning. There next to another dozen dead bodies lies Jane’s.
I almost kick out. Kick out at the crowd in front of me. Kick out like I’m having a tantrum. Jane is dead. I know it by looking at her. I know it by where they’ve sorted her body. To the pile that doesn’t need immediate attention. And yet, I want to rush to her. Check her pulse myself. Slap her cheek and tell her to quit trying to get attention. But I don’t. I stand frozen. A stupid witness to this tragedy. I was supposed to be there. Actually, I would have been so completely blown to shit that there wouldn’t be a body. And yet, here I stand, watching.
What does it even mean that the female version of me, who has lived my parallel life, is dead by an act I could have stopped? What am I missing? I throw my head up to the sky and look at the gray clouds with conviction. What do you fucking want from me? I ask God.
More smoke spills from the tunnel and a horde of people rush out of it.
“There’s about to be another explosion,” a guy yells, running up from the stairs. “A generator is about to blow.”
We part, making way for the paramedics and other people trying to get out of the Underground. Everything is chaos. Too much commotion and too much going on. And then there’s a small quake and a gust of hot wind rushes out of the entrance. It’s followed by people and smoke and debris. My eyes burn from the smoke and the dust. I move to make way for the shift of disoriented people and then I realize something is stuck to my foot. It’s nothing. Just rubbish, but I bend over and pull it off anyway. My heart skips into my stomach when I pull off a shred of the half-seared poster of Dahlia. It’s only a piece of her face, charred and burned at the edges, but I recognize her features. I’d recognize them anywhere. It must have been blown up from the Underground. And it somehow found its way under my foot.
Again I’m feeling like a pawn in God’s war, but I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m a monster who’s trying to rid the world of me by living simply. And yet I’ve felt more pushed and directed in the last few weeks than at any other time in my life. It’s like as soon as I came up from under the surface of the water, from the Institute, God started trying to direct my path. Doesn’t he understand that I can’t live a life as a Dream Traveler? That I can’t use my skills? That I can’t have Dahlia? All of that is too much for me. It’s enough to break me and make me break the world. I’m too powerful to be what I am. I need to be fucking left alone.
A man sprints up from the Underground, tears streaming from his face. Another rush of people hurry up from the Underground. This time a woman is half carrying a man who hardly has his feet under him. They collapse at the top. “David,” she shrieks, when the man topples over. She’s on top of him at once. “Wake up. Wake up,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, someone help him! Please!” she says, her voice trembling. Help rushes over, but they soon shake their head and retreat to other cases that can be saved. The woman crumples onto the man, the one she clearly loves and has lost.
Everything in front of me seems to be playing out with a strange reverence to it. I want to look away and yet I feel like there are so many hidden meanings to this all. I hate hidden meanings though. But I stay glued here. Watching.
“What kind of monster does this sort of thing?” I hear a woman say behind me.
“I don’t know,” her companion says, “but it’s going to take an act of God to save us from it.”
A breeze with too much force to be classified as such then rips down the street. I take this as my cue and allow it to push me out of the crowd and down the street. I walk a great distance before I’m away from crying people and sirens and dying victims. Every single event I just witnessed plays across my mind, every single detail as it actually was, thanks to my photographic memory. The crowds of people. Jane’s body. Dahlia’s half-burned poster. The dead man and the grieving woman.
Today I was supposed to die. Just like when I was born. And yet, I’ve lived both times. I could have been Jane. I was supposed to die, just as she had today. Our lives did follow a symmetry. And now all I can think about is how I left Dahlia all those years ago thinking I’d outlive her, and yet I’m not guaranteed one hundred years, it’s just the odds. And today the odds weren’t in Jane’s favor. People die. Old. Young. Middling. Dream Traveler. I can die too. But I was so afraid to live without Dahlia. Afraid I’d outlive her. However, since I left Oregon I’ve been too afraid to live at all. Hell, even when I was confined at the Institute I lived a quiet military-style life. All regimen. No pleasure.
And I didn’t want to help Trey because I thought it didn’t matter but if I did then Jane wouldn’t be dead. I can’t save the world but I can save people who matter to other people. Maybe if the Lucidites would have been formed a long time ago then they would have seen Jimmy’s accident and saved him. What I didn’t realize before is that it’s not about the whole, it’s about the individual.
Lately I’ve felt that God was trying to push me. And it’s angered me because I resented him for ever allowing me to live. I resented him for giving me too much power. For most of my life I’ve hated God for putting a monster inside me. But is it possible that I’ve viewed my life all wrong? I thought I was a mistake created by God, but maybe the reason I didn’t die at birth or today is because I was made as an instrument to be used by God. He is clearly trying to get his handle on me, like a critical tool necessary for an important project. The signs have been everywhere. So much so, I thought at times I could hear God screaming.
I stop walking and stare up. “All right, what do you want from me, big guy?” I say, appearing to talk to myself.
For the second time today, something sticks to the bottom of my shoe. There is much debris from the explosion, even down a block where I stand. I kneel over and peel a small scrap of paper from the bottom of my loafer. It’s a fortune from a Chinese cookie. It reads:
“You cannot run from who you are.”
“How did the Chinese score the job as your fucking messenger, God?” I say to the sky.
How long had I been running? I ran away from Peavey. I ran away from Dahlia. I ran away from my enemies. From my problems. I ran away from my work at the Institute. And now I was running away from my powers. I had seen a reason each time for running, but what would my life look like if I took everything I ran from and threw it all together? What if for the first time ever I decompartmentalized my life? A fear so real it prickles the back of my throat soars through me. I’d be forced to really live without walls. I’d be forced to live on an edge where things might actually be good and every day I’d risk having it ripped away. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is fleeting. And yet, that’s the very reason that life has meaning. When things cost effort to gain and are finite they are of value.
I cast a glance at the scene at my back. There are more people now. Swarms of frantic people. Screaming mothers who have just realized they’ve lost their children. Crying children who have lost their parents. Grieving people who have watched a stranger pass away in their arms. Life is fleeting, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth preserving.
I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial Trey. He picks up after one ring.
“Ren?” he says, concern heavy in his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Send me all the information on Antonio. I’m going after the fucker.”
“You’ve changed your mind?” Trey asks in disbelief.
“Yes.”
/> “Why? I thought you didn’t want to use your powers anymore.”
“Antonio is a monster and the only thing that will bring him down is another monster,” I say, and for the first time in all my life I feel a strange pride in who I am. I feel accepting of my powers and how very flawed they make me.
“Good,” Trey says with relief. “Thank you. Just this last assignment and I’ll leave you alone.”
“Don’t leave me alone,” I say. “It’s not what I need. I want to be a full-time agent. But I’m going to need something to help me keep my life in perspective first. I need something to give me balance.”
“Oh, well, I’ll help if I can,” Trey says.
“You can’t, but I know who can,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, after the job is done. I’ve got to go now.” I shut off the phone and head to my flat.
Chapter Thirty-One
I change into one of my old suits. As I suspected it fits perfectly. I then dream travel to Los Angeles and generate my body. Everything I do now is centered on the hopes that Dahlia still lives in her old house. It’s nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains. I helped her pick it out. If she doesn’t live there then I’m going to have to wait until God puts her in front of me somehow.
I’ve tried not to love her all these years. I abandoned Dahlia because I was afraid to lose her. And in actuality I love her more now than ever. All I did was kill her prematurely in my heart and life. At least my parents had fifty years. But I pushed her out of my life because I was a coward. I kept thinking I’d find a Dream Traveler who was better than her. Someone who could withstand the long lifespan with me. But I was wrong. Because a long lifetime with someone else was nothing compared to the few short years I could have had with Dahlia. And now I’ve wasted them. I might have lost them all by this point. God keeps trying to throw Dahlia in front of me. Well, it’s time I take matters into my own hands before we rush into one another thereby knocking each other out.
The taxi lets me off at a windy road. Her monstrosity of a mansion is gated and guarded heavily. This kind of security has kept Dahlia safe from crazy fans, but it can’t keep me out. I could have probably had the guard at the gate call her and she might have let me in; instead I make him pass out. He withstood my hypnosis for fifteen seconds before collapsing in his guard seat. I encounter six more guards and I don’t even break a sweat getting past them. A portrait of Dahlia with her parents that hangs over the mantel informs me that this is in fact still her residence. And the number of guards stationed throughout the property confirms that she is home. I sense she is home actually. I feel like I’m still connected to her. I hope I am.
I take down the last guard by her private wing and he falls with a thud on the polished marble. I probably could have caught him, but I didn’t want to wrinkle my suit. He actually looked like he recognized me, which was relieving. I’m more nervous than if I was facing Chase or Allouette when I walk up to the double doors where I know Dahlia resides. I don’t knock, but a half a minute later she pulls them back. Did she sense me here? Her face morphs into something priceless. She can’t believe I’m here. If I’m reading this right, then she’s ecstatic about it and never ever going to admit it. And Dahlia is somehow more gorgeous than she was almost two decades ago. She’s soft and angular and also hard with her pensive stare. She’s wearing silk pajamas and I can’t fight what they’re smoothness stirs in me. I can’t fight what her long flowing brown hair does to my resolve. I’m tired of fighting what Dahlia does to me.
After sizing me up for a full minute, she says, “I have enough security to keep out the Queen of England. How did you get in here?”
“Well, I’m not the queen, now am I?” I say with a smug grin. My heart is palpitating, much like it used to when I first met Dahlia. It hasn’t done that since. Actually, my heart has only worked to pump blood through my body all these years. That’s it. No emotions. No longing. No feelings of desire…until now.
Dahlia angles her head around me at the guard lying on the ground. “Is he okay?” she says, sounding mostly amused and not that concerned.
“He’s going to awake with a bloody awful headache and be at loss for the events leading up to his passing out. But he’s going to be fine,” I say.
“How long will he be out?” she asks, and I can tell she’s stalling this conversation. She doesn’t know why I’m here and hopefully she doesn’t want me to leave. I don’t want to, not now that I’m here and made up my mind. I don’t ever want to leave her, not ever.
“Oh, a solid hour or two. Maybe longer depending on his IQ, which I’m suspecting is low. Are all your dogs still dumb as rocks?” I ask.
“They may be dumb dogs, but they’re loyal and that’s what counts,” Dahlia says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. God, she is somehow more beautiful. How is that possible? She was enchanting when we met, but now she holds a maturity that captivates me in a new way. I, Ren Lewis, feel like I’m being hypnotized for the first time by staring at this woman, who is roaming her eyes over me.
“Loyalty is indeed important,” I finally say, knowing that the remark was meant to stab at me.
“You know nothing of loyalty,” she says through tight lips.
“I didn’t know how to be loyal when you knew me, dear Dahlia,” I say, hoping she’ll feel my earnestness. “But I do know loyalty now that I’ve grown up.” I think of my commitment to the Institute. How it’s what has taught me about real dedication. Who would have thought my would-be enemy, Trey Underwood, would have been my greatest teacher. I thought that day eighteen years ago he was going to kill me. I think that day he actually saved my life.
“Ren, it’s been almost twenty years. I looked for you,” she says, a desperate tone lacing her voice. “I hired men to find you. I didn’t give up for almost ten years. I searched and searched tirelessly. Where have you been?” She looks too defeated after this confession. I drained her energy by leaving. Another person might have plummeted after what I did, but Dahlia searched and also kept her stardom. She is more a marvel to me than ever.
“Would you believe me if I told you I became a monk?” I say, a cheeky grin on my face. I’ve had a hard time hiding it all this while as I stared at Dahlia.
“No, I wouldn’t believe that. You detest organized religion,” she says boldly.
“Well, I didn’t become a monk but I have been punishing myself.”
“For how long?” she asks.
“For almost eighteen years.”
“For what you did to me?”
I nod. “As well as other things.”
“And have you atoned for these sins?” she says, her voice not quite sensitive, but rather challenging.
“No, not yet.”
“Is that why you’re here?” And only Dahlia would dare to ask such a gamble of a question, knowing the odds of disappointment are so high.
I blow out a breath and consider answering her. Instead I say, “I lied to you.”
She pauses and regards me sideways. “How many times?” she says, sizing me up.
“Only the once,” I say.
“Which was…?”
“When I said I didn’t love you back then,” I say, each of my words carefully constructed. “The truth is, I did. And I do. I always have. I never stopped. I couldn’t make myself stop loving you, although I tried.”
Her face doesn’t shift at all. Instead of answering me, she inspects my features. I almost feel her eyes crawling over my face, but I don’t feel invaded. At all. It’s been too long since I felt her eyes on me, gracing me with her appreciating gaze. I realize now that when I sent Dahlia away, I banished myself to hell, but any other reality was a suffering after knowing what kind of effect she has on me. After a long minute filled with my thoughts and her lingering gazes she says, “You haven’t aged enough in all these years.”
“Nor you,” I say simply.
“It’s a perk of being rich, you know.”
“I wouldn�
��t actually.”
“You’re not rich anymore?” she says, not disappointed, but rather curious.
“No, I’m hardly Ren anymore.”
“Come here,” she says and motions me forward. I step so only two feet separate us. Dahlia takes her time regarding me, but I don’t grow impatient of looking at her, at her looking back at me. And then I spy her hand rise in the air. I could have moved away from it, but I never want to move away from her again. Even if every movement is a punishment from her, I’ll take it. She strikes me hard across the cheek with a fast and deliberate force. Her hand claps against my skin. That one sound sends the last eighteen years reverberating through my bones. I whip my head to the side from the assault. A stingy sensation wraps around my cheek, making it burn with heat. I clap a hand there before I bring my eyes up to meet Dahlia’s seething stare.
“I deserved that,” I say.
“And more,” she says, her eyes burning with a pain I know I caused and can’t ignore.
“Should I chain myself up so you can whip and torture me then?” I say.
“Oh, you’d probably enjoy that.”
“Probably,” I say, rubbing my still burning cheek.
“So why did you finally show up after all these years?” Dahlia asks. “Why are you finally confessing what I’ve always known, that you love me?”
I bring my eyes up to meet Dahlia’s. Her gaze has always done something to me. I thought maybe now I’d be immune to it, but there’s something there that unwraps me. She takes the monster out of me. Cages it, so I can breathe properly. “Because I’m tired of fighting it. I’m tired of pretending that not loving you is better than loving you and losing you.”
“That’s why you spent almost twenty years away? Because you were afraid to love me? I knew it,” she says, turning her gaze away, looking angry.
