The twins were talking to each other animatedly, apparently unaffected by the dilapidated state of the theatre. Their voices echoed up to the high rafters, and I came to a stop in the middle of the sloping aisle, looking up. The ceiling was painted blue, with tiny gold stars glittering in the darkness. Incredibly, that seemed entirely unaffected, the blue still vibrant, the stars marking constellations found in the real sky.
I found the Big Dipper, the North Star. It almost made me smile. It was startling how much relief I felt at seeing something familiar, even if it was just a pattern of stars.
'Amelia?' hearing my name brought me back to the present. I looked down again, saw Wanda waving at me from down by the stage. Her voice carried without her needing to raise it. 'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine.' I said, even though it wasn't true. I shrugged half-heartedly, looked way from the two, unable to hold their gaze, even if it was one of concern.
Pietro started to offer: 'If you do not like this place, we can find another —'
'No, no, it's okay! I like it.' I shifted nervously on my feet, not comfortable in the extended amount of attention I was receiving from two utter strangers. Even if I'd just met Wanda and Pietro, even though they held the answers I needed, I just wanted to be alone again. 'You don't, um, happen to know if there's a bathroom, do you?'
'That way,' Wanda pointed to the left, towards a door against the far wall. 'There are back rooms, offices. Also a bathroom. It has running water. We checked.'
I nodded once, and couldn't get out of the room fast enough.
The hallway was lit by flickering bulbs. I was surprised the electricity still worked in a place like this. There were a dozen doorways down this long hall, with a corner at the end, and at first I was terrified of getting lost. I could still hear the twin's voices behind me. Somehow, that was more terrifying that reassuring.
Luckily, I found the bathroom quickly, and threw myself inside. All at once I was breathing hard, heart racing, head pounding. Maybe it had been this whole time and I just hadn't noticed. I slammed the door shut behind me, pressing my back against it, as if I were blocking out some terrible monster chasing me.
Then I looked up, saw the mirror, and yelped.
I didn't recognize the face staring back at me, wide-eyed and teeth bared. What I should be looking at was a small girl with sallow skin, barely five feet tall, with long blonde hair and hollowed eyes. I should see the bones in my shoulders poking out, I should see the prominence in my cheekbones, the thinness of my neck, how my head looked slightly too big for my body.
I couldn't take my eyes off the girl in the mirror. I slowly approached the sink, resting my hands on the ceramic rim — it came to my hips, when it should be at my chest. I leaned over it, peered at the face of this girl with a head that fit on her body, a neck that wasn't frail, shoulders broad and rounded with muscle. My cheeks had filled out, giving strength to my jaw, and there was a new fullness to my lips I had never seen before. They were a fresh pink, instead of the strange pale purple they'd usually been.
I knew about the short hair, but it didn't frame my face right. It came down right below my chin, the ends uneven, as if hacked at with kitchen shears. There was a thickness to it that I hadn't noticed before. Constant sickness usually made my hair brittle and dry. But this wasn't like that at all.
There was a bruise under my right eye, a cut on my chin — from my wild chase through the streets of this city? I didn't remember getting them. They didn't even hurt. I reached up, touched the tacky blood drying on my skin, and winced. Okay, it hurt. It hurt now that I knew it was there.
Not even my eyes were the same. Still the same gray, but there was something underneath them I couldn't read. And I couldn't comprehend this, the inability to read my own face, the one thing I knew for my whole life.
Then I saw the dots on my skin, sprinkled all over my face, neck, and shoulders. Wait, were those freckles? I never had freckles before!
My gaze flicked down my reflection, taking in everything one at a time. I could still feel that lump in my throat, but I momentarily forgot about it when I saw the patch of gauze peeking out from beneath my coat, hanging off my shoulder.
Looking down at myself, I pulled down the coat, took the edge of the tape with my fingers. The doctors had replaced the bandaging in the hospital while I was asleep, so I never got to look at what was underneath. It hadn't even occurred to me when I got out, I had been so preoccupied with other things.
But now I couldn't think of anything else. Slowly, I peeled off the bandage, and revealed what was underneath. I thought it would be another wound, like the bullet holes in my back.
But it wasn't.
'What the hell?' I breathed, scowling.
It was a tattoo.
A red star.
What was this? Who the hell would tag me with such a weird, random thing? There weren't even words or numbers. Just a plain red shape.
I checked in the mirror just to make sure I wasn't seeing things. But no, the tattoo was still there, a perfectly symmetrical red star imprinted permanently into my left shoulder. A good four-inches across my deltoid, it wasn't exactly subtle.
This was by far the strangest thing, at least to me. I prodded with my finger, and it came back slightly sticky. The skin was still sensitive when I touched it, raw. The tattoo was new, not more than a week old. Did I choose to do this? Why? Even if I ever wanted a tattoo (which I didn't), it sure as hell wouldn't be this. Something tickled in the back of my mind as I took it in, like the sharp ends of the star points were poking into that invisible wall blocking my memories. This was important. It meant something. But what? Why would I choose this?
Looking back down at my shoulder, I noticed something else. On my wrist, keeping the coat down, was a strange ring of beige skin, darker than the rest. I pulled it away, ran my finger along the bumpy surface of the scar. I found a similar one on my other hand.
Holding them together, it looked like I'd been cuffed. Or chained.
I stared back into the mirror. At this girl who's face was familiar, but just different enough to scare me. With the wrong hair, the wrong body, the blood and scars. The tattoo.
And that's when I realized. This was me.
This stranger was me.
Not real not real not real this isn't me it doesn't fit not my body not me who am I
I started to shake. A shuddering breath left me throat, but I clapped a hand over my mouth. No, don't do this. Not now. Now while they can hear you.
I squeezed my eyes shut, blocked out this strange creature before me. I took a deep breath, a second one, then another. I managed to keep myself calm, long enough for the swelling panic to turn into something else. Anger.
With a huff of breath, I snapped my head around, breaking eye contact with my reflection, before bursting out the door and heading straight down the hall again.
'Who are you?' I demanded, striding back into the stage hall, my fists clenched. The twins, who had been sitting on the floor, turned to me in surprise.
They exchanged bewildered looks, slowly standing up. Pietro took a half-step in front of her, his brow drawing together at my sudden aggression, as though he intended to intercept me — but I came to a stop about ten feet away. I didn't want to get too close again until I knew who I was dealing with.
I also stopped because, well, Pietro was fast, faster than I expected. That half-step seemed to be made in a quick second, before I could even register it. He seemed to move with quick, jerking movements that set me on edge. It reminded me of the druggies you'd find in the city, all strung out and high at the police station.
But it felt wrong to judge. Pietro didn't act like a tweaker, and certainly didn't look like one. Good teeth, good hair, constant alertness, a bounciness to his step. It seemed more of adrenaline junkie than a meth addict.
Wanda frowned, readjusting her shawl over her arms, giving me a nervous look up and down. 'What do you mean? You already know
who we are.'
But I just shook my head, gritting my teeth. How could I be so stupid, acting like this? Here I was, in this weird new reality, and I was just going around, following people who claimed they knew me? I was smarter than that. 'How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know I can trust you?'
'What? How can we prove that if you don't remember?' Wanda said, holding out her hands helplessly. The pain in her face was real, and I felt a strange pulling in my gut for having made it happen.
It was guilt. I didn't know this girl. Why was I making her hurt? Whether I knew her or not, I didn't want to distress her. Peter always said I could be too nice, sometimes. I never took it too seriously, since the same could be said about him.
At the thought of Peter, I grimaced. I suddenly wished he was here, I wanted to listen to his jabbering, his jokes, anything to lighten the mood and make me feel better. Peter wasn't always the best at making friends, but he always knew how to diffuse a bad situation. He'd know what to do here.
I opened my mouth to retort, when Pietro's eyes widened, and put a hand on his sister's shoulder, saying, 'Wait, wait, there was a thing. A...a password, yes? You told us once. It was...damn! What was it?'
'Oh, yes! Yes, I know what you are talking about,' Wanda nodded quickly, turning back to me, looking between them, utterly confused. She stepped forward. 'You gave us a word to use, because you were afraid of this happening to you. The...the loss, I guess. It was...it was Ohana.'
'Ohana?' I repeated, dumbfounded. It was so strange hearing a familiar word coming out of her mouth.
'Yes, ohana,' Pietro said. 'You told us how prisoners of war shared words so they knew who to trust. This is same thing, yes?'
'But you never told us what it meant.' Wanda said, frowning. The two stood together, awaiting my judgement with nervous eyes. 'What does it mean?'
'It...it means family,' I said slowly, still trying to wrap my head around this. That was the word I chose, the Other Me, the me I couldn't remember? At first, I had no idea why, but then it made sense. Of course. It was the phrase me and Peter agreed to use in case one of us was replaced by an alien imposter. 'It's from my favorite movie. Me and my cousin used to watch it all the time when we were little.'
'Family,' Pietro mused, looking down at his sister. They shared unreadable expressions, something passing between them that I couldn't understand. I knew about the concept of twins having their own languages, but this one seemed to be without the spoken word, which just made everything weirder. It almost seemed...mental. Then Pietro looked at me again, said, 'Does that mean you believe us, now?'
'I — yes,' I almost wanted to back out of it, but reluctantly admitted so. I wouldn't just hand out something like my secret trust password to just anyone. 'But why would I? Why would I tell you that? Why did you even find me?'
'Because you are our friend,' Wanda said, frowning like I was being difficult on purpose. 'You were...you were kind to us, when no one else was.'
'And you helped us escape,' Pietro added, then looked away. He worked his jaw, eyes squinting. It took me a moment to realize it might've been guilt. 'You almost died, too. Because of us. We didn't mean to leave you behind, but...'
'You told us to go!' Wanda finished earnestly, closing the space between us to grab my arms. She looked up at me, shaking as her eyes glittered. 'We did not want to, but we — there were too many of them. We were faster on our own. I wanted to come back for you, a-and we did! But you were just… gone. Pietro thought they took your body. But then I saw you, just today, in the market! I thought I was — I thought I was dreaming. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know if it was really you or…'
She didn't finish her sentence, eyes drifting from my face to some in distinct corner of the room. Wanda just shook her head, pulled away from me again. My arms tingled from where her pinching grip had held me.
'Me or...who?' What was she talking about? Who else would I be? The possibility of there actually being imposters out there with my face (my new face) suddenly didn't seem so stupid anymore. My eyebrows shot up, and I hooked a thumb over my back. 'Wait, you mean that's how I got shot? Breaking us out of...wherever we were? Wait, why were we — were we in prison or something?'
'The Crucible,' Wanda hissed, the word falling off her tongue like a curse, her eyes flashing dangerously. She turned her back to me, crossing her arms as she spit over her shoulder. Clearly, not many happy memories there. She flicked her hand in the air, almost in dismissal. 'That is where they experimented on us. And they brought you here, to Sokovia. They chose us. And now we are what we are.'
'It was bad,' Pietro added, walking over to his sister, taking her under one arm. She was rigid at first, but then leaned into him, sighing heavily. He gestured to me. 'But you got us out. They told us that the Crucible was inescapable. But you proved them wrong.'
I almost didn't hear the rest of it, because I got hung up on the word 'Sokovia'. 'Wait, I'm in Sokovia? What — how — why? Why me? How can I do any of this? I'm just...I'm just Mia. I shouldn't even look like this! Hell, I should be dead! The last memory I had was choking on my own blood and being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance! Now I'm waking up, it's six months later, and you're telling me I orchestrated a prison break-out from freaking Alcatraz-Crucible place, and then I'm running at like fifty miles an hour through the streets of some weird-ass city —'
'Novi Grad,' Pietro supplied helpfully.
'Novi Grad, whatever!' I threw up my arms, shaking my head. 'I don't care! I'm not home! Someone kidnapped me! I don't — I don't understand any of this! I know what you're saying, that you think it's true, but it can't be! I'm just a girl from Hell's Kitchen, I don't do this sort of creepy sci-fi stuff. This shouldn't be happening to me! I just — I just want my mom!'
It sounded so pathetic, coming out of my mouth. What's worse, my voice broke, and I had to cover my mouth to keep myself from crying. I squeezed my eyes shut, turned my face away, and inhaled through my nose. I hated crying in front of people, even my own family. It made me feel weak. And crying for my Mom? God, I must look pathetic to them. How could I be the person they thought I was when I cried over every single damn thing?
Swallowing at the lump in my throat and wiping away the tears, I managed to catch my breath and find my voice again. Still, I couldn't look at them when I asked, in a croaking voice, 'Is there...um, is there a phone I could use around here? I want to…'
I didn't finish, didn't want to embarrass myself further. But the two seemed to understand, and neither pushed me for any confirmation of what they said about me. There was a moroseness to their expressions now, maybe upset with the way I reacted.
Still, they didn't comment on it. Wanda directing me to an office up some stairs behind the stage. She guided me with her hand, black nail-polish chipped. I didn't look at her, couldn't, but could feel her eyes on me. What was she thinking right now? She must have realized by now that she made a big mistake, that I wasn't the same person I was before, or whatever I pretended to be before I forgot.
The office was about as well kept as anywhere else, although I noticed that the door was recently broken, thanks to the scattered dust lying around. Maybe Pietro did it. The desk had an ink mat on it, with a set of old calligraphy pens in front and two dried-out inkwells. What kind of person would use inkwells, unironically?
The phone was a rotary, too. I wondered just how old this stuff really was. This city seemed to be years behind the rest of the world.
'I'll wait for you outside,' Wanda said softly, before going back down the steps. I nodded, not realizing until later how much I'd appreciate the privacy, and how I didn't need to ask for it.
Sitting down in the cracked leather chair, I reached for the phone and brought the receiver to my ear. Hearing the dial-tone was almost like heaven, and I quickly dialed my home phone number. It was the first thing I could think of — maybe I should be calling the police, the American embassy, whatever — but first and forem
ost, I needed to hear from Mom.
Somehow, I already knew the extension number, much like how I knew to throw a punch or kick someone so hard to send them across the room. I didn't know when or where I learned it; it was just there.
I tried not to dwell on that too much.
Tapping my fingers against the desk, I listened as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. I knew as soon as it hit seven that no one was going to pick up, but I was prepared to leave a message on the answering machine. Even hearing Mom's voice on the recording would've been enough for me.
Instead, I got something else.
'We're sorry,' said the monotone female voice, in English. 'But the number you have reached has been disconnected, please try again…'
'What?' I said under my breath, surprised enough to also switch to my native tongue. I pulled the phone away from my ear to frown at it. Disconnected? How could it be disconnected? We had a landline, how could it not be connected? Was there no service? Mom wouldn't forget a payment, and the landlord wasn't a complete ass on the rare occasion she didn't make it. 'That doesn't make any sense.'
Eminent Silence Page 23
