by Anna Day
She moves her hand so it rests just above my heart. “Why, Violet? Why did you do those things?”
I speak with no hesitation. “To help the Imps.”
“Yes!” she shouts. “You have become so much more than Rose. You care about a cause, about justice. That is why I betrayed you. That is why I told the president where you would be. You needed to see the atrocities, experience the barbarity of the Gems firsthand, in order to become a true Imp—an Imp who would stand up and fight for her people. Because only an act of true love and true sacrifice can complete the canon. This has always been a love story, Violet. But for you, it’s about a greater love than the love between two people.”
I tear my eyes from the screen and look at her. The apple of her irises is even greener against the beige of my living room. “Nate died so I could become a true Imp?”
A tear trickles down her face, funneled through a lattice of wrinkles. “I’m so sorry. My powers lack precision sometimes—some things, I fail to see.”
A rush of unexpected sympathy passes through me. I know how it feels to fail, after all. I change the topic from Nate, for both our sakes. “But when I hang, Alice will return to our world and write a pro-Gem sequel. The Imps lose, no matter what.”
“Perhaps.”
“Can I stop her? Is there a way?”
“When Alice returns to your world, she won’t remember the past week. None of you will. Perhaps the odd echo, a fragment here or there, more like a dream. But your experiences will stay with you. The sequel Alice writes will be shaped by her experiences.”
“There’s nothing I can do?”
“All is not lost, Violet. There’s still time for you both to find your way. Perhaps you are not the only one capable of self-sacrifice and love.”
“What does that even mean?”
She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Self-sacrifice. Love. They will mean something different to Alice, I’m sure. But they remain at the core of every great story, even hers.”
I have so many questions, so many uncertainties buzzing in my head, but she closes her eyes and begins to sing.
“Count the thistles, one, two, three,
Soon the Imps will all be free.”
The Imp skipping song. I open my mouth to ask her what relevance it has, but the colors of the living room begin to smudge together and the ground beneath my feet seems to fade.
“Count the thistles, four, five, six,
Take up your guns, your stones and sticks.”
She takes my hands in hers. The sound of the television turns to static. The smell of casserole turns to antiseptic and detergent.
“The ash trees turn from green to red,
Spring has gone, the summer’s dead.”
“Wait,” I cry, trying to snatch one last glance at my parents. But they have already gone. I can see only blackness, and I can hear nothing but those final lines.
“Count the minutes, not the hours,
’Cause hope starts as a little flower.”
TODAY I WILL hang.
I will hang for my friends, my family, and, above all else, love. But not for the love of one man. No, I will hang for more than that. I will hang for the love of my people. For the love of the Imps. For Ash, Saskia, and Matthew. For Katie and Nate … even Alice. For every imperfect fluke of nature who has the right to call themselves a human being.
A team of flamboyant, manicured stylists arrive in my cell just like they did in canon. They attack me with powders and blushers and various paints, stick bits to my eyelashes, paint my nails, buff my skin till it glows. They look me up and down with probing, critical eyes, and I fidget beneath my robe.
One of the stylists smiles, causing her red lipstick to crack. “Well, she certainly looks a little less ape.”
I guess Stoneback doesn’t trust Willow to declare his love if I look like a dirty street rat. They shove some underwear in my hands and watch me try and slip it on under my robe. I’ve only just secured it when they yank off my gown and wrap this metallic girdle around my waist. It seems to contract of its own accord, forcing my stomach into my chest. They squeeze my breasts into this magic bra that adds two cup sizes. This definitely didn’t happen to Rose. In spite of my impending death, I still feel a little annoyed that my figure needs more help than hers. I pull on my overalls and look in the mirror. I barely recognize myself.
Two guards arrive. I remember them from canon. They clutch my shoulders with rough hands and propel me across a large concrete expanse toward the hovercraft. The sun has reached its highest point in the sky, glinting off the metal of the craft and the loops of barbed wire that crown the barricades. I frantically search for Ash, but he is nowhere to be seen.
They shove me up the ramp into the craft.
“Dead man walking,” one of the guards says.
“Dead ape walking, more like,” the other replies.
The craft looks just like the one from canon. The air feels cold, tainted with the tang of antiseptic and gunpowder. They lead me to the holding cell at the back of the craft and slide back the door. That’s when I see him, the curve of his neck, the point where the black of his hair meets the white of his skin. Ash. His arms are raised high, his wrists pinned to a metal rail, and in that instant, he reminds me of a bird, wings outstretched.
The guards cuff me in the same manner, forcing me onto my tiptoes, the metal cuffs slicing through my skin. The door slides into position and we sway to the rhythm of the hovercraft, side by side.
The stylists seem to have bypassed him completely. His hair looks matted with dirt and blood, and his bruises are really starting to come out; a swirl of purples and yellows wrapping around his left eye like a bizarre monocle. I nuzzle deep into his neck; his skin and overalls retain the stench of the river and his skin feels clammy and hot against my forehead. But when I finally look up into his face, his eyes remain the coolest of powder blues. I feel a moment of peace, nestled into him. I think briefly of Rose, standing in this cell alone, traveling to her death with no company, and I feel sad for her.
He kisses my temple, so gently I barely feel it. “I’m so sorry, Violet. If I hadn’t followed you, you would never have told Thorn about the Meat House … None of this would have happened.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
He exhales suddenly, and I can tell from the acidity of his breath that he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything since our arrest. I feel a pang of guilt, thinking about my shower and tray of hot food.
I push my wrists along the rail and manage to stroke my finger against the back of his hand. “Try not to worry. I promise everything’s going to be OK.”
He smiles his lopsided smile, the skin on his lips splitting in the center. “Who says I’m worried?” He tries to look brave, I think for my sake, but his voice sounds like a fragile version of itself and a tear hangs on his eyelashes. It looks like a drop of oil, refracting the colors of the bruising.
All I want to do is make him feel a little better, to try and ease the pain. I kiss his lips, the chapped skin rough against my own. “I wish I could somehow explain, but this isn’t the end for either of us.”
“I didn’t realize you were the spiritual type.”
“It’ll be over so quickly, and then …”
“And then?”
I push my lips against his ear, all pale and curved like a seashell. “If I told you, you would think I’m completely mad, but nothing is as it seems.”
He turns to me, his nose bumping into my cheek. “You’ve already told me you’re a time-traveling assassin, what could possibly trump that?”
My mouth finds his again. And I feel every indentation of his lips, the one-off pattern of ridges. Like swirls in a fingertip. I think I might cry again, so I pull away.
He smiles. “Hope starts with a Little Flower.”
The lines of the poem turn over and over in my head. I feel like I’m missing something, something really important, but every time I come close, it sinks from view.
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nbsp; He sees the confusion on my face and says, “What I mean is, the world came to life when I met you.”
The clasp of grief tightens around my throat again—a reminder of further loss. I speak earnestly, a touch of desperation brightening my words. “Have you ever had any feelings of déjà vu? Any echoes or reflections, like you’ve already lived your life?”
His brow knots. “Are you getting all spiritual again?”
I try to mask the disappointment. But it feels like my chest has been punctured with something sharp and long and unforgiving. When I die, when the canon resets, he won’t remember me.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter.” I study every line on his face, every pore, every fleck in those winter eyes, trying to burn his image into my retinas, because an even more heartbreaking thought has arrived.
I won’t remember him, either.
THE HOVERCRAFT BEGINS to descend, and we hear an odd purring noise. It grows and grows until it becomes an angry buzz.
“It’s the crowd,” Ash says.
I’d forgotten about the crowd. Chanting, shouting, pushing—a seething mass of bloodthirsty Gems. Baying for the blood of the Imps. Me and Ash. The craft lands and it feels like the crowd surrounds us, hollering through the blacked-out windows, pounding on the metal panels with their fists.
A guard approaches us. He looks straight at Ash. “You’re in luck, gutter monkey. The president wants a single hanging today—says it will have more impact, whatever the hell that means.”
My body floods with relief. Of course the president only wants me on that stage. In canon, there was only Rose. Stoneback wants those two pieces of thread as closely bound as possible, ensuring the cycle is completed and Alice returns home. I know Ash wouldn’t have died for real—he would have woken up at the beginning of the story, back in Ma’s kitchen, stirring soup—but I’m still glad he doesn’t have to go through all that pain. All that pain. I think I may puke.
“No, wait,” Ash says. “You want a single hanging, then hang me.”
The guards don’t listen. They unclick his handcuffs.
“Wait, please,” he cries. “Hang me, not Violet.”
“Don’t worry.” The guard laughs. “You’ll see your girlfriend from the Imp-pen.”
“No, please, no.” Ash strains against the guard, but he’s no match for the burly Gem physique. He looks me in the eye. “I love you, Violet.”
The emotional part of my brain dislodges like a jigsaw piece, and I find that I know things, yet no longer feel them. Ash is telling me he loves me. My Ash. Yet I feel empty … lost. In less than an hour, we won’t know each other. We will be strangers divided by more than a few lies, more than a wall or a forest of brambles; we will be divided by an entire universe, a shift in time, complete memory loss. Our love story is to become a tragedy, just like Rose and Willow’s. I appreciate this irony, even in my dissociated state.
Ash repeats the words over and over as he’s dragged from the craft. “I love you, Violet. I love you.” They fade into the roar of the crowd until I can’t hear him anymore.
He’s gone.
This thought snaps me from my inertia. That dislodged part of my brain falls right back into place and I no longer hover. The reality of the situation smashes into me: I will never see Ash again.
“I love you, too,” I shout back.
But I’m too late.
A GUARD UNFASTENS MY cuffs. My anxiety causes his features to blur together, but I see the glint of hate in his eye, sharp and clear. He drags me to the door and I prepare myself for the crowd, but when the doors slide back, I see only gray. The craft has landed in the city, beside the Coliseum. They want me to walk through the Imp gates, the gates of the condemned. Just like in canon.
I step from the craft and the stench of rotting bird hits me. For a brief moment, my heart soars. I take a moment to absorb my surroundings. I can see the walls of the Coliseum a hundred or so yards away. But I can’t see Ash. He must already be in the Imp-pen. And I see no other Imps. I guess they’ve squeezed into their hovels, watching the proceedings on scavenged television sets. I search for the city gates, but a swarm of armed guards obscures my view—bumping up against me, sweeping me along so I become part of a single, khaki entity.
From the other side of the wall, a shiny fanfare erupts. In ten minutes, I will hang. My legs stop working and the guards have to pull me along, my feet dragging behind me like two simian hands, as if I really am an ape. I reach the gates and they push me into an upright position. One of the flamboyant stylists appears. He wipes cotton swabs beneath my eyes, rubs oil on my lips, combs out my hair.
I hear President Stoneback’s reedy voice rising above the Coliseum walls. He says the exact words from canon. Only this time, he’s talking about me.
“Welcome to the Gallows Dance, fellow Gems. We are about to witness the death of Imp number 753811. A Night-Imp who used her animalistic ways to trick an upstanding young Gem into thinking he might have feelings for her. A Night-Imp who seduced and lied her way into a young Gem’s heart in order to access government secrets. A dirty little spy. Trying to bring down the Gems, trying to destroy our way of life.”
The crowd roars.
They all step away from me—the stylist, the foot soldiers. I sway on the spot, shivering in my overalls, staring at the impenetrable metal gates. I start to shake uncontrollably, worse than when they pulled me from the river, and I think my heart may be about to burst.
The president’s voice again: “So let’s meet this temptress, this spy.”
The gates begin to open. The crowd falls silent. I watch the slice of colorful Gem world expand and expand until it is all I can see. And despite the terror pulsing around my body, I still appreciate the irony that my very own black moment should be so filled with Gem color. Densely pigmented suits of emeralds and scarlets, glossy sheets of hair, every color of skin from porcelain to ebony. Yet every face looks the same. Symmetrical, perfect, and hungry for retribution.
The silence holds. I stand perfectly still, just breathing and blinking and staring right back at them. I realize how much I hate them. And it surprises me how intense the emotion feels—more consuming than love, a physical thing radiating from me in waves. And that lacquered Russian-doll shell is back, encasing me like armor plating, holding me upright, delivering strength to my legs, my arms, all of me.
They want a hanging? I will give them a hanging.
“And here she is, ladies and gentlemen. Guilty on two accounts. Relations with a Gem and high treason. It’s a shame we can’t hang her twice.”
The crowd laughs. I begin to take strong, hate-driven strides toward the stage. I hear Nate’s voice in my head and smile. Balls of steel. Balls of steel.
I don’t look at the noose or at Ash in the Imp-pen. I can’t risk cracking my armor or blurring my clarity of purpose. I try not to think of the helicopter, the giant bonfire lighting up the faces of the rebels only last night. Nate by my side, his excited face. I just keep staring at the mass of brilliant, symmetrical eyes.
In the crowd, standing near the front, I see Willow, his face clenched by an unknown emotion that hovers somewhere between fear and love. Next to him is Alice, her hands playing nervously around her neck. And I realize I hate her, too.
The hangman stands—a pillar of black—his hand cupped over the lever. I know that my armor won’t let me down. I won’t fall to pieces. Resolve hardens inside me and brings a welcome sense of calm. I climb the steps onto the wooden stage, stand on the trapdoor, and let the hangman place the noose around my neck. I don’t know why, perhaps a last grasp at some sort of comfort to get me through the next five minutes, but my hand falls upon the chain in my pocket. I squeeze it as tightly as I can. There’s no place like home.
The president speaks again. “Imp. Your crimes are punishable by death.”
I look at Alice. Her eyes fill with tears, her upper lip covered with snot. She just can’t bear to see the canon completed, can�
�t bear to leave this godforsaken place. She has no idea that when she returns home, she will be used by the president to serve the Gems by writing a pro-Gem sequel for the Fandom. My jaw clenches, the empty feeling in my chest almost unbearable. I look away, and that’s when I see them, standing in the Imp-pen. Not just Ash, but Saskia and Katie, too.
Katie looks beyond anxious, her knuckles white and threatening to slice through her skin as she runs her fingers through the red of her hair. We make eye contact and she manages a wink, like she’s back in that classroom, listening to my presentation. Saskia looks devastated. Grief pulls her features together and tears drip from her chin. I fleetingly think how pretty she looks with all the anger bled from her face.
Next, I look at Ash. I wish I’d told him the truth, however crazy it would have sounded. I wish I’d told him about Comic-Con and the alternate universe and Willow and Alice … about everything. But most of all, I wish he’d heard me when I told him I love him. Even if we live the rest of our lives oblivious to each other’s existence, at least for the tiniest of moments I could have looked into those gorgeous eyes and seen the truth reflected back at me.
The drumroll begins. Just like in canon. I turn to Willow. Any second now he will vault over the barrier and onto the stage, declaring his love for me. The drumroll gathers speed. Any second now … But he stands completely still, his hands trembling, his eyes closed.
My stomach falls away, my heart jackknifes. It never occurred to me that Willow would freeze. If he doesn’t say his lines, if the canon isn’t completed, who knows what will happen. I will probably die on this rope, and this universe and everyone in it—Ash, Saskia, Katie, even Alice—will just cease to be.
The drumroll builds, and yet Willow still doesn’t move. His eyes remain firmly closed, his lips vibrating slightly like he’s muttering a prayer. Perhaps it was the extra time he spent with Rose, fleeing across the Imp city, that solidified his feelings of love for her. Perhaps the fact he now stands beside Alice, a beautiful and fun replacement, weakens his resolve. Or perhaps current-Willow—my Willow—really is weaker than canon-Willow. Whatever the reason, I’ve failed. Hot tears stream down my face. I feel defeated, lost. All of this, everything, was for nothing.
