by Ana Mardoll
The funny thing is, I'm telling the truth: I am happy. I'm not glad I was taken to the Arena, and I'll never forgive my memories being torn from me, but I've made lemonade out of my lemons. I like the person I am and learn to manage my fears. I still dream of the arena, but the nightmares are gone. No longer do I run from nameless terrors stalking me; instead I chase the creature who took us, gripping a jagged blade in my hand. When I wake, I pull Tony closer or kiss Aniyah's forehead if she's staying overnight.
Sometimes after I wake, the adrenaline doesn't let me go back to sleep. I'll stumble to the kitchen for water, and more often than not I'll run into someone on the fold-out couch. Some nights it's Miyuki, other times Justin or Christian or Reese. All the ex-fighters and prizes have a key to our apartment. The girls tend to stay in their own places and invite us over rather than dropping by to hang out at ours, but they're not complete strangers; Christian brings Chloe with him, and when Reese drops in Heather and Sappho tag along.
On nights when someone visits, I slide onto the couch beside them. We flip on the television and watch something that isn't a sea of bloody sand and bad memories. If one of us needs to cry, we hold each other until the flood has abated. Hot drinks and warm blankets are brought out when the weather turns colder. As a coping mechanism, it works for now. If we can stick together, I like to believe it'll keep working forever.
Chapter 35
Aniyah
When we're taken from the police station to John's house, we learn to our surprise that it is only John's house. Miyuki and xer mother, Yumiko, do not live there even though rooms are furnished for both of them. Yumiko rents a small studio apartment on the opposite side of town, and Miyuki lived with me in a shared two-bedroom unit near the university campus before we were kidnapped.
We're informed over dinner that John has taken over the rent on our apartment. He'd refused to allow anyone to touch our belongings beyond the cursory investigation conducted by the police at his insistence. As a result, though he doesn't know it, our old living space is now a museum showcasing lives we don't remember: hundreds of preserved exhibits ready for us to paw through in an attempt to find ourselves.
I'm grateful to John; he didn't have to pay our rent, keep our things or hound the police into filing a report. If he hadn't, Celia wouldn't have found us in the system and we wouldn't be here right now eating dinner and imagining what our old apartment might hold. Keoki's father knew he was gone but knew nothing of us, and my own parents hadn't realized I was missing until the police called them.
I'd talked with them over the phone from the station and they'd sounded relieved though not particularly worried. There was a fuzziness at the edge of their recollection, and at points in the conversation they seemed to have forgotten I'd been gone at all. My feelings might have been hurt had I not myself so thoroughly forgotten them, and their placidity has the feel of magic about it.
I believe we made the right decision in coming forward to resume our old lives, but we hit a hiccup at bedtime. John is first alarmed and then solidly disapproving when Miyuki expects me to stay in xer room overnight rather than in a guest room. Only Yumiko's intervention prevents an argument and I am given an air mattress in Miyuki's study, which is attached to xer bedroom via a connecting bathroom. Everyone pretends I'm not sneaking into xer bed the moment the lights go out, but John develops an unsettling habit of watching me over breakfast and speaking to me only when directly spoken to.
I don't mind being a shadow in their household but Miyuki is livid at my treatment and urges our immediate relocation. I'm frightened by the prospect of living on our own with no memories to guide us, but I'm more afraid my presence will cause Miyuki's relationship with xer father to deteriorate. So two weeks after we escape, John agrees to help us to move back into our apartment on the understanding that he will continue paying the rent until we're ready to go back to work. The offer seems charitable to me, but Miyuki chews xer lip and I can see xer wondering what strings might be attached.
Despite these hurdles on our course to reintegration, I know how lucky we are; Keoki, Miyuki, and I are the only ones from the arena whose families Celia has found. Until new identities can be crafted, the others are obliged to stay as guests of people like us: humans who were kidnapped and altered into half-faery creatures. Some of the altered look wild and weird and some appear as normal as we do, but all have the telltale glow of magic to my eyes. They have stories similar to ours: stripped of their memories, they were held captive until they managed to escape to the earthside world they remembered only in shards of belief and dreams.
The promised new identities are agonizingly slow to arrive, but by the two month anniversary of our escape we all have paying work and living arrangements not dependent on charity. Miyuki and I return to our old jobs while the others find work around the metroplex. They rent places of their own which I find myself visiting on a semi-regular basis. We've been through a shared experience which has knit us together regardless of personality or preference, though I notice it takes longer for some of the girls to warm to the boys than it does for Miyuki and myself. This is another manner in which we're lucky, I know; we weren't harmed in the same ways the other girls were. I try not to take our fortune for granted.
Tony is the first to find his own place. We visit the apartment when he first rents it, bringing a potted basil plant to place in the kitchen window. Looking around the empty rooms, Miyuki notes with a wry grin that he's rented an awfully big place for a single guy. Tony ignores xer and offers me another slice of the pizza he's ordered from the place down the street, some little hole-in-the-wall joint that he swears makes the only proper pizza in the city. Keoki moves in with him two weeks later when his dad goes back to Hawaii, and Miyuki pretends innocent surprise at this development before shooing me out the door to visit.
"Wouldn't you like to come with?" We haven't talked about our relationship since the escape, not wanting to poke at a good thing that seemed to be working. My palms are sweating and already I feel pangs of guilt. I do want to go, but not if it would mean losing Miyuki.
Xie just laughs and flops onto the couch. "I'd rather watch television, take a hot bath, and go to bed early," xie says, rolling xer eyes over a teasing smirk. "See you tomorrow, Aniyah."
I push away the worst of the guilt while playing with Keoki and Tony, and the kisses I receive in the morning from Miyuki dissolve the last traces of worry. "Just don't plan to stay overnight when Justin and Matías get a place together," xie teases, stripping me down for a second shower. "I don't think your boys could handle the competition." I laugh and don't stop until xie covers my mouth with kisses.
Xie turns out to be wrong; Justin moves in with Imani. She says she needed a roommate while finding a medical school to attend and that Justin promised to behave. She hands me a cup of blueberry tea from the microwave and I watch her joyful face as she tells me about schooling options in the area. She's more animated than ever before, and I'm so relieved the healers were able to soothe the burns she suffered during our escape. Her lovely brown skin bears no blemish and she glitters with magic as she talks.
"You know you can always crash with us, don't you?" I tell her when I can get a word in edgewise. "Any time, no matter what." I want to ask if she's sure about this move; after all, Justin is one of the fighters, and much taller than she. Looking into her bright eyes, however, I already know the answer.
"I know," she says, giving me a warm grin and reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Thank you. I'll be fine, really. I know how to take care of myself."
Justin seems sanguine about their living situation, though I don't know him well enough to ask. I can see him from the tiny kitchen where Imani and I sit, sprawled out on their couch with his leg propped up as he watches his phone. His wounds have healed, but every so often his hand drifts to his cheek where the bear mauled him or rubs absently at his knee. His eyes are calm, but I wonder if some part of him needs reassurance that all his limbs are present and fun
ctioning.
He speaks at a lull in the conversation, without looking up from his phone. "If you're going to Chloe's place any time soon, tell Christian he has to pay his half of the Netflix subscription before I'll give him the password. No movies for them until then, and no, I don't feel bad even a little."
I roll my eyes even though he isn't watching. "I only go there every other week, but I'll tell him if I see him."
Chloe did the same as Tony and rented an apartment bigger than she needed; the only thing stopping Christian from moving in on the first day was Chloe herself. She kept him waiting three weeks after she signed the lease while he lived in Celia's house and occasionally fretted over her impending decision. When she did make the offer for him to move in, it was without fanfare: she showed up at Celia's and asked whether he wanted her to carry his bags. The way he tells it, he gave her a winning grin and said he'd be much obliged.
She's the one who takes us shopping for clothes, and I'm grateful for all the assistance I can get. Finding outfits that don't hurt my back is a challenge, but Chloe is determined we'll find what I need or die trying. "It's not that I don't love him," she tells me from the other side of the dressing-room door, as I struggle to pull a new dress over my head without snagging my hair. "You know I do; but over there I had no choice at all. I needed to be sure this was my decision and not just what I was used to."
"I understand," I tell her, my voice muffled in the closeness of the stall, but I'm not entirely sure I do. I think of Christian and how kind he'd been to me, how he made me feel warm all over yet wouldn't press further without my agreement. I can't imagine him making me feel like I didn't have a choice—but maybe it's not about him at all. We woke in that place without any sense of ourselves, and were told to obey orders or suffer the consequences. Choice was taken away from us by the Master, and maybe there was only so much the boys could do to give it back.
"Besides," she adds, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes, "if I'd let him move in right away, he'd have slipped immediately into boyfriend mode. I don't want a boyfriend just yet! I've got loads of options for lovers if I want, and I'm still deciding when and where to take them on my terms. I love everything about him and me and us together but I'm not like Hana, you know? Come out so I can see how it looks."
"No, the zipper is stuck and everything is hot and sticky. I swear the air conditioning is broken. Anyway, no one is like Hana. Did you hear she got a job in banking? Just walked into an interview and lied her face off."
The story quickly becomes legend in our group for its sheer audacity. After landing an entry job in banking through a combination of guts and blatant bald-faced lying about her experience, Hana rents a cozy little apartment all to herself and takes up kickboxing on nights and weekends. After her first session the teacher moves her up from basic self-defense to advanced classes whilst scolding her for not mentioning having previous experience under her belt.
I visit the gym hoping to catch up with her after a bout and am amazed to find her grinning from ear to ear, happier than I've ever seen her. "Wow, Hana, you look great! Positively glowing, even."
"That's the sweat," she observes with a laugh, rubbing down her hair with a towel. "Did you see me, though? Pretty sure I've been taking classes since I was a kid. I've got a weird eclectic range with some gaps, which suggests I jumped around between teachers. Would make sense if my family moved around a lot, like an army brat or traveling sales or something. Not sure yet, but I'm getting a handle on it. Training for the Olympics right now, though that's gonna take some time."
I stare at her, wondering if I've misheard. "You're training for the Olympics? Like, to compete? Uh, Hana, how is that supposed to work? You're not exactly legally you."
She shrugs and looks unconcerned. "I'll figure something out when I get there. Who knows? By that time I may have found my family. You and Miyuki were the first, but there's no reason you should be the last. Have you talked to Sappho? She's trying to run hers down through a tattoo artist grapevine. Thinks she might have found a friend of a friend who recognizes her ink, but she isn't sure." She dabs moisture from her brow and shakes her head in exasperation. "Not sure her head's really in the search right now, given how distracted she is with Reese."
I hadn't heard this new angle to the drama of Sappho, but it doesn't surprise me in the least. On coming out earthside, she'd been briefly distraught to learn that the name tattooed on her skin was not her own but that of a famous poet whose words she'd borrowed. She'd locked herself sobbing in her room before deciding she preferred using a name she'd chosen rather than one given at birth. She was determined to share this trait with Reese, who seemed bemused by the attention but agreed that, yes, her silver-beaded name was probably her own choice, at least as far as she knew. Sappho had been delighted and—after pointing out that Heather's name wasn't hers by birth either—had insisted the three of them rent an apartment together and make a fresh start.
Sappho apprentices at a local tattoo parlor where she turns out to have a steady hand with a needle. She stumbles onto a quote which she wants to ink above my scar where it bends around my side and up my shoulder: 'scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real'. I laugh and tell her I'll think about it. I'm glad to see Sappho finding joy and throwing herself into life. She'd seemed so broken after Lucas hurt her, and I hadn't been sure whether his death would help or harm. I didn't blame her for what she'd done, and anyone who might have had lingering doubts on the subject came round real fast once Hana made it clear that a problem with one of us was a problem with all of us. Before long, Christian and Keoki and Tony were frequent visitors in the three girls' spacious apartment, stealing food and hogging the television and generally being a puppyish underfoot nuisance while watching sports and reminiscing with Reese.
I'd had little interaction with Reese in captivity, but she seems happy to be out. Instead of getting a car like the rest of us, she buys a used motorcycle and never looks happier than when she's in her leathers, helmet under her arm and ready to ride. She finds work with a local team of women roofers, figuring her impenetrable skin might be an asset in an industry noted for sharp nails and staple guns—and it's not like she isn't already accustomed to working in the midday heat. Heather also takes a job with the roofers but stays inside answering phones and being a pretty face for the customers; if asked, she always says in her wry drawl that she's sweated enough for one lifetime.
Like her roommates, Heather seems healthier now, even if she shows her contentedness in smaller, less obvious ways. She takes an interest in her wardrobe once she has money to spend, focusing on a variety of fabric textures now that her skin can once more feel sensation. She glows less strongly than the rest of us since our escape. At one of our group meetings, Celia confirms what I noticed after our escape: she believes Heather lost some of her magic while powering the portal that brought us over. Heather is close to ecstatic at this announcement. "Good riddance to bad rubbish," she declares, heading to the potluck table to shamelessly beg the remaining half of an apple pie to take home with her roommates.
The one person who never visits the girls' apartment is Handler. Maybe he feels he wouldn't be welcome, though I notice he doesn't socialize much at all. He attends the meetings because Celia says we ought to in that tone of hers that deters argument, but he doesn't talk during open-microphone time and he never lingers around the potluck tables after the meeting is adjourned. Many of the other altereds avoid him, disliking the fear that still rolls from his body like an ever-present cloak, though I notice a couple of the less savory of our peers go out of their way to give him a kind word. He's polite and nods at their attempts at conversation, but even in their company he never looks comfortable.
Through the grapevine, I hear Handler finds a house of his own to rent. I don't ask where the money comes from, but I can't imagine what he could do for a living when even humans avoid him. I write down his address, shove the paper into my purse, and fret for days over wheth
er to visit him. I've gone to see every other member of our group when they found a place, so why should he be any different? He was a captive like the rest of us, even if we didn't know that until the end, and he helped us escape. There's no reason for me to avoid him, not really. Eventually I pick up some cheap cupcakes at the grocery store and drive over there, gripping the steering wheel tightly, determined not to think too hard about what I'm doing.
His face is as inscrutable as ever, but I think he's surprised to find me on his step. The etched lines in his skin failed to respond to Lynn's healing, so the fearful whorls and strange patterns still remain for altered eyes to see. Humans see only the weathered lines of hard living and a tight squint of eyes against the light. At least he is able to open his eyes, as the throbbing darkness behind his lids drained away in the portal, but his pupils are too big and dark and his squinting gaze unsettlingly direct.
"Can I... help you?" There is hesitation in his voice, the sound of someone who knows they have nothing to offer. I almost wince in sympathy, but I don't want him to see pain on my face when I'm certain he'd misinterpret the emotion. So instead I smile and pretend nothing is wrong.
"I brought you some cupcakes," I tell him, shoving the pastries forward to create a barrier between us. "As a house-warming present." The silence stretches out as he stares at me in confusion. "I bought them," I add helplessly, as if the plastic container festooned with stickers wasn't a dead giveaway. "I still don't know how to— The oven in the apartment is a little touchy."
I'm drowning in awkwardness, and perhaps my distress is what rouses him to save me. Carved hands reach to take the gift from my grip and he nods solemnly. "Thank you." Another long stretch of silence follows, punctuated by the pounding of my heart as I breathe in the familiar fear, stale and old, like ancient cologne seeped into his clothes. "Would you like to come in? I have milk."
