Rain on Neptune

by Lisa Jade

  The night air was supposed to be refreshing. It was meant to snap me back to reality, calm the burning in my face and help me see straight again. But as I pace the garden path and stagger a little at the front gate, I find it does little to help. The cool breeze isn’t entirely unpleasant, but the air catches at the loose skin of my still-exposed wound, sending tiny shivers of pain down my arm. I should have wrapped it back up.

  For a moment, I stare down the street. In one direction is the shaft for the Elevator. Where it happened. The other way leads to the Drop-off. My stomach churns briefly, warning me away from either direction. With my feet so unsteady neither is ideal, but I can’t stay in that bed for a moment longer or I’ll go mad.

  I set my jaw and make a beeline for the Drop-off.

  I’ve never been afraid of the Drop-off before. All of it, even the gentle shift as the Level swings on its hinges – it’s always been natural to me. Just another automatic reaction. Adjusting my steps by a half-inch has always been easy. But now, I stumble at the slightest movement. I try to fixate on the edge in hopes that it will steady me, but my vision’s too blurry. Not only that, but it’s especially dark tonight. There are no glimmers of light on the horizon, no reflections of the cities on the mainland. Out here, away from the relative protection of Four, I can hear the roar of a distant oceanic storm growing nearer.

  Even so, I manage to hook the toes of my bare feet over the edge to anchor myself. Guilt swirls in my gut. If Dad knew where I was, he’d be heartbroken. After everything I’ve put him through, this is the worst thing I could do. But I have to.

  Cherise cannot have died for nothing. I cannot have suffered for nothing.

  And I look up, fixing my gaze on the sky. Show me. Show me the wonderful sights I’ve been sneaking out to see nearly every night. Show me the inky canvas that inspired me to where I’d do anything to touch it.

  Nothing.

  Maybe my eyes are too blurry. Perhaps the storm is too close, and the clouds are blocking them out. But no matter how hard I look, I can’t see a single star.

  I know it doesn’t matter. The stars will be back tomorrow. Just because I can’t go and see them up close, doesn’t mean I’ve lost them.

  But suddenly it’s a little harder to breathe, and I realise that I’m crying. The tears are hot against my cheek and when I breathe out, my breath forms a tiny cloud around my face.

  This is it, isn’t it? It’s enough that I’ve been Branded. It’s enough that I’ve lost a friend. But to lose this…

  I bury my face in my hands. I’m so selfish. Somewhere on Four is a family that’s lost their daughter, sister, niece – but I’m only thinking about myself. But I just can’t help it. I was willing to give up everything for this. Even if it meant hurting my father and bringing around a slew of new rumours. I never asked for anything else. This was the only thing I ever wanted. And now I’ll never get it.

  Cherise thought I could do it. When my own Dad didn’t want me to go, Cherise handed me a lens and told me I could. She wanted me to bring her back something awesome.

  I’m never going to get chance to repay her now.

  The tears come faster now, fuelling my headache. I stumble a little as the Level begins to shift. The storm has caught up with us. My eyes snap open, catching sight of heavy rain and a fork of lightning.

  Who’s screaming? The stranger’s voice is an agonising mix of grief and anger, tinged with physical pain. Someone else’s legs wobble beneath me, staggering towards the edge. Unfamiliar eyes are drenched with tears, gaze swinging down towards the black depths of the ocean. Who is this person around me?

  “Quinn!”

  Skinny hands lock around my stomach, pulling me away from the edge before I lose my balance. We slip in the wet and collapse in a soaking heap. I try to pull away, but it’s no good. I don’t have any fight left in me.

  Finally, I recognise the figure holding me.

  “Dad…”

  “What were you thinking coming here?!”

  I’ve never heard his voice like this before. It’s raw, furious. Like he’s been pushed to the edge. He grips my shoulders hard enough to hurt, anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Why did you sneak out?! I came to check on you and you were gone. How did you even get out here in your state? I was terrified, Quinn! I thought you were going to fall!”

  He trails off, a little breathless. I get it. Something tells me that I should comfort him, tell him I’m fine – but I can’t. I just stare dully at him, unable to bring myself to move.

  “You even ripped off the bandage?” he gasps, “what were you thinking?”

  He shakes me a little.

  “We need to go back and call the Doctor. Do you think you can you walk?”

  I don’t respond. I can’t even look him in the eye.

  “Quinn, please. Speak to me.”

  “I can’t.”

  My voice is frail, barely more than a whisper, but he hears me over the wind.

  “Y-you can’t walk?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  The tears rush back in an instant, making it harder to breathe. I pull away.

  “I just can’t.”

  His expression softens.

  “Hey, now. It seems bad right now, but things will get better.”

  I force myself to look him in the face, unnerved as always by the similarities in our faces.

  “Cherise is dead.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve been Branded. I can never go on the Neptune.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you get it? Nothing will ever be okay again.”

  And then I break down, collapsing into a sobbing heap. Nothing will bring her back, or unscar me, or restore my childish dream. Nothing will fix this.

  “Quinn.”

  Dad envelops me in an embrace and pulls me close. For a moment I’m a child, wrapped in the protective arms of my Dad, crying over a broken toy or something equally pathetic. But there’s something about it that calms me. This isn’t some random stranger. It’s Dad. I sink into his shoulder, still weeping.

  “When your mother left,” Dad mutters, “I was broken. She left on that ship and promised she’d come back to us. So when she didn’t return, except to disown us, I thought nothing could ever make me happy again.”

  I pause, still leaning against him. I’ve never heard this story before; not from his point of view. He’s always been so careful not to mention her.

  “I went through all the things I must have done wrong. I must have given her less than she deserved, or treated her poorly. I was certain that it was my fault, that you would grow up without a mother because of me. I thought I’d never feel happy again.”

  He pulls back, gently wiping my face with a sleeve.

  “Do you know what snapped me out of it?”

  “What?”

  “You. The day Alice’s parents died, I watched you walk into the middle of town and comfort her. That girl had just lost everything she had, but you tried to help her.”

  I nod. I remember.

  “And I realised,” he whispers, “that if you could be happy without her, then so could I. And I did. My daughter – and later, daughters – became my joy.”

  He nudges a lock of hair from my face and smiles.

  “I know it hurts. But you’re strong – stronger than I was, at least. You’ll find another reason to be happy, and some day it will be just as important to you as the stars ever were.”

  I don’t know what to say to that; so I allow Dad to scoop me up and lead me towards home.

  Six

  Three hundred and seventy-two. That’s how many knots are in the wooden panelling of my bedroom. The first time I counted them, I didn’t realise what I was doing until I hit two fifty. At that point, I’d felt compelled to continue.

  In the six months since the ‘incident’ – as we refer to it – I’ve scarcely left this room. Whole days fly by while I sit on the floor, my back pressed against the bedframe.
r />   For the first few weeks, Dad and Alice pleaded with me to step outside. Just a walk into town. Just into the street. Just down the garden path. Their expectations shrank with each rejection, and it didn’t take long for them to stop asking altogether.

  It’s not that I don’t want to go outside. Today looks beautiful. I can feel the warmth even through the closed curtains. For a moment, I consider reaching up to open them – but I stop myself. If I dare show my face to the world, then I’ll have to see their expressions.

  I can already imagine them. People will look at me with fury at my crimes and pity at my pain. Their eyes will slip to my arm, and their brows will furrow as they guess at what the scar looks like. I can’t have that.

  Unbidden, my eyes travel downward. Despite the warm weather, I haven’t rolled up my left sleeve. The wound is long healed now, just a silver-white scar against damaged skin, but it’s still terrible. I gently peel back the cuff of my shirt. There’s no heat in the burn nowadays. No pain, either. I think the Branding damaged some nerves. The whole limb is numb; just like me.

  Still, it’s too visible. There’s no way to hide it. And frankly, I don’t want to see it myself. I tug the sleeve back down and sigh, settling back onto the floor.

  Someone knocks the door.

  “Quinn. Lunch time.”

  Alice takes a hesitant step into the room. Her hair is scraped back into a headband, and she’s wearing marigolds again. She squints around the dark room, then finds me.

  “It’s so dark in here,” she huffs, “shall I open the curtains?”

  “It’s fine. I’m just relaxing.”

  The lie slips out far too easily. I’ve spent the past few months pretending that I’m coping better than I am. It’s better if Alice doesn’t know that I just counted the knots for the seventeenth time. I’m not sure if she buys my story – but she strides over and rips open the curtains, flooding the room with blinding light.

  “Ow! What the hell?”

  “It’s the middle of the day. Come downstairs and eat lunch with us.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She glares.

  “Get your ass downstairs. Now.”

  “Why? I don’t want lunch.”

  “It’s bad enough that you’ve become a hermit. I’m not letting you starve, too.”

  I stand up and dust myself down, carefully avoiding her gaze.

  “I am not a hermit.”

  “When was the last time you went outside?”

  “Last week,” I say firmly, “I took out the trash.”

  “Well done. You walked down the garden path. Congratulations.”

  I shake my head, ignoring how heavy my hair feels. I keep forgetting to wash it lately – something I rarely skipped before. It feels unimportant these days.

  “I thought you were at work today,” I finally say.

  “I booked the day off. I thought you might need some help preparing for tomorrow.”

  I pause.

  “Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?”

  Sadness crosses her face.

  “Tomorrow is the Neptune’s launch.”

  I pause, one hand still wrapped in my greasy hair.

  The Neptune. It feels like a lifetime ago that I dreamt of walking through its glamorous hallways, staring out across the glass deck of the ship and reaching out a hand to the nearby stars. There was a time where that was all I wanted, when I had been willing to throw aside everything for a chance at it.

  Nobody’s mentioned it since the incident, and I’ve been carefully avoiding thinking about it. I knew it was impossible – as finalised by the letter I received, telling me I was no longer eligible for the Scheme – so I suppose I just closed my mind off from it. I slump down on the bed.

  “What about it?”

  “I figured you’d want to go and watch the launch,” she says, “so I came by to help you get ready. I don’t even think you have clean clothes to wear outside.”

  “Why do you think I’d want to go? It means nothing to me.”

  Alice hesitates for a moment, then drops down next to me.

  “That’s not true. It means everything to you.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Look, I think this will help you.”

  I meet her gentle gaze.

  “How?”

  “Maybe if you see the Neptune leave without you, you’ll finally feel some closure. Maybe you’ll be able to move on.”

  I bite my lip. That seems like the last thing I should do. It hurts to think about watching the Neptune fade into the distance; the weight of all my dreams being snatched away. But Alice has always known me better than I knew myself. Perhaps she’s onto something.

  I sigh.

  “Even if you’re right, I can’t go out there.”

  “People understand. I’ve spoken to them – most are worried for you. It’s been six months since you’ve shown your face to anyone except me and Dad. People are… expecting something from you.”

  Her brows furrow at that, her face filled with unspoken meaning. I choose not to ask.

  “I just don’t have the courage. What if we see Cherise’s parents, or her brother? I can’t imagine what I would say to them. What they must think of me.”

  Conflict crosses her face for a moment, and then she leans forward, snatching a lock of hair from my shoulder. It takes a moment for me to realise what she’s doing.

  “W-why are you…”

  “Shh,” she coos, “if you distract me, you’ll end up with a crooked knot.”

  I stare into the bright light still streaming through the window and allow her to work. I don’t fully understand. A loss knot is a symbol usually worn by family and close friends – a solemn way to remember someone who’s gone. I probably wasn’t close enough to Cherise to have a loss knot in her memory. I should stop her.

  But as she draws a length of white ribbon from her apron pocket, I pause. Alice prepared for this. She knew it would be the only way to get me outside. And I suppose it works; a public display of sorrow and grief. If people see a loss knot in my hair, they won’t wonder how I feel. It will be all too obvious.

  “There.”

  She releases the braid and tucks it into my hair, her hand lingering on my shoulder as she does so. For a moment our eyes meet, and I’m surprised to see her eyes are glistening. I get it. Years ago, a thoughtless child wandered up to her and braided her hair. She’s maintained the loss knots I gave her perfectly, treasuring the memories of her parents.

  I reach up and gingerly touch the braid, which is folded gently in with the rest of my hair. It sends a strange, comforting warmth down my fingers.

  I bite my lip. It’s been a long time since I felt the prickle of tears behind my eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now will you come?” she asks softly, “I don’t know what else to do, Quinn. I just want my sister back.”

  I give a weak nod.

  “Okay. I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s all I want to hear. I know you’ve always had a penchant for doing incredible things – that’s what you’re known for around these parts. But let’s start small, shall we? Come and eat lunch with us. Then we’ll prepare for tomorrow.”

  I stand at the front door with anxiety burning at my stomach. This is it. The launch.

  Alice has done her best to make me seem somewhat presentable. My hair is clean and tied in such a way that my loss knot hangs free. My face is scrubbed to within an inch of its life, the skin still a little raw. When I glance down, I see sturdy shoes, leggings and an oversized tee. Nothing remarkable, of course – Dad said that some people will be dressing up for the launch – but it’s a practical ensemble, if nothing else.

  Dad steps out of the kitchen and fixes me with a smile.

  “Are you nearly ready?”

  “You’re coming too, Dad? I didn’t think this was your thing.”

  “It’s not, really,” he says, “but I figure it would be nice to go together, just the three of
us.”

  “I suppose it’s been a while.”

  He steps up next to me, eyeing me carefully.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this? Physically, I mean?”

  I glance at my arm. Alice insisted it was too warm for long sleeves, but she still allowed me to cover the scar. I’m wearing long, thin gloves more suited for a burlesque than Main Street; the type that reach my elbows and only attach at my middle finger. No doubt it looks out of place – but I’d rather be judged for my dismal fashion choices than for being a branded criminal.

  “I’m fine,” I say, “just… nervous.”

  “Don’t be. The neighbours have been asking after you for a while now. Nobody’s angry about the incident, you know. They’re just concerned for you.”

  I sigh.

  “I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

  Alice blusters down the stairs and passes me a heavy rucksack.

  “Here, carry this.”

  “What’s in here?”

  “Just some stuff for a picnic,” she smiles, “I figured we’d head to the park afterward.”

  “I never agreed to that!”

  “Consider it a surprise. Are you going to carry it or not?”

  I open my mouth to object, but she fixes me with a look that makes it clear the conversation is over, so I stop.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  The sun is nearly blinding, the sky cloudless - perfect for the launch; but I instantly get a headache as I step out of the house. I’ve grown unused to the sun.

  My gaze is fixed on my own feet as we walk. Left, right. Left, right. Anything to distract me from the people around us. I can almost feel their eyes skirting my body, settling on the loss knot and my concealed scar.

  “She’s finally up and about.”

  “The scar’s still covered.”

  “Such a shame…”

  I close my eyes in an attempt to block out the words. They’re not cruel. If anything, the words are full of sympathy. But I’d rather hear the judging. Tell me I’m wasted potential, please. Gossip about my mother and what she did. Anything. Just don’t talk about Cherise.