by Aja James
But… I’m not entirely sure I have a soul to sell.
Presently, there’s a light rap on the chamber door.
“Yes?” I ask, because I’m not sure the knock is for me to answer.
True, I am the only person in the chamber, but it is not my own. I am apparently a “guest” at Sophia’s residence, though this room is not hers either. I say “guest,” but I use the term loosely, given that I am currently tethered to two steel poles with my hands bound behind my back.
At least I’m relatively comfortable. My bindings seem to be made of the softest satin. They even ease from time to time when I try to shift my position to help stimulate blood flow to my limbs. The accommodations are quite luxurious, all things considered. There’s a bed nearby that I don’t recall sleeping on. There’s a bathroom down the hall that I don’t recall using.
More of those blanks in my memory.
I don’t recall how I got here either, or why I’m here. Perhaps Sophia explained it to me before. I just don’t remember. Strangely, I am not at all concerned about my present detainment. Perhaps I should be concerned that I am not concerned. It’s as if, somewhere in my subconscious, a part of me accepts my situation as logical.
I’m here for a reason, obviously. I just don’t recall what it is.
“May I come in?” Sophia’s voice could be heard, muffled through the thick wood of the door.
“Of course,” I answer without hesitation.
This isn’t my house, after all. I am merely a “guest.”
The double doors open automatically, I suppose she pressed a button from the outside, and she enters carrying a tray piled with food.
I do recall eating some time ago, just likely not yesterday. I only recall eating when Sophia stays with me to keep me company. All of a sudden, my stomach growls sonorously in hunger.
“I heard that,” she greets me with a small smile, putting the tray on a nearby table that seats four people comfortably.
“I thought I’d join you for supper, if you don’t mind.”
I tug at my restraints, and the silken bindings shift until I can bring my hands to the front, where I hold them up for her to see.
“I’m not in a position to object,” I make the point wryly. “My calendar for the evening is wide open.”
Sophia eyes my “leash” and my bound hands, her brow furrowing slightly as if she can’t decide what to do with me.
“Come have a seat,” she gestures to one of the chairs at the table, while she takes another chair at a ninety degree angle to it.
“I’ll feed you.”
“You have my undying devotion,” I quip, doing as directed, my tether long and accommodating enough. “I am famished.”
For some minutes, she says nothing, simply cutting what appears to be perfectly prepared roast beef into bite-size pieces and buttering a freshly-baked roll.
I don’t speak either.
Someone else in my situation might demand answers, or fight for their freedom. I’m not that curious about the whys and wherefores, and I’m in no particular hurry to leave Sophia’s presence. So I stay silent and simply watch her while she prepares my food.
She’s so very lovely.
There’s a glow that radiates from within, beneath her skin. There is darkness as well, within her eyes. The combination is endlessly fascinating to me. I can watch her for hours. Days. Being with her makes me feel alive in ways… Well, in ways I hardly ever feel.
“You’re not going to ask me why you’re here?” she finally addresses the elephant in the room while keeping her eyes on spearing a piece of tender beef and loading the same fork with a slice of carrot and sweet potato.
“Would you like me to? I must have asked such an elementary question upon arrival, but I suspect I’ve forgotten your reply.”
She looks at me and brings the fork to my mouth. I obediently take the bite.
“No, you never asked me.”
I chew methodically and swallow, noticing the exquisite flavor of the meat, but not particularly caring. If she fed me sawdust, I’d happily eat it.
“Do you want to tell me?” I say before she feeds me another bite.
She sighs as if she doesn’t know what to make of me.
“You’re not reacting to this situation the way one would expect,” she accuses, clearly nonplussed.
“How should I behave?” I ask sincerely, curious. “Would shouting, cursing, crying or making demands change my situation for the better? I suppose you brought me here for a good reason.”
“You’re very trusting,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Not really. It’s just so much easier on my nerves if I assume you didn’t bring me here for a bad reason.”
A corner of her full mouth kicks up reluctantly in amusement.
“You are something else, Ere,” she murmurs almost affectionately.
“Something special, I hope,” I rejoin easily.
After eating another bite, I venture to ask, “I do wonder why I’m tied up and tethered to poles, however. Do you consider me dangerous? What have I done to engender such mistrust?”
She feeds me some more, her movements slow, as if she’s pondering and weighing her answer. As if she’s afraid how I might react.
Once upon a time, I admit my temper might flare. Three years ago when I first met Sophia, I often felt a darkness within, licking at the boundaries of my consciousness. But over the years, the more time I spend with her, especially after my extended travels with her and her friends over the last couple of months, I feel more…
Myself.
More centered and aware. Though still plagued with significant gaps in memory.
For example, on this recent expedition, Sophia and I were supposed to stay together, alone, in our own hotel room close to Jordan. It was the only time during the extended trip that we would spend any time together by ourselves. In an enclosed, cozy space, no less.
But I don’t remember any of it.
The events that led to that night are fuzzy as well. One moment we decided to split into two groups, with Sophia, Nana, Gabriel, Benji and I heading westward to Egypt from Shiraz; Cloud, Aella and Eveline in a separate group cutting through the Zagros Mountains. And the next moment I woke up in a comfortable bed in a hotel room in Jordan. I only have snippets of memories of my travels from Shiraz to Jordan. I don’t recall at all spending the night alone with Sophia. But it’s clear from our checkout the next morning that I did in fact share a room with her.
This rarely happens. This lapse of memory where Sophia is concerned. Perhaps I have a disorder. Perhaps Sophia should be afraid.
“You’re not always yourself, Ere,” Sophia says haltingly, eerily reading my mind, choosing her words. “The bindings are more for your own protection.”
I stare into her eyes meaningfully as she feeds me pieces of the buttered roll, now that I have demolished an entire plate of roast beef and vegetables.
“Did a rabid virus infect me in the Middle East?” I ask finally, and she helps me take a few gulps of wine to wash down my meal.
“Can viruses be rabid?”
“You never know,” I reply. “There might be a particularly virulent strain out there that makes its hosts take leave of their senses, makes them uncharacteristically aggressive and violent. Why else would I be a danger to myself and others?”
My words become more biting toward the end, my tone bordering on belligerent.
Bloody hell!
This is me. Ere. Sophia knows me. I would never hurt anyone, least of all her. And as far as I can remember, I’ve never voluntarily hurt myself either.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, keeping our gazes locked.
I can tell that she means it. She doesn’t like this situation any better than me. Yet, for whatever reason, she feels she has no other choice but to keep me…detained…in this manner.
“Would you like to use the bathroom before I leave you to
rest?” she inquires shyly.
“I feel like Benji,” I blurt. “Or what I imagine a small boy, I guess younger than even Benji, might feel. Needing to be fed. To be reminded to go potty before bed.”
Her lips twitch as if she’s fighting a smile, as if she’s telling herself that she should not be laughing at my predicament.
“I didn’t realize you knew the word ‘potty,’ Ere,” she says slyly, “it’s so pedestrian. So normal.”
“Are you implying that I’m not normal, Sophia?”
“No, Ere, you are most definitely not normal.”
Her gaze turns serious as she searches for the right words.
“You speak like a man from a different time. You don’t behave like anyone else in this situation would behave. You’re uber mysterious and secretive…”
“Uber?” I interject, enjoying how she sometimes throws in such youthful vernacular in her speech. I often forget that she’s only twenty-one.
She waves away my interruption.
“I’m sure that term is totally outdated. I’m not at all up to speed on what the street slang is these days.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Anyway, you’re not normal,” she says firmly.
“But it’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she adds.
We stare at each other in comfortable silence for a few moments before I finally reply, “I don’t need to use the installations, thank you.”
She starts to get up from her seat, but I stay her by grazing her arm with the knuckles of my bound hands.
“Please stay a while longer, Sophia,” I entreat. Practically beg.
“I promise I’ll be good,” I offer with my most innocent smile. “And if not, these bindings will prevent me from doing much damage, I’m certain. I can put my arms behind my back again if it makes you feel safer.”
She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes comfortingly.
Immediately, the agitation that’s been building within me subsides several degrees.
“You don’t have to do that, Ere. I’m not afraid of you,” she says solemnly.
Then adds, “I’ll knee you in the nuts if you try anything, so don’t test me.”
“Noted.”
She cocks her head a little and folds her hands in her lap, sitting back in her chair and looking as if she’s settling in for the duration.
“What shall we talk about?”
I sit back as well, stretching my legs in front of me, my bare toes touching her bare ankles slightly.
She doesn’t shift away.
“Want to hear a story?” I offer on a whim.
“I love stories,” she answers with a smile. “What kind of story?”
“How about a fairytale? About an orphan boy. An ordinary boy who was nothing and no one. But who helped to save a beautiful angel from a fate worse than death.”
I didn’t know I would speak these words until they were out of my mouth. But now that I spoke them, I can’t take them back.
Am I really going to tell her about my recurring dream? But why not? It’s just a dream. It’s not real.
“I’d love to hear the fairytale above all things,” she says, giving me her full attention.
And so I begin. Sharing thoughts and dreams that I’ve never shared with another living being…
Chapter Two: The Boy with No Name
There was a time when my eyes used to be blue.
Before they darkened with the weight of my sins and the poison flowing through my veins. I do not know the color I was born with. Perhaps they were naturally shadowed with evil. Perhaps the light was but a fleeting figment of my imagination.
But, no, I hadn’t dreamt it all.
There was a time when my name wasn’t “Darkness” or Creature or my favorite—Anzillu (abomination). She used to call me something different. She made me feel human. Almost as human as she was…
Third millennium BC. A village on the outskirts of Akkad.
“I saved half my bread and cheese for you, An-Nisi.”
I looked behind the girl who wouldn’t leave me alone no matter how I tried to avoid her, afraid the other orphans or our Masters would see us together.
I didn’t want her to get into trouble because of me.
She’d already stood up for me on more than one occasion, resulting in unhappy consequences. Why didn’t she learn her lesson?
“Don’t worry, An-Nisi,” she placated, noticing my anxiousness. “I made sure no one saw me come out. It’s after midnight already. Everyone is asleep.”
Once I ascertained we were safe for the time being, I turned to scowl at her.
“Why do you insist on calling me An-Nisi? That is not my name,” I said with more belligerence than I intended.
I wanted Ninsa to stay for a while, after all, even though I also wanted to chase her away. She was the only person in the orphanage—in the whole world—who spoke to me kindly.
“Silly,” she admonished and somehow made the term an endearment, probably because she smiled sweetly as she said it.
“It’s because you have such beautiful sky-blue eyes. Sometimes, they turn violet like the sunset or the dawn. Sometimes, blue-green like the sea beyond the cliffs. And you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.”
She paused and added with a lopsided quirk of her lips, “Underneath all the dirt, anyway.”
I opened my mouth to interject, but she said in a rush before I could, “Besides, you never told me your real name. It’s not the ugly ones the others call you either, so don’t even think about bringing those up.”
I continued scowling at her, trying to convey my displeasure with her description of me.
I wasn’t “beautiful.” Beautiful Pure Ones got enslaved at best. At worst, given the ongoing war with Dark Ones, they got tortured, raped, and torn to pieces in a frenzy of bloodlust. I’d seen it happen many times. Dark soldiers attacking defenseless Pure Ones on the village streets as soon as the sun set. No one dared stop them; no one could. Dark Ones were the most powerful beings in the world as we knew it.
Sometimes, humans attacked Pure Ones too, out of jealousy and contempt. Even though they were stronger, healed faster, and often had Gifts, Pure Ones never fought back. Perhaps they were inured to their enslavement and abuse. Perhaps it wasn’t the way they were made. And, too, those that did fight back suffered even worse punishments and debasement before they were ultimately killed. Whatever the reason, everyone knew that Pure Ones were easy targets, like stupid game that human hunters and animal predators caught and butchered.
It was simply the way of things.
Then, a few years before my birth, a handful of Pure Ones had risen in rebellion. Some of them were reborn humans and didn’t suffer from the debilitating pacifism that Pure Bloods did. They’d been warriors in their human life, and they knew how to fight.
But why did the Pure Ones bother to fight back? They were going to be crushed by the Dark battalions. Everyone knew it. By rebelling, they were just making life difficult for the rest of us.
Stragglers like me.
Much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t human. And I certainly wasn’t a Dark One. That only left one thing for me to be.
I resented my creators for giving me life. As such, I was grateful to be here in the orphanage among humans. As much as the Masters and other children either ignored, taunted or abused me, at least they hadn’t yet revealed what I was to strangers. They let me stay here, hidden in the orphanage, a cuckoo in a nest of ducklings.
And I was exceedingly grateful.
I was grateful that the Masters and the other children called me names. I was ugly. Worthless. Beneath anyone’s notice. I was nothing. And I wanted to keep it that way.
“I don’t have a name,” I reminded her. “Just call me what everyone else does. It doesn’t bother me.”
It really didn’t. This was my lot in life, I knew from the time I was old enough to take no
tice. I was the baby who got the least milk, and later on, the least food. Because I was “unnatural” after all. I could endure going hungry for much longer than other children. When I fell and got hurt, no one picked me up off the ground or patched me up. Because I could heal myself. Sometimes, other children threw rocks and sticks at me to see how long it would take for my bruises to fade or my cuts to close. Some of them suspected I didn’t even bleed.
I did. Bleed, that was.
My blood was red like everyone else’s. I wasn’t that different. But no one saw things from my point of view.
“Well, it bothers me,” Ninsa said as she lowered herself down to the ground right beside me and leaned back against the mud wall as if settling in for the duration.
She ate and slept with the other children and the Masters inside the mud house. She had a nice straw mat to lie on. My place was out here in the yard with the animals. Even the dogs got to sleep by the hearth on cold nights, like tonight. I made do by huddling under the bits of straw overhang from the roof. After all, my skin might freeze and my teeth might chatter, but I didn’t die from it. Just as I didn’t easily die from wounds.
That I felt pain all the same was beside the point.
“I’m giving you a name,” Ninsa stated in a familiar stubborn tone.
I swear, stubbornness would be the death of her.
“It’s An-Nisi.”
She turned and stared directly into my eyes, her own brown ones twinkling like stars reflected in a clear well.
“You’re my blue-green heaven,” she said in that disconcerting serious way that she sometimes had.
“When I look into your eyes, that’s what I see.”
“You’re stupid,” I grunted ungraciously.
“And such a girl,” I added, emphasizing that being a girl was just as bad, if not worse, than being stupid.
She giggled, taking no offense. She never seemed to take offense at the offensive things I said and did to push her away. To keep her from being tainted by me.
“Here. Eat the food,” she ordered rather imperiously, shoving the bread and cheese under my nose, making my mouth water.
