Writers of the Future, Volume 28 (17 page)

I compliment her on them.

Dr. Blessbe doesn’t reply. But I see the slightest smirk in the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t write anything in her notebook.

“You know, I would say that this whole meeting is a waste of your professional time, Dr. Blessbe,” I comment, “but I’m here for my mother’s sake.”

“Janie!” mom hisses.

The doctor scribbles some more. It’s all mysterious, this psychiatrist stuff, enigmatic and ooh-ooh. I look at my mom, knowing that I’m about to sacrifice her for our own mutual good. I mean, she doesn’t really have the money to be spending on me coming here, even though she likes to pretend she does. Besides, she’s always the one telling me that everything’s for
my
own good.

“I love my mother,” I tell Dr. Blessbe, sincerely. “She’s a really good mom. She does so much for me.” I lay it on thick: “And I want to thank you for seeing us today. My mom just wants what’s best for me, you know
?
”

That’s all I say. Mother is horrified.

Dr. “blessed-be” Blessbe smiles.

“Will you excuse us for a moment, Janie
?
” she says and asks to speak with my mother alone, outside in the hall. They close the door. How stupid, like they don’t think I can hear them if I press my ear to the wood
?

But it makes me wonder. Have I won
?
Or have I fallen on my sword
?
The anxiety creeps up my esophagus.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Blessbe. She does this at home all the time,” the muffled voice of my mother atones through the grains of wood in the door. “But she’s usually
volatile.
And impulsive—”

“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Syren. Manipulation can be an attribute of several underlying personality disorders . . .” Mumble, mumble. “I’ll need to run a few tests. Janie can fill out a questionnaire . . .” mumble, “will help narrow . . . and rule out coexisting character pathologies and other complications as well. But based on our consultation today, and given your concerns, your daughter may be exhibiting traits of bipolar disorder.”

What
?
There’s a pause. My mother says something.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Syren,” replies Dr. Blessbe. “By itself, bipolar disorder is completely treatable.”

T
here’s something smooth and sticky all over me.

Oh freak, oh freak!

Panic hits me like a seizure and I’m flailing, thrashing, ripping!

I’m out of it. I’m okay. I check all my limbs, my digits. Feel my face. At least the stuff wasn’t wet. Anyway, I’m in my nightie and it’s pristine.

Heaving, I shove the crystalline coffin, with its insulating cocoon, right off the ledge. I don’t hear it hit bottom, but I wait, trying to come to terms with where I am. Okay, I remember going to sleep last night. I remember loathing my mom, Dr. Blessbe, people in general. I remember basking hatefully in how nice it will be in a year when I graduate, because I’ll finally be on my own. Vaguely, I also remember the strange presence in my room as I faded out.

Then it hits me, and I just stare at this place.

Where the freak
am
I
?

Far in the distance, a deep rumble travels like the buildup of thunder through the void just beyond my ledge, and I can swear I see the scintillating cell walls move like living things. Funny, the brief panic I felt waking up is completely gone, replaced by an unpretentious curiosity. If this place is as real as it feels, I
should
be panicking.

Ironically, I realize I’m humming a tune.

A soft cracking sound from behind makes me whirl. A fissure has erupted in the wall of the cell, and strange glowing runes are wicking away the indigo-blue stone, forming a large doorway. No thought necessary, I’m instantly through it, into a glen—a field.

But I stop to look at where I’ve come from. You would never guess there’s a whole universe of cells full of sleeping people in them just beyond that doorway. It’s nothing more than a small crevice carved into a half-moon-shaped boulder that resembles a broken archway some giant’s dropped in the middle of a grassy plateau. In fact, I walk around the prominence for good measure. Geeze, appearances can be deceiving.

Why
doesn’t
this feel like a dream
?

For days I travel, taking in the sights. I avoid the mist, explore the willow tree. Then I come to the house, where my calm flakes into panic against my will. The mist converges around the sides of the house, flanking it, barring me passage. I can’t walk around to the front, unless I want to lose myself. So I go in through the back.

Anxiety hits me like a fever. And I’m out as soon as I’m in! The back door is swinging behind me, and I’m running until I hit that prominence. What (I shiver) the
hell
(I try not to vomit) are those things
?
I’m radiating butterflies of fear so bright I can see them. Whatever those things in my house are, I know without
proof
that if they’ve seen me . . . okay, there are things worse than death.

But this nightgown business. It really gets to me, and I have to go back, if only to scavenge a change of clothing from my room.

And it happens again!

Freak! After the second attempt, I vow I’m never going back in there. Ever.

My cell inside the prominence is soothing, on the other hand, so I decide to stay there, instead. Hours turn into days. Days into weeks—or so I figure. I get lost in thought so deep it turns to song. The song morphs into a burning curiosity to explore this place. And I do. Tentatively, I shimmy down to the cell below mine to visit its occupant . . .

Wasn’t my fault. I swear! I couldn’t wake the woman, so I hollered, shouted, pummeled her cocoon. Then I ripped it.

Either way, she didn’t wake up, so I spider-climb back to my ledge, feeling guilty.

None of the men, the older woman, or that little boy whose cells adjoin mine wake up, either. None of the occupants in a ten-, twenty-, thirty-cell radius of mine wake up. No one wakes up in this place.

“HELLO!” I call into the void, hearing it rumble back.

“I’M SO ALONE!”

It’s no use. I know where I am. I’ve been here before. Plenty of times. This is no dream, although I wish it was. I’m trapped inside the most inescapable prison conceivable.

I miss my mom . . .

I
hear an echo.

I almost trip getting to my feet.

Popping my ears, I listen hard. Eons roll past like the breath of a god, but I can’t hear anything. Maybe it was my imagination.

Feeling bizarrely more calm than defeated, I try to make myself get depressed, but only achieve that hollow feeling in my stomach again—the one I’ve been noticing lately, like something’s missing. I haven’t slept a wink since those
freaks
in my house stole my body, and I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to everyone else in here, too. Maybe it wasn’t an accident that killed that scientist, Dr. Growlinger, after all.

Sleep. I wish I could sleep. In this place, I don’t need to eat, or drink, or go to the little girl’s room, or do any of those things you do when you have a physical body.

Sure, I’ve “tried” to sleep, if only to wake up in the real world (“tried” being the operative word.) I’ve slipped between the snarled roots of the willow on the grassy hill, curled up and hummed more than one lullaby.

But every time I nod off, I wind up in that sinister crystalline coffin, swaddled up like a baby. Jesus, how many of the freakin’ things have I pushed off the ledge into the yawning void
?

I hear another echo, this time louder.

“HELLO!” I holler.

More echoes bounce out of the darkness, and I think there is no doubt now that I’m leaving my ledge. I’ll search every cell in this mammoth universe until I find someone else or die trying.

Another echo. I listen. This one rolls from somewhere to the left.

It’s a direction.

I crawl.

The abyss greets me the moment I step off of my ledge, and although there is no wind here, it feels like the whole place is breathing. I’m careful to keep a straight line from my cell, so I don’t lose my way and find I can never get back. Getting lost in this place is as genius as wandering off into the mist. I’ve also long since discovered that none of the cells but mine have doorways into glens. Or anywhere for that matter.

Past cell fifty-one to the left there are good handholds. The thin, foot-wide catwalks carved naturally into the blue stone widen, although not every space between cells is this negotiable. Doesn’t matter, I think. I’m actually doing it! I’m finally doing what I’ve been dreading since I first woke up in here, even if it means that I might never get back.

Taking rests in neighboring chambers as I go, I make sure to inspect every slumbering human. No one’s awake. It’s still only me. After a time, my hands chafe and my feet start to hurt. I’ve been at this forever, and I feel heavy. I’m in cell number one-twenty-six now.

In the distance, I see a faint orange glow.

I’m all over it.

Let’s go. Let’s go! I’m freaking now. For not requiring any sleep, I feel so exhausted, but strangely, it’s not physical; it’s mental. I pick up the pace—and practically start floating, I feel so light!

Almost there. The glow is getting warmer. If you ask me, it looks suspiciously like a campfire. And I swear, for a moment I see something arching away behind it into the void—but then it’s gone.

Cell one-thirty-one.

One-thirty-two.

One-thirty-three.

The light is on above me. Palm slaps stone, I grasp the rock of the prow and before I know it, there are hands grabbing my forearms, hauling me up. I land, flopping, like a fish on the ledge, and look around.

It takes a second, but I adjust my eyes to the roaring campfire. Through the flames, I see that I’m on an unusually long ledge jutting out of a cell the size of a 7-Eleven. And there are about thirty people staring in my direction.

T
old you I heard something in the Honeycomb, Lt.,” says a little boy with sandy hair and shocking green eyes. Three paces away, he has his hands tucked behind his back and is studying me inquisitively.

The man he’s talking to—Lt.—is a mean-looking black man in desert camouflage and full Kevlar. He’s chewing on a stogie, the same as when he pulled me onto the ledge. The assortment of people behind him, collected around the blazing campfire, are eclectic, but almost half of them look like Tibetan monks in orange robes, sitting half-lotus.

“Welcome to COP Phoenix.” Lt. proffers a hand.

I squint, trying to gauge that I’m not actually hallucinating. It’s been a
long
time since I’ve seen people—real people, not sleepers. “COP Phoenix
?
”

“Combat Outpost. Small base of operations. We’re establishing other COPs in the Honeycomb as we expand, but this COP is alpha.” His hand is still extended. “Name’s First Lieutenant Jackson, United States Marine Corps.”

I’m not timid. I take it.

“Strong grip.” Lt. nods in approval. “Good quality in a soldier.”

I look over the people clustered around the campfire on the ledge and try to take it all in. Behind them, I notice a bridge with elaborate filigree rails which look like tree branches, arching off the side of the prow—and I’ve only just now noticed it, because one of the monks is strolling toward us, over its surface. In fact, I only see the bridge when I look directly at it; when I turn my head, it disappears. The glow of the campfire casts a pinkish hue over its cathedralesque facade as it spans the gap to the next chamber over. Focusing my eyes, I see another bridge beyond that—part of a network, it looks like.

My thoughts catch up with me. These people are
awake
in here!

“Probably thought you were the only one, did you
?
” Another man approaches. He’s tall and gaunt, with a garish look in his eye, and he’s dressed in an early-style 1900s English frock coat. “On the contrary. As you can see, there are plenty of us to go around.”

“Plenty of Baselys, that is,” drawls a young woman with chin-length amber hair. A few of the people around the campfire snicker.

“That’ll be enough now, whippersnapper,” says the gaunt English gentleman.

“Cool it, you two.” Lt. puckers his cheeks in an odd assortment of twitches, and blows an astrolabe of smoke rings at them. “Let the girl acclimate.” He points to the English gentleman. “This here is Basely. The man’s always sour grapes, so don’t take it personally.”

“So are all of them.” The amber-haired girl gestures to a bombshell of a redhead, then to a rapper-type decked out in silver, a businessman, and a dwarf in a three-piece suit with tails.

“Eh-hem,” intones Basely. Tapping a foot, he eats me up with his eyes like I’m fresh meat—something he hasn’t seen in forever—and waits until he has my full attention. “Young woman, allow me to introduce you to my darling Jin-Jin, superstar Pop-Fizz—double “z,” Fizz—Benjamin, and Murphy the Short.”

They all wave at me.

The little boy who first spoke is having a conniption, and Lt. snaps at the crowd. “Would someone please escort Sebastian off the ledge before he
chokes
?
” And two of the Tibetan monks usher the boy, giggling, across the bridge.

“Basely is the lead personality,” whispers the amber-haired girl in my ear.

Right now, I don’t know what the freak these people are talking about, but I don’t want to give myself away. Better to observe the situation first, then ask questions later.

The amber-haired girl catches my look. “Basely has dissociative identity disorder. Multiple personalities. He doesn’t like anyone talking about it, though. Every one of his crowd is autonomous in the Honeycomb, with minds of their own. We even had them split up at different COPs for a while, until Tall Bill took a plunge off a ledge and vanished.” She puckers her lips. “By the way,
never
mention Tall Bill in Basely’s presence. It was an accident and he never came back. It wasn’t like when you go to sleep outside the Honeycomb in your Unconscious Mind. Tall Bill was more or less erased from existence.”