Feversong (Fever #9)(80)

Rule number 1 in my “Entering a Silver Handbook”: Remember the way back. You never knew when retreat might be preferable to the world you’d landed on. At times I’d had to backtrack ten worlds to discover a new direction to go.

Once I had the precise location locked down, I’d stalked away from the wall. Spying a trash Dumpster, I’d hurried over and begun rummaging in the debris.

Rule number 2.9: (2.1 was for dangerously primitive worlds, 2.2 for hostile beasts, 2.3 signs of an unknown civilization, and so on.) If the world was advanced enough to have trash Dumpsters, it usually had newspapers. Find one and read it. The sooner I acclimated to the world, the more seamlessly I could move around on it.

I’d found a balled-up rag that night—the Dani Daily.

I’d stared blankly at it then spun, staring back at the wall, able to recognize it from a distance as I’d not been able to up close, realizing Kilmainham Gaol loomed beyond the wall.

I’d turned in a slow circle, trying to process that I was home. After so many bloody years, I’d finally found the Silver that took me back to Dublin.

Now, of all times.

“Bloody hell! Bugger! Fuck you, you stupid fucking stupid fucks!” I’d leapt into the air, shaking both my fists at the distant stars.

Then I’d dropped to the ground, clutching my balled-up paper, wondering with a small part of my brain what moron had thrown away my immensely entertaining and informative news flash, while also wondering why it was still there five and a half years later, while also trying to decide with the largest part of my brain what the hell I was going to do.

I was screwed.

I’d stretched out on the ground and cried. Sobbed until I couldn’t breathe and my head was splitting. After I’d done that long enough to make myself even more miserable, I began laughing. Eventually, I went cold as ice.

So, this was how it was going to be?

We’d see about that.

I wasn’t the teen I’d been five and a half years earlier. I’d thought my childhood was challenging but my years Silverside had made my childhood seem like…well, child’s play.

I hadn’t held on to the really bad things that happened Silverside. I’d chosen to remember the good parts and chunked the rest in the oubliette. I’d already had too much baggage at fourteen, before I even leapt into the Hall of All Days, to accumulate more and leave it rattling around in my head. You’ve got to keep your brain tidy.

Things had gone downhill swiftly once I’d become invisible to my mother. I’d taught myself strict compartmentalization by the fourth month of my seventh year, when living in the cage had become unbearable, apportioning parts to me and parts to the Other, the one that was far more ruthless and self-contained than me.

I’ve always known who the Other was: me, pushed beyond enduring.

When you’re so hungry you can barely raise your head, and you aren’t sure anyone’s ever going to feed you again and you start to think maybe you should just slip away, and stop fighting it, you either let go and die or find a way to hang on that isn’t constant pain. I’d figured out how to hang on.

I’d played around in my brain and taught myself to partition it. I don’t know if that’s exactly what happens on a subconscious level in cases of dissociative disorder, but once I began consciously doing it, it became difficult to stop.

It was easier to be the Other. Safer to be the Other.

Especially at the end.

The Other killed my mom.

I killed my mom.

I know those two statements are the same thing.

Ryodan thinks I don’t but I’ve always known. There are parts of my brain not even he can get into.

And even knowing that I had to do it—that I would have died if I hadn’t—didn’t make it any easier for me to deal with. I missed her. I hated her. I loved her. I hated myself. I missed her. Moms, even bad ones—and she’d been a good one once—are sacred. They’re the taproot from which we grow.

Ro, the old bitch, figured out how to push me into that state, even when I didn’t want to go. And once I was free, I’d never wanted to be the Other anymore.

I’d learned during my first few weeks free of my cage that one of my mom’s many “boyfriends” during that last year had introduced her to the needle. It wasn’t wine that had changed her so drastically at the end. It was heroin. A drug had turned her into someone else, someone she’d never have chosen to be.

I’d added that bastard to my kill count, too. He’d been passed out with a needle in his arm, flirting with death anyway. Treasure your life. Or die.

Adaptability is survivability. When Ryodan said that to me, I knew he understood. I’d felt an instant kinship with him. I’d taken one look into those cool, clear silver eyes and known he’d had to do things no person should have to do. And he was okay with it.

He’d found the way to be okay with it.

Silverside, I’d carefully picked out the finest characteristics of me and my Other and merged them. Ironically, Silverside had been easier in some ways. Me, my imagination, and I had created The Daredevil Delights of Dani and her Shaz-tastic Sidekick Shazam! We’d even had our own theme song:


Shaz the mighty fur-beast lived up in the air,

Watching all of Olean, grouchy as a bear.

Dani the Mega O’Malley loved that rascal Shaz,