The Fall of Never(138)

The room came into focus all around her. It was Becky’s bedroom, she realized, and she now stood in the middle of it. To her left, the single window stood open, letting in cold air. It felt good against her skin. She realized she was covered in sweat and breathing heavy. And her mind—it was confused, muddled. As she stood there in darkness, she could feel it slowly unraveling itself, putting all the pieces back into their proper locations. Nothing felt quite right, quite real. Like she’d been superimposed against the backdrop of this room.

Heart, she thought, remembering it all at the same speed as her thoughts returned to her. This house is the heart of Never. And that makes sense. And it did: the cold, lonely place where she grew up was what had cultivated her powers, pushed her toward progression, forced her mind to expand. It was this house, indirectly responsible for all she’d become and all she’d created. This house and those who occupied it. How come I couldn’t see that just a moment ago? How come I didn’t realize this is the true heart of Never, that solitude is the birthplace of both creation and madness?

She remembered Simon at the same moment she saw him move against the far wall, beside Becky’s bed.

“No!” she shouted, and the room appeared to waver in front of her eyes. Was the room even real? Was she really inside her parents’ home, or was this just another illusion? Another fabrication brought to life through the powers of her mind? “You don’t touch her.”

“And what is it to you?” Though he was solid and real in front of her, Simon’s voice came at her from numerous directions, pelting her like birds from the sky. “What does she mean to you?”

“She’s my sister.”

“And so what?” He shook his head, his face half-masked by shadows. The inconstant terrain of his face and scalp was almost visible. He was so close to Becky he could reach down and caress her face. “All those years,” he mumbled. “How often did you think about her while you were away?”

The words stung. She felt something well up inside her, but she promised herself she would keep it together. “That wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t think…couldn’t remember anything about this place, including her. But it wasn’t my fault.”

“Then whose fault?”

“I was blocked. I couldn’t remember. My mind closed off all the memories to this place and I never even thought to try and remember.”

“She remembered you.” Then he did reach out his hand as if to touch Becky. Only he didn’t caress her face; instead, he pinched her IV tube between two fingers.

“No!” Kelly shouted again and rushed at the creature. Around her, the room blurred. Colors peaked, sharpened, dispersed into granules. She lunged to grab him, blazing fury boiling just beneath the surface, but was tackled by a rocketing shock that ripped through her head. The force of it sent her to the floor, reeling in agony. She could feel the exact location on her brain where she’d been struck. Not pain—the brain felt no pain—but a frightening bulge.

Embolism, she thought. I die now.

But she didn’t die and the bulging sensation faded quickly. Sitting up on the floor, Kelly scrambled backward until she felt herself slam up against the wall. As if made of rubber, the wall seemed to bend slightly inward against her back.

“You can’t touch me,” he muttered. His eyes were trained on her, his form fading in and out of the darkness. “You can’t harm me, can’t do anything to me. Not now. Not anymore.”

She tried to stand but found herself impossibly weak. Her muscles had become water. A draining sensation flooded her head, the back of her neck, and down into her back. Power, she thought. It’s seeping out of me and he’s absorbing it. He’s taking it.

“What…” Even her voice dried up and died. She tried again: “I don’t want you to hurt her. Tell me what—”

“You know.” He said this with haughty informality.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“You sister is useless to me,” he said. “I want to live. And that depends on you, Kellerella. The longer you’re gone, the more you forget, the less I become. Look at me.” And with that, he stepped forward into the panel of light that fell through the window. For the first time, Kelly really saw him, and her first impression was that he’d actually aged. His skin had gone the color of sour milk; his eyes, repellent and insect-like, bulged from his head like twin tumors in the middle of extraction; his chest and limbs simply hung, in a parody of human development; the prominent crisscross of ribs pushed his skin taut; a concentration of organs, vessels, and muscles pulsed and flexed too near the surface of his flesh.

She turned away, repulsed.

“You created this,” he said. “You’re the artist. You’re the mother.” She heard his awkward footfalls move around Becky’s bed. “The more you forget about me,” he repeated, “the less I become.”

“That has nothing to do with Becky.” That slipping, vacating sensation continued to work at her brain.

“She’s a bargaining chip,” he said quietly. “She’s an injured dog.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“What I want,” he said, “is for you to give in. I want that mind of yours, Kelly. The whole thing. I want to own it and not worry about you ever leaving or ever forgetting about me again. And for that, your sister gets to live out the rest of her life. Consider it a trade—your mind for your sister’s life.”