The Fall of Never(82)

Darkness. A forest, stifled with trees. Off in the distance: the gurgle of running water. And up ahead: a light, a red light. A glowing beacon in the middle of the night.

She wasn’t alone. Nellie understood that immediately, and the realization of such a truth filled her with black dread. Not so much fear but, rather, the expectation of fear.

Words suddenly spoken by her unseen companion:

—This is pain?

Not quite feminine, yet not quite masculine. And it was almost as if the voice did not exist in the real world at all—and surely it didn’t—but it was there, its evidence right inside her own head.

More:

—How do you live like this? I feel things all around me, everything. It all hurts so much. Look at my throat.

In her mind, she searched the dream-forest but was powerless to uncover her unseen companion. And if she wanted to speak out, to shout out, she knew that was an impossibility as well; she was not here at all; merely watching an old filmstrip roll on a screen. This happened long ago, she knew, and on the heels of that she thought, Kellow. Kellerella. And nothing made sense.

—Look at my throat, the voice insisted. It hurts. Make it stop hurting.

There was a moment of silence then—but only the briefest of moments. Soon, there was another sound permeating the air—this one much more intimate than the voice of the mysterious stranger, much closer, inside Nellie’s own head. A girl’s voice. A girl singing.

I’m remembering this girl’s memories, Nellie thought, and listened to the song.



Little Baby Roundabout,

Someone let the Baby out,

And now, sweet Babe, it’s time for bed,

So close your eyes and rest your head…



A child.

A child’s mind. She was in the mind of a little girl. Some—

—Kellerella—

A scream pierced the darkness of her mind. The image behind the membranous screen disintegrated into a million shimmering particles of dust, shattered by the terror of that scream. As if in reflex, the old woman’s body hitched yet again, only this time in reverse of the process, and she felt the searing frigidity of those icy, make-believe fingers slowly extricating themselves from the sleeve of her body. It was a feeling akin to pain—perhaps the closest a human being can rationalize and distinguish pain that occurs purely within their subconscious—and upon conclusion of its torturous withdrawal, the old woman felt tremendously weak.

The sound of something snapping—wood or plastic or whatever it was—was the only remaining sound that followed her out of her nightmare. And when she awoke in her own bed in the middle of the night, Nellie Worthridge feared she might just suffer a heart attack and die.



Carlos Mendes had always considered himself a religious man. Therefore, praying wasn’t something alien to him. With ease, he could recall childhood memories of his mother and aunt huddled at the foot of the altar at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, their heads reverently bowed, the murmur of their individual prayers rising with practiced synchronism. He’d been raised to believe in things greater than himself and, despite the daily horrors he had become familiar with throughout his medical career, he’d never once questioned the presence of God. And often, such daily tragedies actually helped strengthen his belief: that in the wake of such suffering there were people who still believed in God, or a god, and that was amazing to him and proof beyond anything else that God was real. And no matter what, he’d always managed to find comfort in such proof.

Yet staring at his wife while she slept in bed, the cold trickle of pale blue moonlight accentuating the curve and swell of her form, the dark mat of her hair fanned out along both pillows, he began to have doubts. Suddenly, the prayers of two tired women at the feet of a stone Jesus no longer seemed significant—did not even seem to make any sense to him at all. Now, recalling that memory and a hundred others alike, Carlos became disturbed by the feeling of utter emptiness that now seemed to accompany it. Like a stigma, an irreversible wrongdoing with a loud voice. People suffered and died every day and that, in its own humble way, confirmed God; and now something bigger had landed, something Carlos could not possibly explain or even begin to comprehend…and he just now realized how weak the bridge really was. That the words of an elderly shaman could slowly squeeze the lifeblood from his entire world in so brief a time frame was frightening. And thinking of nonspecific cancers and suffocating children and countless other incurable malignancies rampant in this world now startled him, made him blink and wonder how he could have ever believed in such a fairy tale, in such a God. A God that loved and a God that hated. A God that breathed life only to take it away just as effortlessly.

Who is really out there? he thought, surprised by the depth of his passion. Who? What? Anything at all?

On the bed Marie sighed and shifted position. “Carlito,” she whispered.

Her voice startled him. “Did I wake you?”

“Why are you standing in the doorway?” she said.

“I was watching you sleep.”

“You are a strange man. Muy loco.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“Take pills.”

“Pills don’t work.”

He heard laughter in her voice. “And you are a doctor-doctor-doctor,” she said teasingly. He wondered now if he were dreaming. “I was thinking that we don’t have a television in here.”