Karen grumbled to herself as she walked down the hall, rubbing her eyes as if trying to pop them out of their sore sockets. Her attire of wrinkled sweatpants, a stained tank top and slippers revealed that she had been rudely awakened, probably by the sirens that wailed adamantly throughout the building, accompanied by flashing red lights. It was an over-dramatic show, if you asked her. This was, what, the third time this had happened this month?
Karen deliberately took her time in reaching the off button for the alarm. If it woke me up, might as well let it annoy everyone else, she thought moodily. It's always in the middle of the night, too. What's up with that? Finally, she pressed her thumb to the scanner, giving the order to turn off the siren and lights. Once the barrage on her senses had ceased, she briefly considered going back to bed. It would serve him right, living in a decayed body until he healed. Surly, it could wait a few more hours? But then again, she didn't much fancy the idea of kitchen duty for a year, or any of the other punishments they might inflict. Longing for sleep, she shuffled her way to the locked, heavy iron, reinforced monster of a door that was the entrance to Jack's room.
There was no need for fingerprints here. A small, doorbell like button opened it from the outside. The security was not to keep visitors out; it was to keep Jack in.
As she entered, not opening the door wider than she needed to, she wondered how he had done it this time.
As soon as she was in the room, she saw. It was hard to miss anything in the sparse room with heavily padded walls. It wasn't exactly cluttered. Everything there was white, to 'soothe' him. Even his clothes, a small pile of which lay in a corner, were made of soft, white cotton.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a low cot, the blankets of which he had tied together to make a rope.
"Bed-sheet hanging," Karen nodded, as she watched Jack's body spin limply as it dangled from a light fixture. "An oldie but a goodie. Surprised he never tried it before today, to be honest."
Her eyes drifted around the room until she spotted it. Hovering in the corner, shaded a light blue, was his soul. It was unable to escape, due to the heavy traces of the element Tansium in the cushions. Tansium was the only known substance to hold back souls once freed from their bodies. It did for souls what iron did for fairies- contained them.
Karen jogged the few steps to the soul, then hopped to grab it. She managed to grab the edge of it on her first try.
I'm getting better at this, was her first thought. Her second thought was, Well, I should be good at it! He must have done this a hundred times by now.
Once his soul was in her grasp, she turned her attention to the body. She dragged his bed over to where he hung, then stood on it to reach the rope. She gave it several hard tugs until finally, the rope, and the body attached to it, fell to the ground. Karen hopped off the bed and removed the rope from Jack's neck. All business, she rolled him onto his back and opened his mouth. She dripped the soul in her fists, compressing it, forcing it tightly together. Then she took the soul and shoved it roughly down his throat, into his body. She held his mouth closed and squeezed his nose shut with one hand, while rubbing it down his throat with the other. She took no pleasure in remembering the fact that she was the only person on Earth who could do this. At the moment, the only thing that meant to her was that she had to be called down every single time he died, because no one else could help.
Once the soul was shoved down his gullet, she sat back and waited. Just a few seconds later, his eyes blinked open and he took a shuddering breath. He sat up, moaning. He rubbed a hand through his dark brown hair, delaying the moment when he would have to look Karen in the face. No matter how many times he did this, he always seemed embarrassed. When he spoke, his first question was,
"How long was I out?"
Karen knew he would ask this, so she had the answer prepared.
"About twenty minutes. No record breaker, but you've done worse."
He nodded, staring at the middle of the floor in front of him. His expression was totally unreadable. Then, after an awkward silence, he looked at Karen out of the corner of his eye.
"You want to know why I do this so often." This was not a question. It was a statement.
"Well, yeah. Everyone does," she admitted.
"I know they do," Jack said, letting out a slow sigh. "I know everything they think." He abruptly changed topics, repeating something he said often. "You don't know what that's like."
An angry fire grew in his eyes. Karen started to consider moving out of striking range.
Jack chuckled. "Like, right now, I know you're scared of me. You think I might hit you. Even though I've never seriously hurt anyone besides myself, you'll all scared of me."
"That's not true," Karen offered weakly.
Jack snorted and stood up. Though he was only fourteen, he looked so old as he walked slowly to the cot and sat down gently on it.
"You should know by now, you can't lie to me."
He paused for a moment, as if trying to rediscover his train of thought.
"No one knows what it's like for me. No one else in the world has this... this 'power'."
After creating the air quotes with his fingers, he dropped his hands to his sides. Karen moved up onto the bed with him, hoping to offer some comfort.
"Explain it to me, then, if no one understands."
He bit his lip, then decided to talk.
"What I mean is, everyone knows, in an abstract sense, that some people are hiding the fact that they don't like them. They know that at least some people are giving them fake compliments. But imagine, hearing every single thing anyone thinks of you, good or bad. Imagine hearing the insults they would never dare to say aloud. And when I sleep..." He shudders, "Have I ever told you this? I dream of other people's nightmares. Never their dreams. Always the nightmares. Beats me why. You'd think it would be easier, to dream someone else's fears, to be more removed. But it's not, because on top of whatever emotion the nightmare creates, you have the confusion of not being sure what's going on, and the strong, persuasive feeling that you just don't belong there.
He shook his head slowly, and Karen realized he was talking more to himself than to her.
"Some of the thoughts were good, in the beginning. They thought I really was a Chosen, that I would protect them from evil, or whatever. And why? Why did they think I could do it? Because of this?"
Angrily, he held up his left hand, showing the oval-shaped gem embedded in his palm. It was the lightest of blues, just like his soul. It was so clear, you could see through it, to the veins and muscle in his hand. It was surrounded by dark, cryptic marks that looked a bit like a picture frame. The marks appeared to be tattooed there, but it was actually a birthmark, just the the gem itself. Karen watched in fascination as his pulse was displayed. Her own gem was a dark purple, too dark to see through. She pushed the strap of her tank top off her shoulder, revealing her own gem, also surrounded with a dark frame. Sometimes, she felt this mark was the only thing the two of them had in common.
Jack lowered the hand to rest on the cot, hiding the mark.
"Well," said Karen, "It's hard to argue with a prophecy."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I mean, I've seen the vision-"
"You can see visions?" Karen was shocked. Why hadn't he told her this?
"No, no," Jack quickly corrected. "I've read the minds of prophets while they're having the vision, is what I mean. It's fairly specific, more specific than most, and it's exactly the same no matter who's having it. I'm not trying to argue with the prophecy, just..."
He moaned, folding his hands around his face. Unbidden, a line from the prophecy popped into his mind.
An evil comes, unseen, unheard,
Four Chosen ones will save our world.
Though their powers are given at birth,
It will take time to prove their worth.
"I'm just tired of life," he said, defeated.
"So, you try to end it," Karen concluded.
"No," Jack said again, surprising her. He leaned back on his elbows and continued to talk, staring up at the ceiling his body had hung from just a few minutes ago.
"I mean, the first time it happened, when I was ten... that time, I was really trying to end it. But once I realized that you would always bring me back to my body, I've never done it with the intent to really end anything."
He looked over at Karen, responding to her thoughts.
"And no, it's not just for the attention. Almost everyone thinks that- anyone who doesn't assume it's for attention just thinks I'm insane."
"Why do you do it, then?"
Jack turned to look Karen in the eye. He spoke slowly and earnestly.
"When I'm dead, for however long it takes you to get to me, I can't read minds. Not at all. And after that, I can keep thoughts out for a while."
A far away, happy look drifts into his eyes.
"I can't see or hear, either, but I can think my own thoughts, without being surrounded by..."
He couldn't think of how to quite end the sentence, so he just shook his head slowly.
He stopped talking and tried to clear his head, which was a mistake. When there was nothing else to distract him, the thoughts he had been trying not to hear burst into his mind. He visibly winced as the thoughts quickly returned, as if eager to restart what had been so rudely interrupted twenty-five minuets ago. Thoughts made themselves known, clamoring to be payed attention to.
A guard down the hall was wondering what was taking Karen so long. He wondered if the boy had actually died this time. He sure hoped so- that kid was bad for the media.
One twenty year-old woman cried angrily in her room at the news that her boyfriend had been cheating.
Miles away, a boy was lost in a strip mall. He had just watched his mother drive off.
A man in the surveillance room glanced at the screens that showed Jack's cell. He praised himself for hiding the cameras so well, even the psychic guy didn't know where they were. At least, he never looked straight at 'em.
Grief, annoyance, anger, boredom, hate, and worry all sent his brain into an overload. There were other things, too; happiness, pride, contentment, but they were easily overtaken by the darker emotions.
It took longer than usual for Jack to regain control of his own head. When he did, he was laying on the floor, with his hands desperately clutching at his scull, as if trying to pry it open and dig the other thoughts out. When he pulled his hands away, clumps of hair came with them. Karen was gone; the door was locked. He was alone. Again. There was no clock in the room, so he had no idea how long it had taken. He moaned, slowly sitting up, staring sadly at the door. Other people's thoughts buzzed in the back of his mind.
A few minutes later, he began to wonder how long it would take food left in a mattress to turn poisonous.
What Doesn't Kill You Makes a Monster
(to the tune of 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger')
Under the bed is horror,
Lurking here, alone.
And while you dream in color,
Your flesh is what I want.
You think you've got best of me,
But I'll have the last laugh,
Once you realize that all of your limbs are gone!
'Think that I'm now dead and done,
Think I won't come lurking back!
Child, you don't know me 'cuz you're dead wrong!
What doesn't kill you makes a monster!
Slink a little lower!
Doesn't mean it's finished, cuz I'm gone!
What doesn't kill you makes you bolder,
Sharp teeth even sharper!
Doesn't mean you're safe now, all alone!
You heard that I was starting over with a victim, new...
You heard their scream in the night and was glad it wasn't you.
You didn't think that I'd come back-
I'd come back prowling.
You tried to lose me but you see;
What doesn't kill you makes a monster,
Slink a little lower.
Doesn't mean it's finished, cuz I'm gone!
What doesn't kill you makes you bolder,
Sharp teeth even sharper!
Doesn't mean you're safe now, all alone.
Doesn't mean it's finished, cuz I'm gone!
What doesn't kill you makes you bolder,
Sharp teeth even sharper!
Doesn't mean you're safe now, all alone.
I've got the taste of flesh!
What doesn't kill you makes you bolder,
Sharp teeth even sharper,
Doesn't mean it's finished, cuz I'm gone...
Because I'm gone...
She-Who-Soon-Shall-Be-Named (finished)
This one's for you, Madalyn!
I raise a concerned eyebrow as I see the story play out in front of my on the mirror. It's quite the impressive scene, really. Both men, (it's hard for me to think of either of them as men; the one is too young for these things, and my older brother is barely alive, to begin with,) fight bravely, holding their wands in front of them like swords. Their lips move in some spells- I have no doubt they're powerful, legendary, coveted, ho-hum, tell me something I don't see every day. Streams of fire shoot from both wand tips and I lean forward a little in my seat. I already know how this will play out, of course, but it's still exiting. I never thought that boy was really dead, not for a minute. My friends gasped when he began to move again, but I just rolled my eyes. If my dim-witted brother can cheat death, it only seems logical that the star student of Hogwarts could pull it off, too.
I recall the dramatic words they exchanged before this duel started. They talked about love, life, death, and such. I cracked a smile then. My brother always had a tendency toward flair, and the boy shared that trait. I swear, neither of them has taken anything lightly in their life.
Light flashed back and forth between them- I don't know the technicalities, someone will explain them later- and then my brother falls. He quickly becomes nothing but a pile of ash. My throat grows tight. When there is no trace of him left, the mirror goes dark.
"So, that's it then?"
When I hear how weak my voice sounds, I quickly clear my throat and try to sound more official.
"Are we sure he's really gone? This isn't another ploy?"
I knew it wasn't a ploy. They wouldn't have made such a big deal of it if it was. But I needed that conformation.
One of the wizards stands up.
"Yes, we're quite sure." He dips his head. "I'm sorry."
I take a shuddering breath.
"Don't be. He had a good run; most powerful dark wizard ever, and all that."
Sad smiles abound.
My hands are sweating, so I slowly wipe them on my skirt. A few of the wizards and witches around the table look pointedly at my empty hands. I know what they're thinking. It's a thought that they must think often.
They look at my hands because I hold no wand; I haven't touched a wand in years. Decades, now that I think of it.
The reason why I have no wand is simple, really. My brother, Tom, had unimaginable power. But I... I guess you could say I take after my father.
I'm a squib. I have no magical power, but that doesn't mean I'm defenseless.
While my brother was out in the world of wizardry, chasing after impossible spells, I was doing something good with my life.
I am the head of an organization we call the Conjoining. I currently sit at a long, battered oak table. I haven't mentioned them yet, but muggles sit here with me. There are equal amounts of wizards/witches and muggles on our team, and only one squib. Me.
Our goal is lofty; to combine the worlds of the wizards and the muggles into one, practically Utopian society. Both sides have so much to offer one another. Imagine muggle engineers being able to create microchips powered by spells? Or on the other hand, imagine how much more accurate information could be taken from the stars if you replaced wizards hand-drawn star charts with images from the Hubble?
The wizard world has gone to great lengths to ensure that muggles never find them, but we believe it is time to join the worlds together.
Of course, there are some connections. The Ministry of Magic informs the Prime Minister of their existence. But that isn't enough. Not even close.
Our plan has many stages, but the first one is simple.
The muggles simply won't accept us if we announce ourselves loudly. So we need to start small.
I turn to one of the woman muggles on our team. Joanne. Oh, how I love her. She plans on using the pen name J. K. Rowling.
"Are you still working on the manuscript?" I ask her.
She nods, and I can't hold back a grin, even in light of recent news.
We're ready for a revolution.
Look out worlds, here we come.
I raise a concerned eyebrow as I see the story play out in front of my on the mirror. It's quite the impressive scene, really. Both men, (it's hard for me to think of either of them as men; the one is too young for these things, and my older brother is barely alive, to begin with,) fight bravely, holding their wands in front of them like swords. Their lips move in some spells- I have no doubt they're powerful, legendary, coveted, ho-hum, tell me something I don't see every day. Streams of fire shoot from both wand tips and I lean forward a little in my seat. I already know how this will play out, of course, but it's still exiting. I never thought that boy was really dead, not for a minute. My friends gasped when he began to move again, but I just rolled my eyes. If my dim-witted brother can cheat death, it only seems logical that the star student of Hogwarts could pull it off, too.
I recall the dramatic words they exchanged before this duel started. They talked about love, life, death, and such. I cracked a smile then. My brother always had a tendency toward flair, and the boy shared that trait. I swear, neither of them has taken anything lightly in their life.
Light flashed back and forth between them- I don't know the technicalities, someone will explain them later- and then my brother falls. He quickly becomes nothing but a pile of ash. My throat grows tight. When there is no trace of him left, the mirror goes dark.
"So, that's it then?"
When I hear how weak my voice sounds, I quickly clear my throat and try to sound more official.
"Are we sure he's really gone? This isn't another ploy?"
I knew it wasn't a ploy. They wouldn't have made such a big deal of it if it was. But I needed that conformation.
One of the wizards stands up.
"Yes, we're quite sure." He dips his head. "I'm sorry."
I take a shuddering breath.
"Don't be. He had a good run; most powerful dark wizard ever, and all that."
Sad smiles abound.
My hands are sweating, so I slowly wipe them on my skirt. A few of the wizards and witches around the table look pointedly at my empty hands. I know what they're thinking. It's a thought that they must think often.
They look at my hands because I hold no wand; I haven't touched a wand in years. Decades, now that I think of it.
The reason why I have no wand is simple, really. My brother, Tom, had unimaginable power. But I... I guess you could say I take after my father.
I'm a squib. I have no magical power, but that doesn't mean I'm defenseless.
While my brother was out in the world of wizardry, chasing after impossible spells, I was doing something good with my life.
I am the head of an organization we call the Conjoining. I currently sit at a long, battered oak table. I haven't mentioned them yet, but muggles sit here with me. There are equal amounts of wizards/witches and muggles on our team, and only one squib. Me.
Our goal is lofty; to combine the worlds of the wizards and the muggles into one, practically Utopian society. Both sides have so much to offer one another. Imagine muggle engineers being able to create microchips powered by spells? Or on the other hand, imagine how much more accurate information could be taken from the stars if you replaced wizards hand-drawn star charts with images from the Hubble?
The wizard world has gone to great lengths to ensure that muggles never find them, but we believe it is time to join the worlds together.
Of course, there are some connections. The Ministry of Magic informs the Prime Minister of their existence. But that isn't enough. Not even close.
Our plan has many stages, but the first one is simple.
The muggles simply won't accept us if we announce ourselves loudly. So we need to start small.
I turn to one of the woman muggles on our team. Joanne. Oh, how I love her. She plans on using the pen name J. K. Rowling.
"Are you still working on the manuscript?" I ask her.
She nods, and I can't hold back a grin, even in light of recent news.
We're ready for a revolution.
Look out worlds, here we come.
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