Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down (Part 1)
By Annie Lerch
***
There’s a pretty girl standing in the corner of the club, leaning against the wall in a confident slouch. Her pretty brown hair whips lightly around her face in the breeze from the open door. Her magic is creating an aura, denoting her as the most powerful one there, the one to impress. Her face is relaxed, eyes shining, lips smiling, carefree, as she laughs at the antics of the boys and girls trying to impress her. Their magic fills the air, showy and joyous; immature, but not in any negative way, just teenagers being teenagers. She takes the hand of one of the girls; small, slim, spiky jet hair, short tartan skirt, and thigh-high lace-up boots, and they rush into the crowd and the music, laughing, kissing, and dancing.
This scene can be found anywhere and everywhere, in parks, in schools, in bars, in homes, in clubs. Pretty boys and pretty girls are laughing, kissing, dancing, enjoying their pretty lives and happy magic. Every one of them has a story, but this is not that story.
This is my story, and it is ugly, and it is beautiful, and there is nothing merely “pretty” about it.
***
Steph Conners is a girl in my class; she is gorgeous with blond hair, green eyes, a wicked smile, and killer legs. Everyone either wants her, wants to be her, or wants to hate her. And she is dancing with me.
Swaying back and forth to the beat of the music, she raises her arms above her head, dancing, before lowing them around my neck, pulling me closer. The heat is intense, and hers is not the only body pressed up against me, although the others are paying attention to their respective dance partners. No one’s guard is up and everyone’s magic fills the air, mingling above and around us. It’s intoxicating.
The songs ends, and in the interim I pull Steph closer and press my mouth to hers. She smiles lazily into the kiss and returns it before we both pull away as the next song starts. A few songs later she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I head over to the bar where I see a friend of mine from the soccer team. I’m having a good time tonight.
“Hey! Seth, my man! Saw you getting some action on the dance floor with a fine piece of tail. Steph Conners, nice. ” Brett says appreciatively as I reach the bar and ask for a water.
I roll my eyes before saying, “She’s a person, Brett, not an object.”
He laughs, “I know, man, I’m kidding; she’s a friend of mine. Hey, I could talk to her for you if you’re interested in something more permanent.”
I muse on that for a moment before reality slams back into me, reminding me of why permanent is not an option right now. Trying to pull myself out of those thoughts, I catch the end of what Brett is saying,
“—Course I’d want you to introduce me to that Calvin friend of yours, I’m a sucker for those dark and brooding types.”
I follow Brett’s gaze and see my best friend Calvin near the wall, talking to some girl. Calvin is 6’3” with lean muscles and dark hair that’s just long enough to fall in his eyes. He’s dressed in dark colors, and his pale skin is turning red, purple, green with the flashing lights of the club. Next to me, Brett is still babbling on,
“You know what they say, opposites attract and all that.”
I laugh softly and glance at Brett. He’s tall, but not at tall as Calvin, and solid muscle with short blond hair and a light-hearted, outgoing personality. “He isn’t all that brooding you know, just sort of shy. Besides I think he’s going with Amy Randall right now,” I say to Brett. That isn’t true; Cal stopped seeing Amy about two weeks ago, but I didn’t want to tell Brett that neither of us was going to be around for the next while.
“Ah, well, perhaps in the future. How ‘bout that game yesterday?” he says changing the subject.
I try to follow the conversation, but all the worry and sick I came here to escape are churning right underneath the surface. I’m having a hard time concentrating, and the heat of the club is becoming unpleasant. I glance around, Steph is making her way over to the bar, stopping here and there to talk to friends of hers. My eyes settle on Calvin again and he glances away from the girl, a small smile on his lips, and looks at me. The smile disappears instantly and he pushes off the wall in my direction. The girl doesn’t seem to mind as she melts back into the crowd.
Calvin has been my best friend since we were kids. He knows me better than anyone, so it doesn’t surprise me that he can see the state I’m in, even though no one else can tell. He reaches the bar, and says to me, “You ready to go?”
I nod, and we begin to head to the door.
“Oh, hey Calvin—“ I hear Brett begin to say.
“Brett,” Calvin acknowledges, cutting him off before continuing to the door with me.
***
We’re walking in the parking lot back to my car, leaving the lights and the noise of the club behind.
“You alright?” Calvin asks, “You didn’t look so good back there.”
“Yeah, sorry. Just worried, you know.” I run a hand through my hair as I fish through the pockets of my jacket, looking for my car keys. I find them and attempt to unlock the door before dropping them into a puddle by my foot. “Crap,” I mutter.
“Are you drunk?” Calvin asks, not meanly, just concerned.
“What? No, maybe a little buzzed from all the magic in there still.” I’m fumbling on the ground for my keys. Loose bits of dirt and grit are sticking to my fingers in the puddle. I wish I had a paper towel.
“Maybe I should drive, yeah?” Calvin offers.
“Ok. Yeah, sure.” I hand him the keys and walk around to the passengers’ side of the car, climbing in clumsily. I rest my head back against the seat, exhausted.
“I thought we were going to forget about everything tonight and just have some fun.”
“That was the plan, I just… Anywhere I go, someone just says something, could be totally innocent and unrelated, and the reality of the situation just comes crashing back to me. And Calvin, I don’t know what to do, anymore.” I feel tears choking me up, maybe I am drunk.
“Hey, hey, we’re doing everything we can. We’re leaving for your Dad’s tomorrow. We are going to get her help.” He rests an arm on the seat back near my head. I look over at him, my eyes stinging with tears. He’s looking at me with concern plain on his face, “Seth—“
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale noisily, “You’re right. I know. I know. God, I hate this.” I feel Calvin’s fingers brush against my shoulder in silent support. I let my hands fall to my lap, “We should go.”
Calvin gives me a last searching look, before nodding slightly and squeezing my shoulder. He turns to the steering wheel and turns the keys in the ignition. I lean my head against the passenger window as we pull out of the parking lot and head back to my house. Somewhere along the drive it starts to rain; big, fat drops hit the window and roll down it one by one until it picks up and the spattering of each raindrop becomes indistinguishable from the next.
We finally pull into my driveway, the softly crunching gravel and the opening and closing of the car doors are the only sounds that penetrate the crisp night air. The rain has slowed down to a drizzle, and I barely feel it in my walk from the car to the house. We slip our shoes off just inside the door. Calvin heads to the linen closet to get some spare sheets for the couch in my room. I head down the hallway to the door at the end.
Easing it open gently, I step quietly into the room and move over to the bed and its single occupant. My sister, Ash, is sleeping. Her skin is grey and dry, her face sunken, and her hair lank. There is an angry red bubble of magic sealed over her mouth and nose, keeping her breathing. Her arms are resting on top of her blanket, bruised yellow and blue. This is how she’s looked for the better part of four months, that she looks the same now as she did a few hours ago is a good sign. It means she hasn’t gotten worse.
I pull the comforter up to cover her more, and reach out a hand to push a strand of hair off her forehead. Her eyes flutter slightly open at the touch.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say softly, withdrawing my hand.
“Been sleeping for a long time anyway. Did you have a good time out, tonight?” her voice is so soft that it’s barely a whisper.
No, I was worrying about you. “I did. It’s nearly midnight now, and we’re leaving for Dad’s in the morning. You should get some rest.” I make a move to leave.
“Seth. You worried about me the whole night.” Ash rolls her eyes, and I hear the exasperation in her voice. “You don’t have to, you know. Chances are I won’t get spontaneously better in a few random hours.” That’s a joke, and I smile for her sake, but I can’t stand there any longer.
“Go back to sleep, Ash,” I whisper.
I barely hear her as I flee the room, “You can live your life for you, Seth, don’t live it for me.”
I reach my room and the couch is still empty; Calvin is in the shower. I strip off my clothes, hasty to be rid of the stale and sweaty garments, and promptly collapse onto my bed.
I wake in the night, my face damp, throat thick with emotion. There’s a hand on my arm from Calvin shaking me awake. I look over at him instinctually, not yet fully divorced from the hauntings of my sleeping mind. “Nightmare,” he says. He pushes me over and I go without resistance, not thinking. When he begins to climb into the bed, I must look confused, because he says, “You’re a wreck.”
He pulls the covers up and turns his back to me. I settle against him, back-to-back, slightly reassured, and fall into a restless sleep.
***
I reach out unthinkingly to hit the snooze button; my automatic and immediate response upon waking. When I don’t hear the quickly aborted chimes sound from the clock, I glance over to check the time. It does not read “6:00,” the time at which I have trained myself to wake up, but instead “4:30.” I groan softly before rolling over. My legs get twisted in the sheets, and Calvin kicks me in his sleep. I think he’s drooled a bit on the pillow. I smile at this before getting up, knowing that I won’t be able to fall asleep again.
On my way out of the room, I grab a blanket off the couch and wrap it around my shoulders. It’s slightly chilly in the house and I’m only wearing boxers. Ambling through the dark and silent house I make my way to the kitchen to hunt down the last vestiges of stale cereal that I know are around somewhere.
It’s even colder in the kitchen. Mom must have forgotten to pay the heating bill before she— I shake my head, I don’t want to think about that now.
I clasp my hands together, concentrating, calling up my magic to produce some heat. A soft orange glow forms around my hands and slowly spreads across my body bringing heat with it. The glow fades eventually, but the layer of warmth remains, cocoon-like. I don’t let go of the blanket though; my mom made it for me when I was born.
Clutching the blanket, but no longer chilled, I shuffle a little sleepily to the cabinets. The creaking when I open them up cuts through the silence in the house. A lone cereal box sits on a shelf, less than half full, its corners crumpled by age. I grab a bowl and spoon from the counter and eat the stale cereal, not enough; I am still hungry once I’m finished, but I need to save some for Calvin. I leave the box of cereal out, and go to move my dishes to the sink.
Unbidden, a memory of my mom saying “Don’t forget to put your dishes away!” comes to mind, and I clench the spoon tightly in my hand. I am reminded of how much I miss her. And how I might never see her again. Clutching the blanket more tightly around me, I sit down hard on a stool. Memories of Mom comes swimming to the surface. I glance over at the kitchen table where a note sits on the corner. I haven’t touched anything on the table since I read it the day she disappeared, a little over a week ago.
Seth and Ash—
Had to go in early today. We needed to proof the proposal one last time before we present. Today’s the day! Wish me luck! They have to listen to us this time, with the proof we have… Well, anyway, I’ll be home by 5:30 at the latest. Seth, if you could drop by the store on your way home from school and pickup some stuff for dinner? Love you both. See you tonight,
--Mom
My mom is—was—is, I don’t even know anymore, a Medical Magic researcher for the government. For the past two years her team has been investigating a rare disease that seems to only plague people with high levels of innate magic. Everyone is born with magic, we always have been. Human society was built on it. Some people are more powerful than others, they might even have special Gifts, like Sight or Meteorological Manipulation, but this is nothing new. This disease on the other hand—this disease is new; it wracks the Gifted ones’ bodies with pain, throwing them into agony, turning their bodies and magic against them while they waste away.
We are told that we are lucky that magical power does not necessarily coincide with societal power. We are told that we are lucky that this disease did not take anyone who is plays “integral part in running this country” (in the words of the media). We are told that it is not an epidemic, because so few people are affected. We are told that it cannot and will not spread to most people. We are told that perhaps it is a good thing these powerful people are dying, because what if they became dangerous, who would be able to stop them. We are told these things to allay our fears.
But I am afraid.
I don’t think we are lucky; it might become an epidemic; who are “most people” and why won’t it spread; what does it matter if a few people might become dangerous?
My mother and her team felt the same way, and so they strove to find answers and a cure. They asked the questions no one else would, and they fought tooth and nail through every road block they faced. People that are powerful enough to be affected are few and far between, so funding for research was tight. There were no answers or help offered by superiors because there was no danger or cause for alarm, they said. Bull. My mom thought so too. That’s why her team worked so hard on this.
But then it became personal, because Ash got sick. She’s strong and powerful, magically, but she’s not Gifted. It seemed as though the disease was spreading to the next tier of power for no reason at all. As the research went on many people working on it “moved,” or were “promoted,” or began “working on other things.” Still others just disappeared, as if someone was trying to say, “That’s what you get for asking questions.” As the team became shorter and shorter staffed, the job of looking after Ash fell to me. I didn’t mind and it wasn’t a chore; she was my younger sister and she needed me, but watching someone you love die is never easy and takes its toll nevertheless.
I look over at the note on the table, and remember coming home from the store at five that day. Five-thirty came and went, and then so did six and seven. By nine I knew my mom was gone. I remember trying to keep it together as I walked down the hall to Ash’s room to wake her up and tell her that Mom was gone.
I had sat at the side of the bed, holding her hand. I was in such shock that I didn’t notice she was trying to sit up and I didn’t think to help her. Her rasping breath finally caught my attention, and I handed her the cup of water with a straw on her bedside table. She lifted her arms to hold it, but they fell back to bed halfway to the cup, exhausted. I held it for her as she sipped slowly. Putting it back on the table, I looked her in the eyes and said, “Mom’s gone. They made her disappear like they did to Dr. Liu and Mr. Hobart. I don’t… I don’t know what to do, if we can do…” I had trailed off not knowing what else to say. My hands had been shaking.
Ash had started to cry. Never once through her illness had she cried. Sometimes when she was in pain, tears would leak from her eyes and she would curse and whimper then. But she never despaired about her condition. She didn’t have much hope for herself either; her optimism lay in Mom’s project for helping future generations. She joked about getting better and dying all the time.
No, these tears were not about herself or the project or a cure, but about a very sick girl in so much pain who just wanted her mom. Her mom who she would never see again, who would never hold her through spasms of unendurable agony again, who would never say “I love you, little one” again. And so my sister cried, great, heaving sobs, that made her frail, wasted body shudder and quake, and I could do nothing but sit there and stare dumbly at my shaking hands, because this was one thing too much.
I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, but I must have called our dad to tell him what had happened, and Calvin, and a doctor.
That was the last time Ash was able to breathe without the assistance of a breathing bubble, the angry red magic that was now sealed over her mouth.
I shake myself out of the memory and notice that my magic, in my distress, has created a small wind that is whistling throughout the kitchen, making the cupboards creak slightly and tousling my hair. I am usually more in control of my emotions that this and I struggle to bring down the wind. I am no longer warm. I head to the shower, trying to prepare myself for our journey to Dad’s house.
***
The morning sun is just now rising and we’ve been on the road for an hour. Its light, a sickly yellow-grey, brings no joy to our somber car as we soldier on toward my dad’s mountain home. Cal is driving and I’m sitting, half-twisted around, in the passenger seat so I can keep an eye on Ash.
She’s laid out on the back bench, the red breathing bubble pulsing lightly with each shallow breath she takes. Her medicinal magic, dissolved in an aqueous solution, purple and swirling, drips steadily into the make-shift IV we’ve rigged up in the backseat. She moves slightly now and again, shifting unconsciously in her sleep. That she has the energy to do so is a good sign. I pray that this trip won’t tax her too much and hope that if she can hold out until Dad’s house that he’ll have answers or help.
Our parents separated when we were younger; I was about eight and Ash was six or seven. They had never really seemed like a married couple to me, compared to my friends’ parents, but rather like really close friends. It was an amicable split, and Dad didn’t move far away until we were older. He is a Scientist, meaning he studies “fringe magic;” stuff that is considered more fairy-tale than reality. There are no answers in the magic, and trying to find them only leads to trouble and pain (Mom), so maybe turning to this science will lend to some success.
Calvin pulls over a few hours later for a pit stop and refueling. When he’s inside the restroom, I open the back door to empty out the catheter bag my sister now uses. It’s not weird for us; I’ve been her nursemaid for a while now, but I figure that waiting until Calvin was inside would give her some not-unwanted privacy.
He comes back to car as I finish and begins to fill up the gas tank as I head to the restroom myself.
When I return to the car, I step up beside him at the pump.
“You want me to pay?” I ask.
“Nah, I already got it. But if you want to drive this leg, I wouldn’t mind,” he responds.
“Yeah. Sure.” I glance into the backseat. Ash is still sleeping.
“I’ll keep an eye on her, and I’m sure you’ll be using the rearview mirror too.”
I nod, knowing that he will. I take a breath and turn to him, “Thank you, you know, for coming with me. It really means a lot.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just slips his hand into mine, and squeezes slightly, “Always.”
I nod again, not trusting my voice. I grip his hand back briefly, before dropping it as we move back to the car. It’s an out of place gesture, not unwelcome, but unprecedented. I realize I don’t mind and slide into the seat behind the wheel. Starting the car, I prepare myself for another several hours of driving.
By Annie Lerch
***
There’s a pretty girl standing in the corner of the club, leaning against the wall in a confident slouch. Her pretty brown hair whips lightly around her face in the breeze from the open door. Her magic is creating an aura, denoting her as the most powerful one there, the one to impress. Her face is relaxed, eyes shining, lips smiling, carefree, as she laughs at the antics of the boys and girls trying to impress her. Their magic fills the air, showy and joyous; immature, but not in any negative way, just teenagers being teenagers. She takes the hand of one of the girls; small, slim, spiky jet hair, short tartan skirt, and thigh-high lace-up boots, and they rush into the crowd and the music, laughing, kissing, and dancing.
This scene can be found anywhere and everywhere, in parks, in schools, in bars, in homes, in clubs. Pretty boys and pretty girls are laughing, kissing, dancing, enjoying their pretty lives and happy magic. Every one of them has a story, but this is not that story.
This is my story, and it is ugly, and it is beautiful, and there is nothing merely “pretty” about it.
***
Steph Conners is a girl in my class; she is gorgeous with blond hair, green eyes, a wicked smile, and killer legs. Everyone either wants her, wants to be her, or wants to hate her. And she is dancing with me.
Swaying back and forth to the beat of the music, she raises her arms above her head, dancing, before lowing them around my neck, pulling me closer. The heat is intense, and hers is not the only body pressed up against me, although the others are paying attention to their respective dance partners. No one’s guard is up and everyone’s magic fills the air, mingling above and around us. It’s intoxicating.
The songs ends, and in the interim I pull Steph closer and press my mouth to hers. She smiles lazily into the kiss and returns it before we both pull away as the next song starts. A few songs later she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I head over to the bar where I see a friend of mine from the soccer team. I’m having a good time tonight.
“Hey! Seth, my man! Saw you getting some action on the dance floor with a fine piece of tail. Steph Conners, nice. ” Brett says appreciatively as I reach the bar and ask for a water.
I roll my eyes before saying, “She’s a person, Brett, not an object.”
He laughs, “I know, man, I’m kidding; she’s a friend of mine. Hey, I could talk to her for you if you’re interested in something more permanent.”
I muse on that for a moment before reality slams back into me, reminding me of why permanent is not an option right now. Trying to pull myself out of those thoughts, I catch the end of what Brett is saying,
“—Course I’d want you to introduce me to that Calvin friend of yours, I’m a sucker for those dark and brooding types.”
I follow Brett’s gaze and see my best friend Calvin near the wall, talking to some girl. Calvin is 6’3” with lean muscles and dark hair that’s just long enough to fall in his eyes. He’s dressed in dark colors, and his pale skin is turning red, purple, green with the flashing lights of the club. Next to me, Brett is still babbling on,
“You know what they say, opposites attract and all that.”
I laugh softly and glance at Brett. He’s tall, but not at tall as Calvin, and solid muscle with short blond hair and a light-hearted, outgoing personality. “He isn’t all that brooding you know, just sort of shy. Besides I think he’s going with Amy Randall right now,” I say to Brett. That isn’t true; Cal stopped seeing Amy about two weeks ago, but I didn’t want to tell Brett that neither of us was going to be around for the next while.
“Ah, well, perhaps in the future. How ‘bout that game yesterday?” he says changing the subject.
I try to follow the conversation, but all the worry and sick I came here to escape are churning right underneath the surface. I’m having a hard time concentrating, and the heat of the club is becoming unpleasant. I glance around, Steph is making her way over to the bar, stopping here and there to talk to friends of hers. My eyes settle on Calvin again and he glances away from the girl, a small smile on his lips, and looks at me. The smile disappears instantly and he pushes off the wall in my direction. The girl doesn’t seem to mind as she melts back into the crowd.
Calvin has been my best friend since we were kids. He knows me better than anyone, so it doesn’t surprise me that he can see the state I’m in, even though no one else can tell. He reaches the bar, and says to me, “You ready to go?”
I nod, and we begin to head to the door.
“Oh, hey Calvin—“ I hear Brett begin to say.
“Brett,” Calvin acknowledges, cutting him off before continuing to the door with me.
***
We’re walking in the parking lot back to my car, leaving the lights and the noise of the club behind.
“You alright?” Calvin asks, “You didn’t look so good back there.”
“Yeah, sorry. Just worried, you know.” I run a hand through my hair as I fish through the pockets of my jacket, looking for my car keys. I find them and attempt to unlock the door before dropping them into a puddle by my foot. “Crap,” I mutter.
“Are you drunk?” Calvin asks, not meanly, just concerned.
“What? No, maybe a little buzzed from all the magic in there still.” I’m fumbling on the ground for my keys. Loose bits of dirt and grit are sticking to my fingers in the puddle. I wish I had a paper towel.
“Maybe I should drive, yeah?” Calvin offers.
“Ok. Yeah, sure.” I hand him the keys and walk around to the passengers’ side of the car, climbing in clumsily. I rest my head back against the seat, exhausted.
“I thought we were going to forget about everything tonight and just have some fun.”
“That was the plan, I just… Anywhere I go, someone just says something, could be totally innocent and unrelated, and the reality of the situation just comes crashing back to me. And Calvin, I don’t know what to do, anymore.” I feel tears choking me up, maybe I am drunk.
“Hey, hey, we’re doing everything we can. We’re leaving for your Dad’s tomorrow. We are going to get her help.” He rests an arm on the seat back near my head. I look over at him, my eyes stinging with tears. He’s looking at me with concern plain on his face, “Seth—“
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale noisily, “You’re right. I know. I know. God, I hate this.” I feel Calvin’s fingers brush against my shoulder in silent support. I let my hands fall to my lap, “We should go.”
Calvin gives me a last searching look, before nodding slightly and squeezing my shoulder. He turns to the steering wheel and turns the keys in the ignition. I lean my head against the passenger window as we pull out of the parking lot and head back to my house. Somewhere along the drive it starts to rain; big, fat drops hit the window and roll down it one by one until it picks up and the spattering of each raindrop becomes indistinguishable from the next.
We finally pull into my driveway, the softly crunching gravel and the opening and closing of the car doors are the only sounds that penetrate the crisp night air. The rain has slowed down to a drizzle, and I barely feel it in my walk from the car to the house. We slip our shoes off just inside the door. Calvin heads to the linen closet to get some spare sheets for the couch in my room. I head down the hallway to the door at the end.
Easing it open gently, I step quietly into the room and move over to the bed and its single occupant. My sister, Ash, is sleeping. Her skin is grey and dry, her face sunken, and her hair lank. There is an angry red bubble of magic sealed over her mouth and nose, keeping her breathing. Her arms are resting on top of her blanket, bruised yellow and blue. This is how she’s looked for the better part of four months, that she looks the same now as she did a few hours ago is a good sign. It means she hasn’t gotten worse.
I pull the comforter up to cover her more, and reach out a hand to push a strand of hair off her forehead. Her eyes flutter slightly open at the touch.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say softly, withdrawing my hand.
“Been sleeping for a long time anyway. Did you have a good time out, tonight?” her voice is so soft that it’s barely a whisper.
No, I was worrying about you. “I did. It’s nearly midnight now, and we’re leaving for Dad’s in the morning. You should get some rest.” I make a move to leave.
“Seth. You worried about me the whole night.” Ash rolls her eyes, and I hear the exasperation in her voice. “You don’t have to, you know. Chances are I won’t get spontaneously better in a few random hours.” That’s a joke, and I smile for her sake, but I can’t stand there any longer.
“Go back to sleep, Ash,” I whisper.
I barely hear her as I flee the room, “You can live your life for you, Seth, don’t live it for me.”
I reach my room and the couch is still empty; Calvin is in the shower. I strip off my clothes, hasty to be rid of the stale and sweaty garments, and promptly collapse onto my bed.
I wake in the night, my face damp, throat thick with emotion. There’s a hand on my arm from Calvin shaking me awake. I look over at him instinctually, not yet fully divorced from the hauntings of my sleeping mind. “Nightmare,” he says. He pushes me over and I go without resistance, not thinking. When he begins to climb into the bed, I must look confused, because he says, “You’re a wreck.”
He pulls the covers up and turns his back to me. I settle against him, back-to-back, slightly reassured, and fall into a restless sleep.
***
I reach out unthinkingly to hit the snooze button; my automatic and immediate response upon waking. When I don’t hear the quickly aborted chimes sound from the clock, I glance over to check the time. It does not read “6:00,” the time at which I have trained myself to wake up, but instead “4:30.” I groan softly before rolling over. My legs get twisted in the sheets, and Calvin kicks me in his sleep. I think he’s drooled a bit on the pillow. I smile at this before getting up, knowing that I won’t be able to fall asleep again.
On my way out of the room, I grab a blanket off the couch and wrap it around my shoulders. It’s slightly chilly in the house and I’m only wearing boxers. Ambling through the dark and silent house I make my way to the kitchen to hunt down the last vestiges of stale cereal that I know are around somewhere.
It’s even colder in the kitchen. Mom must have forgotten to pay the heating bill before she— I shake my head, I don’t want to think about that now.
I clasp my hands together, concentrating, calling up my magic to produce some heat. A soft orange glow forms around my hands and slowly spreads across my body bringing heat with it. The glow fades eventually, but the layer of warmth remains, cocoon-like. I don’t let go of the blanket though; my mom made it for me when I was born.
Clutching the blanket, but no longer chilled, I shuffle a little sleepily to the cabinets. The creaking when I open them up cuts through the silence in the house. A lone cereal box sits on a shelf, less than half full, its corners crumpled by age. I grab a bowl and spoon from the counter and eat the stale cereal, not enough; I am still hungry once I’m finished, but I need to save some for Calvin. I leave the box of cereal out, and go to move my dishes to the sink.
Unbidden, a memory of my mom saying “Don’t forget to put your dishes away!” comes to mind, and I clench the spoon tightly in my hand. I am reminded of how much I miss her. And how I might never see her again. Clutching the blanket more tightly around me, I sit down hard on a stool. Memories of Mom comes swimming to the surface. I glance over at the kitchen table where a note sits on the corner. I haven’t touched anything on the table since I read it the day she disappeared, a little over a week ago.
Seth and Ash—
Had to go in early today. We needed to proof the proposal one last time before we present. Today’s the day! Wish me luck! They have to listen to us this time, with the proof we have… Well, anyway, I’ll be home by 5:30 at the latest. Seth, if you could drop by the store on your way home from school and pickup some stuff for dinner? Love you both. See you tonight,
--Mom
My mom is—was—is, I don’t even know anymore, a Medical Magic researcher for the government. For the past two years her team has been investigating a rare disease that seems to only plague people with high levels of innate magic. Everyone is born with magic, we always have been. Human society was built on it. Some people are more powerful than others, they might even have special Gifts, like Sight or Meteorological Manipulation, but this is nothing new. This disease on the other hand—this disease is new; it wracks the Gifted ones’ bodies with pain, throwing them into agony, turning their bodies and magic against them while they waste away.
We are told that we are lucky that magical power does not necessarily coincide with societal power. We are told that we are lucky that this disease did not take anyone who is plays “integral part in running this country” (in the words of the media). We are told that it is not an epidemic, because so few people are affected. We are told that it cannot and will not spread to most people. We are told that perhaps it is a good thing these powerful people are dying, because what if they became dangerous, who would be able to stop them. We are told these things to allay our fears.
But I am afraid.
I don’t think we are lucky; it might become an epidemic; who are “most people” and why won’t it spread; what does it matter if a few people might become dangerous?
My mother and her team felt the same way, and so they strove to find answers and a cure. They asked the questions no one else would, and they fought tooth and nail through every road block they faced. People that are powerful enough to be affected are few and far between, so funding for research was tight. There were no answers or help offered by superiors because there was no danger or cause for alarm, they said. Bull. My mom thought so too. That’s why her team worked so hard on this.
But then it became personal, because Ash got sick. She’s strong and powerful, magically, but she’s not Gifted. It seemed as though the disease was spreading to the next tier of power for no reason at all. As the research went on many people working on it “moved,” or were “promoted,” or began “working on other things.” Still others just disappeared, as if someone was trying to say, “That’s what you get for asking questions.” As the team became shorter and shorter staffed, the job of looking after Ash fell to me. I didn’t mind and it wasn’t a chore; she was my younger sister and she needed me, but watching someone you love die is never easy and takes its toll nevertheless.
I look over at the note on the table, and remember coming home from the store at five that day. Five-thirty came and went, and then so did six and seven. By nine I knew my mom was gone. I remember trying to keep it together as I walked down the hall to Ash’s room to wake her up and tell her that Mom was gone.
I had sat at the side of the bed, holding her hand. I was in such shock that I didn’t notice she was trying to sit up and I didn’t think to help her. Her rasping breath finally caught my attention, and I handed her the cup of water with a straw on her bedside table. She lifted her arms to hold it, but they fell back to bed halfway to the cup, exhausted. I held it for her as she sipped slowly. Putting it back on the table, I looked her in the eyes and said, “Mom’s gone. They made her disappear like they did to Dr. Liu and Mr. Hobart. I don’t… I don’t know what to do, if we can do…” I had trailed off not knowing what else to say. My hands had been shaking.
Ash had started to cry. Never once through her illness had she cried. Sometimes when she was in pain, tears would leak from her eyes and she would curse and whimper then. But she never despaired about her condition. She didn’t have much hope for herself either; her optimism lay in Mom’s project for helping future generations. She joked about getting better and dying all the time.
No, these tears were not about herself or the project or a cure, but about a very sick girl in so much pain who just wanted her mom. Her mom who she would never see again, who would never hold her through spasms of unendurable agony again, who would never say “I love you, little one” again. And so my sister cried, great, heaving sobs, that made her frail, wasted body shudder and quake, and I could do nothing but sit there and stare dumbly at my shaking hands, because this was one thing too much.
I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, but I must have called our dad to tell him what had happened, and Calvin, and a doctor.
That was the last time Ash was able to breathe without the assistance of a breathing bubble, the angry red magic that was now sealed over her mouth.
I shake myself out of the memory and notice that my magic, in my distress, has created a small wind that is whistling throughout the kitchen, making the cupboards creak slightly and tousling my hair. I am usually more in control of my emotions that this and I struggle to bring down the wind. I am no longer warm. I head to the shower, trying to prepare myself for our journey to Dad’s house.
***
The morning sun is just now rising and we’ve been on the road for an hour. Its light, a sickly yellow-grey, brings no joy to our somber car as we soldier on toward my dad’s mountain home. Cal is driving and I’m sitting, half-twisted around, in the passenger seat so I can keep an eye on Ash.
She’s laid out on the back bench, the red breathing bubble pulsing lightly with each shallow breath she takes. Her medicinal magic, dissolved in an aqueous solution, purple and swirling, drips steadily into the make-shift IV we’ve rigged up in the backseat. She moves slightly now and again, shifting unconsciously in her sleep. That she has the energy to do so is a good sign. I pray that this trip won’t tax her too much and hope that if she can hold out until Dad’s house that he’ll have answers or help.
Our parents separated when we were younger; I was about eight and Ash was six or seven. They had never really seemed like a married couple to me, compared to my friends’ parents, but rather like really close friends. It was an amicable split, and Dad didn’t move far away until we were older. He is a Scientist, meaning he studies “fringe magic;” stuff that is considered more fairy-tale than reality. There are no answers in the magic, and trying to find them only leads to trouble and pain (Mom), so maybe turning to this science will lend to some success.
Calvin pulls over a few hours later for a pit stop and refueling. When he’s inside the restroom, I open the back door to empty out the catheter bag my sister now uses. It’s not weird for us; I’ve been her nursemaid for a while now, but I figure that waiting until Calvin was inside would give her some not-unwanted privacy.
He comes back to car as I finish and begins to fill up the gas tank as I head to the restroom myself.
When I return to the car, I step up beside him at the pump.
“You want me to pay?” I ask.
“Nah, I already got it. But if you want to drive this leg, I wouldn’t mind,” he responds.
“Yeah. Sure.” I glance into the backseat. Ash is still sleeping.
“I’ll keep an eye on her, and I’m sure you’ll be using the rearview mirror too.”
I nod, knowing that he will. I take a breath and turn to him, “Thank you, you know, for coming with me. It really means a lot.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just slips his hand into mine, and squeezes slightly, “Always.”
I nod again, not trusting my voice. I grip his hand back briefly, before dropping it as we move back to the car. It’s an out of place gesture, not unwelcome, but unprecedented. I realize I don’t mind and slide into the seat behind the wheel. Starting the car, I prepare myself for another several hours of driving.
