- XXXI -

* * * * *
         a gong endlessly sounds the same note the feedback of a backwards baby's cry, helpless ceaseless useless
         clouds part on the horizon the air bleeds white winds
         and the tension strung mists come in from the outlands, falling over the swamps, stifling everything with the cold, pouring on and on and on and on, covering your mother she's not there anymore you can't see her
         everything is white
         and dark
         a radio station keeps crackling, nonsense noise singing the song that strangles your life it's got a beat you can't deny because even as they're leading you down the stairs up the stairs the man in the cloak is someone you can't pay attention to no the door stop looking at the door dear God the door
         mother I can't see
         mother why is it so dark
         stars blister the air the sun is too close the heat will kill us all and when the summer comes God I remember his lips dripping like warm rain the image stolen through stained glass chambers, blood on the hands running down your arms the tributaries of rivers that no one has any names for
         explosions like flowers
         whispered laughs and the whimpering of your slaughtered cattle screaming itsnotfairitsnotfairitnotfair
         someone turned off the lights
         and it hurts
         why can I only see his smile
         his smile is
         oh
         oh
         oh
                   God it's so dark.
         So dark. She can't see. Awareness flickers to her like hands covering a strobe light, flashes of brief knowledge interspersed with moments of outright oblivion. She's not sure how long those last. Could be hours. Could be seconds. There's no way to tell. She wishes there was. But she isn't sure why.
         Her eyelids. They feel like someone covered them in gauze. Sewn shut. But it feels so natural. She could keep them closed like this forever. Shut out into this opaque darkness. Set into a world apart. She turns her head slightly and a dull stiffness bites into her neck. Her cheek brushes against the gritty cleanliness of a pillow.
         Bed?
         In bed. How did she get there? She doesn't remember going to bed. That's weird. She feels weird. Stiff all over. Strange. Her head feels gummed up with fog. Trying to remember how she got here and someone squirted ink all over the dancesteps. Unless you remember how it went before, the end result won't make any sense.
         It's cold in here. A constant chill keeps sending whiskers to tickle her face and arms. Goosebumps rise up like so many ancient graves. Like someone left a window open. Her fingers clutch at sheets that won't go up any farther. She used to like to throw the covers over her head, seal the night away and find a private island of her own to sleep in. The heated comfort of the air. The cloying hum of the fan. God, she remembers all that. Like six years old was yesterday. Remembers her mother telling her she's going to suffocate one day tucked away like that. New world voice with sprinkles of the old world accent, rolling the vowels, arching the consonants. Her name sounding like gentle waves of endless hillside.
         All sorted within closets, sorted and organized. Her memories.
         But she doesn't remember going to bed.
         This mattress feels too loose. A drum skin stretched too far. It's not responding to her body. God, her head is aching. Involuntarily she lifts a hand to her head. The skin under her fingers feels dried, flushed of all moisture. Swallowing is painful, trying to force ball bearings down the wrong pipe. Everything hurts. No, pulses. Nerves rubbed raw. Her throat. Someone went and scraped the inside of her head with steel wool. She can't she likes the way any of this feels. Some nights she wakes up and just for a second everything looks unfamiliar. A nightmare of the minor kind, better than the ones of your entire family disappearing but worse than showing up at school naked. It's happening now. This bed doesn't feel familiar. It doesn't know her contours. And it should. What's going on?
         A party.
         That's right. A party. She went to a party. Last night? The night before? It feels so far away now. Like it all happened to someone else. Ragtag puppets in casual clothes, speaking your lines. Life seen through a dim tunnel. You think the stick figure dancing at the far end is you, but nobody wants to tell you for sure. She remembers getting into a car. Driving it? Maybe. There or back? Hard to tell. She's not even sure where she was going.
         Voices come back to her in fragments, broken up chunks of other conversations, not even moving in synch with the scenes flashing on the torn screen in her head. Music randomly speeds up and slows down, cut up beyond recognition. Hits selected by DJ Madman. Her feet feel cold. Numb. There are rod like pains shooting through her calves like wayward spiders. Intermittent something, they were called. Like clouds. Clod? She's grasping for words, finding them as wispy as stretched out cotton.
         There's a bad taste in her mouth. Definitely cotton. That's what reminded her. Eyes still closed, she shifts her position a little. This bed isn't comfortable at all. And she's so cold. Fabric rubs against her body, a coarse gown. Feels like old tissue paper. That's not hers. It can't be. She had a nice nightgown, someone very special to her once had given it to her. She can't remember his face now. A birthday present. Always thought he was hinting at something by giving that gift to her. An irrational giggle bursts stillborn against the inside of her lips. This is crazy. Where is she?
         At a party. Start with what you know. Silhouettes caper past darker lamps. Faces are blurred, changing even as she tries to focus on individuals. Time whirls past, one of those films when day and night and night and day keep trading places like square dancing partners, a world unable to decide which way it's rather be.
         The party doesn't feel real. None of this feels real. Like she hasn't woken up yet, her eyes are still crusted shut. God, it's hard to think. It hurts to think. Each thought is a iron bar turning over embers from the burnt out fire of her brain. It all feels fried. She's straining to remember so much that it's almost a physical clenching, mental constipation. Thoughts are clogging the sphincter canals of her head, and not all her sympathetic efforts can force it to relax. The party. A party. The goddamn party. She was there. She remembers being there. But events are conspiring to separate the points. A black curtain is stitched tightly to his mind, taking the images away.
         God, she's so tired. Weary. Every muscle seems to sag. Time moves in staggered rhythms, sometimes she's sure she falls asleep in mid thought, only to wake up some time later and complete it, not realizing that the intervening spaces are spread apart. Drifting blocks. Jump from one to the other before they sink.
         Words condense from the air like rain falling back into the clouds.
         ". . . don't move, just don't move . . ."
         Who . . .
         ". . . sh, it's okay, sh, don't worry . . ."
         Who . . .
         ". . . such a shame . . ."
         ". . . yeah, a real shame . . ."
         ". . . remember a thing? . . ."
         ". . . probably not . . ."
         Who are they talking about?
         ". . . recommend a dose of . . ."
         Her?
         It can't be her.
         No.
         ". . . remember a thing? . . ."
         ". . . probably not . . ."
         This didn't happen.
         These voices are spun from fantasy's weave.
         They must be.
         ". . . no, honey, you're safe here, don't worry . . ."
         She doesn't know these voices. Who are they? Why are they in her head? They don't belong there. They don't.
         ". . . safe here . . ."
         Why doesn't she remember hearing them?
         ". . . don't worry . . ."
         This isn't right. It's not right. What happened?
         ". . . remember a thing? . . ."
         ". . . probably not . . ."
         Oh God. Where the hell is she?
         What is happening to her?
         Alarm bells chime ominously from the very top of a church tower. A million hairs stand at attention on her skin. The bed is suddenly too warm, she wants to throw these starched covers off and break herself free.
         Where is she?
         She doesn't know. She doesn't know.
         And there's only one way to find out.
         The walls of her world slice open sideways. Vertical light rushes into the voided space.
         With a start and a rising sense of something being terribly wrong, Lena opens her eyes.
         At first there's nothing to see. All she can see is the bed. It's not hers. Oh God. That thought alone sends daggers rampaging through her too soft head. All she can see is darkness. Shapes are slowly starting to resolve themselves from the black silk all around her. Meager light keeps poking its head in from somewhere beyond the bed. The bed. Not her bed. She has to keep reminding herself of that.
         A sense of the room starts to envelop her. She tries to lift her head up and the room decides to start rotating. Moaning a little, she lays back down, staring at the ceiling and trying to breath evenly. There's no reason to panic. She was at a party. She knows that. And now she's here. This room feels borrowed, like it doesn't have any residents. It doesn't feel like anyone. There's no personality. Nothing. Just emptiness. Like the way she feels now. What's going on? None of this makes any sense.
         On her right, a rectangular portal reveals two people dressed in white walking past. Their footsteps carry the cadence of the casually swift. And they're wearing. White. Oh no. Too slowly it starts to come to her. Forcing her brain to process it only makes red dots swim in small circles, stabbing her eyes. It hurts.
         And when it finally occurs to her, it's only through a backdoor, another memory. Of a cousin, laying in a bed just like this, nursing a cast around an arm, surrounded by cards and a small pot of flowers, wrinkled sheets thrown back around scrawny legs. Of a woman in white drawing blood into a clear vial. Of a man clucking his tongue over a clipboard.
         A different room. A different place. But they all look the same.
         For a second Lena really can't breathe.
         But that doesn't change a damn thing.
         This is a hospital.
         She's in a hospital.
         "Ah . . ." she gasps, the sound coming out like a little girl whimper, the kind of noise that she had hoped to leave behind with braces and pigtails. She's a big girl now. But right now she's too damn scared to remember how old she is. Because she's in a hospital. Lena finds herself clutching the bed like it's tilted sideways and is about to drop her down a chasm. She's scooping oxygen out of the air but there just doesn't seem to be enough. A slow pounding is starting right above her eyebrows, spreading like diseased oil throughout her forehead. Lena squints up into the ceiling, trying to block out the other four walls. Just a floating bed. That's all. Like in the end of that movie.
         This isn't real.
         She's dreaming.
         Oh God, she has to be.
         Her head is throbbing in tandem with the slow tick of the passing seconds. One.
         Wake up, Lena, she begs herself, almost frantic.
         Two.
         I've got to wake up.
         Her nails are trying to gouge channels into the clammy skin of her palm, vertical spikes of localized pain radiating around her fingers.
         Three.
         You're not supposed to feel pain in dreams. Her head is ticking out mundane facts like someone's droning accountant. Desperately she thrashes mentally for some other rationale.
         Four.
         The splashing attracts nothing. Nothing. How did this happen? This can't be happening. Where is everyone?
         Five.
         By now she knows there's nothing to wake up from.
         What happened to me?
         Denial is sent skulking back to the cesspool it sprang from. She's trapped in the twisted imagery of her own head, the pounding drum of the descending biplane, all fire and rushing air. Before ejection seats were invented. The only way down is the hard way. She can't let herself down easy.
         She was at a party. She knows she was. Lena has to be sure of something and that's what she chooses. The opening door giving her a faceful of an obnoxiously loud song, word distorted by volume, already bruising her ears. Snippets, cut up film, are all she can remember after that. Not even in sequence. One big moments spliced together by a blind man. An inept blind man. Like she stepped through the door and into the biggest black hole in her life. New meaning to check your brains at the door.
         Oh God, that's not funny. It's not. This is her life. This is real. She's really here. In a hospital. But how did she get here? Lena strains in her head until the effort becomes almost physical, leaving her tired and tearful. She feels weak all over. Did she get drunk and pass out? That's not like her. She doesn't do things like that. The one time she passed out she woke up with bile coating the inside of her mouth, smelling like dayold cigarettes and feeling all crumpled, like someone's discarded laundry. She made a vow to never let herself get that drunk again. Did she slip? Oh God, why can't she think?
         This not knowing is terrifying her. She feels all right, physically, all her bones and organs seem to be in the right place. No sewn up scars pulling at her skin. No surgery that she can tell. And yet she's here. In the hospital. Her thoughts skitter over the word, claws on solid ice. This is wrong. She shouldn't be here.
         Did they find her by the side of the road? Where's Jina? The absence of anybody she knows sends Lena into a barely controlled tailspin again, a typewriter spelling out panic again and again and again. The clack of the keys moves with the trembling time of your pulse. Why is she alone here? Where is everyone? Jina's not here. Did they get into a car accident, maybe Jina's only one room down, lying in bed just the way she is now, staring at the ceiling and trying not to cry because that won't accomplish a damn thing. It'll just make her feel sick. But she feels sick already. Her stomach hurts, she presses her hand to it, wincing and swallowing heavily. Like she's going to vomit but her ribs are too weary to even dry heave. Oh God. Oh God. She can't go on like this. Lena doesn't know how she got here or why she's here or anything. Does anybody know she's here?
         Lena feels alone. More alone than she ever has her entire life. The only time that comes close is when her and Jina got into some argument about a topic so stupid that it's not even worth remembering. But back then it was so important that they screamed at each other about it until Jina had finally stormed out. Leaving Lena sitting alone on the couch, anger and shame mixing like poisonous gases, already regretting the words, resenting Jina for causing her to say them, resenting herself for not holding her tongue. The rage consumed her until she found herself furiously punching a pillow, once, twice, her fists barely making dents in its plush facade, until in the end all she could was clutch the damn thing tightly to her chest and lean over, resting her head on the arm of the couch, letting it suck her tears into the fabric. Absorbing everything until she was nothing more than a shell, too empty to call anyone else, too empty to find Jina and apologize, all she had the strength to do was lay there and gradually let time leach away her self pity.
         Now, punching the pillow would drain what little vitality she has left, they'd find her slumped face down over the object, too exhausted to even lift her fist again. Frustrated anger circles like a thwarted bird of prey but there's nothing to be angry at. No targets to pin to the wall. Herself? Maybe. But why? Why?
         "Dammit," comes her whispered wail, a cry into air too thin to even hold the sound. She doesn't get any of this. It's horrible. She's in the hospital for no reason and she can't remember why and there's nobody here to tell her that everything's okay and she wants to believe that everything is going to be okay but Lena doesn't even know what went wrong in the first place and she remembers going to a party and being happy and now she's not, she's miserable and-
         "Oh God," she moans, covering her face with her crossed arms, a defense against the sickly light peeking into her room, quantum perverts jacking off to her pain. The world's a sick bastard, right down to the atoms. "Stop . . . stop it . . . please . . ."
         No one answers her call. A phone ringing endlessly in a cobweb enshrouded room.
         "I don't want to be here . . ." her body writhes, trapped in the prison she never saw coming, "somebody . . . please . . ." there are rods slid in under her skin, keeping her in place, she's bleeding all over the sheets, her breath is coming in looping gasps, "ah . . . oh God . . . I just want somebody . . . ah . . . to tell me what's going on . . ."
         The only answer is the echo of her panicked panting.
         Lena squeezes her eyes shut until the tension pulls at her face, gives a coughing whimper. She's not going to cry. She doesn't want anyone to see her like this. But there's no one here. She's not going to cry. She's not.
         ". . . one of the more beautiful sights, wouldn't you think . . ."
         A voice hooks barbs into her head.
         The air is suddenly heavy with presence.
         What-
         ". . . especially right before a snowstorm, it makes the air seem weighted, strangely dense . . ."
         Oh. Oh. There's someone talking. In the present. It's not a memory.
         ". . . really can't explain it, myself, though I'm sure there's a logical answer for it, there always is . . ."
         There's someone in her room. Talking.
         Slowly, Lena moves her arms from her face, blinking gummy eyelids, disappointed to feel a slimy salt wetness on her skin, already drying in the barren air.
         It takes her a second to focus, let her eyes adjust to the lack of light. The tone nags at her mind, ringing long buried bells.
         Then she sees him.
         Right by the window.
         There's someone in her room.
         "There really is something about a sunrise, no matter where you are," the man is saying as he taps the glass lightly with one finger. "To think there are people who go their entire lives without having ever seen one . . ." he shrugs and pivots smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of what looks like a well worn sweatjacket. "Hmph. They'll never realize it, but if you ask me, they're missing out on something special."
         The light coming from the window almost seems to pass right through him, but that might be a trick of her head. Because right now Lena's not sure she's seeing straight. The face. His face. Cloaked in a mummy wrapping of shadows, light and dark bands alternating evenly, she can still gauge the features.
         Her breath catches in her throat. The man meets her eyes and smiles in a very familiar fashion. A smile that for some reason makes her stomach twist again. She's not sure why. But it does.
         Air finds her mouth, infuses her lips. A word emerges, pale and shaking, blinking in the harsh light of this new world.
         "Tristian . . .?" Lena finds herself asking, not even sure he can hear her. How did he get here? She didn't see him walk in. Did she fall asleep again? Thinking about it just causes another hammerblow to her brain, like trig used to do when she was too tired to figure it out. All her thoughts keep falling apart before she can even put them to use.
         Tristian stares at her and shakes his head ever so slightly, the same liquid smile on his face. When he speaks the accent strikes her right in the spine, glaciers playing leapfrog in the spaces. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not."
         And she knows.
         And she knows.
         "But good morning, Lena," the man says quietly. "It's nice to see you again."
         Oh. My. God.
         The room splits into double vision and Lena's head goes light. Before she knows what she's doing, her body is sliding back along the bed, nearly climbing up the metal railing at the top, the rim pressing into the small of her back, her feet kicking at white sheeted air. It's instinct. Base instinct. The kind passed down from the cavemen.
         Images of the restaurant slam into her head sideways, a picture of a man she thought she knew dissolving into golden mist and blackness, a voice echoing from the bowels of forever and a cluster of words that have come to define her waking dreams ever since.
         something
         This is too much. She can't take this.
         something just doesn't
         The man takes a step toward her bed, clear caring shining through its eyes. It's too pure. None of the filthy humanity is there to dilute it. The man might be saying something to her. But Lena's not listening.
         She listened then, though.
         something just doesn't feel right
         goddamn
         It's so true.
         "Please . . . calm down," the man says to her, his voice strangely calm. Sure. Sure. Nothing probably fazes him. He appears more solid than before, like his appearance at the window was just a dress rehearsal. And now he's back.
         "Ah . . . no . . . get away . . ." Lena gasps, twisting away, not even having the strength to heave herself out of bed, not even sure what she's running from. What more could it do to her? Oh God that's a stupid question. Lena's heard the stories.
         "You're only going to hurt yourself if you keep that up," the man tells her matter of factly, his face screwed up in sincere confusion. "Your system has been under quite a strain tonight."
         "Just . . . oh, just get away . . ." her voice hiccups with fear. A fear she can't even understand. Why is she acting like this? Lena had thought that her fears were past her, the restaurant was months ago. She told herself she had gotten over it, that it was a terribly unpleasant night but that was all. Heart and head having come to an agreement she had filed the night away. Now it's all coming back. The tension. The fear. Her shoulder jams against the railing as her body slips back down onto the bed, causing her to yelp in sudden pain. Waves of dizziness flood her sore head. Oh. Oh God. Some body please make it stop. Somebody stop this night.
         "Lena," the man says, and his voice is granite, unmovable. "Listen to me. You're not thinking clearly, you know I'm not going to hurt you. And if you keep this up, you're going to hurt yourself," his voice is every lecturing tone blended into one endlessly struck chord, "and I won't have that."
         Something in his voice makes her tone down her efforts. Still, she remains bundled at the head of the bed, trying not to stare at it, hoping someone passes by the door soon. But she has a feeling that's not going to happen.
         "If you keep trying to struggle I will leave you unable to move . . . if you scream, all anyone will hear will be bird calls and anyone walking past is only going to see you sleeping peacefully and not have any desire to disturb you. Okay, Lena?" The tone is almost pleading, chimes ringing the most crystalline of notes. She's hearing his words but they aren't seeping into her head, bouncing off the inflamed sponge of her brain, barely leaving an impression.
         "Please?" he asks, clasping his hands together in front of him.
         Lena meets his gaze for just one second. It's one second too many. She's struck by the honesty she sees there. The same eyes that gazed silently at her that night. The eyes that remind her so much of Tristian. God, it's too much like his face. She can't handle this. Her mind can't stand all this weight.
         "Oh . . ." she mutters, tearing her gaze away with what feels like an audible ripping noise to bury her face in the pillow, her hands scrambling to find the underside and press it around her head. Real mature, Lena. But she doesn't know what the hell else to do. "I don't know why you're here but . . . go away." She finds herself sniffling awkwardly, and is embarrassed to think that she might cry around this . . . being. Where are her friends? She wants them here. Even Tristian would be more comforting. "Please . . . just go away." Oh God, she's whining. That alone makes her scrunch her face up more in shame. She hates people who whine.
         The man appears to clear his throat. At least that's all she hears. Her breath wraps like a soggy mist around her pillow cloaked face.
         "This is hard, I know," he says and the man sounds almost sorry. From his level voice it sounds so strange. "Hard enough without me here to fog it up." She hears the shuffling of feet, smooth shoes on coarse sandpaper. Is he moving away? "And I'm not making this any easier." A chuckle bubbles in the air, like barefoot children running down her neck. "I'm sorry, I was never any good at this type of thing."
         He really does sound apologetic. Lena can hardly believe what she's hearing. In the face of that, her own actions seem silly and rather irrational. Like those stupid people in the cheesy flying saucers movies, telegraphing simultaneous horror and urging their redneck cousins to empty their shotguns at the first bug eyed monster that shows its face over the rise. But . . . but it's not even human. It wears the face of a guy she knows but it's as far from them as people are from algae. What is it doing here?
         "I mean, here we are and once again I'm getting off on the wrong foot with you," the man is saying, with self-effacing amusement that sounds almost like an emotion she can connect to. "That's not right. You deserve better than that." It almost sounds like it's absentmindedly berating itself.
         "How about . . ." it says and there's almost childish wonderment in its voice, "how about we start this over again? You know, start it off right. So nobody's afraid, nobody's awkward. How's that sound, Lena?" The way it pronounces her name makes gives it an almost exotic ring. The accent keeps dancing in and out of her perception. Sometimes she thinks she can place it but then like an oil covered seal, it slips right out of her grasp.
         Still, she finds herself peeling her face from her sanctuary pillow, her fluttering heartbeat quieting just a bit. Lena can't help it, really. She's lonely and scared and confused and this is the closest thing to a friend she has right now. And it's acting sincere. But it did last time too. Its face, Tristian's face crosses into her vision as she torques her body toward it. The man has moved closer to the window, dawn's light haloing him, the motes of sparkling dust like a thousand tiny satellites.
         Lena says nothing at first. The man glances down at the floor, peers at it with strange interest, like he's reading off cue cards scribbled down there. Then he raises his eyes to Lena and she sees Time reflected in flecks of gold. The vision passes almost too quickly for her to register properly but she's left with the feeling that there's more to it than what she's seeing here. On some level it scares the hell out of her but Lena's trying to do her best not to listen to that part of her brain.
         "Hello, Lena . . ." is all it says. Two simple words.
         Lena finds herself wetting her lips. Her mouth has gone dry again. The pounding in her head has subsided a little but not much. "What . . . what are you doing here?"
         Its face changes into something very serious and maybe slightly sad. The way so many emotions ripple across its face, Noah's animals surfing two by two, the oddest combinations that still seem to make sense, it's disconcerting.
         That smile unlaces itself over his face again. "As odd as this may sound, Lena, I'm here to help you."
         To say Lena didn't expect to hear that begins to approach its impact on her. She feels her entire body go cold, a rippling chill. The sheets are piled around her knees, a wilted sandbag mound, but she resists the desire to pull them back up. Like when she was a kid and there was a thunderstorm going on. Pull the covers over your head and pretend the world just isn't there.
         It takes her a second to find her voice. Her head won't stop aching. She wishes it would. "What . . . why?"
         The man merely gives a thin smile, taking a cautious step forward. Lena does her best not to move. The man flicks his eyes over her, appears ready to take another step but then decides against it and instead merely clasps his hands behind his back. "I have my reasons," he tells her.
         "How are you going to help me . . ." Lena has to ask because she honestly doesn't know. None of this is making any sense. It's like she's fallen into some crazy upside down world that doesn't even have the comfort of being zanily madcap like Alice's mirror land. It's just mundane in all the wrong places, the familiar stripped away, replaced with a form of logic that works in a way her mind just won't. Almost against her will, she finds herself getting upset again, biting her lip in frustration. None of this seems at all fair. She's in the goddamn hospital with no idea how she got there and now one of Tristian's mystery friends is showing up claiming that he can help her. Help her? What the hell is he going to do?
         Then she can feel its eyes on her, scanning her like so many discarded newspapers, fingers poking around in the softness of her head. Lena shivers for reasons that she's not all that clear on. Her stomach knots with worry again, like her dinner has just decided to stop digesting and take up heavy residence in her gut. If she could even remember what she ate. But there's nothing there. Walking back to your house to find that it's only a hole in the ground. That's her head. One big hole. And it's pulling her down with it.
         "Why are you here, Lena?" the man asks suddenly. "In this hospital?" His face is blindsided by shadows, only his faintly shimmering eyes are showing. They weren't doing that before. "Do you know, Lena? Can you tell me?"
         And she can't. Lena knows she can't. She's known it since she woke up. But hearing it said outloud makes it that much worse, airing out the rumpled clothing, letting the neighbors see just what you wear to bed. Goodness gracious, has she no decency? For shame, child. For shame.
         "I . . ." she meets his gaze for only a second. But it's like staring into the sun, too long just ruins your vision. She blinks and looks away, hearing herself murmur, "No . . . no, I don't." A weakness darts down her arm and she feels a quivering in her lap. Feeling almost detached Lena lifts her hand ever so slightly and finds it trembling violently. The gates are leaking. We can't keep them closed forever, all the water makes the lock rust away. "What happened to me?" she wonders to herself outloud.
         "You were hurt," the man states simply, answering the question that she can't. A glimmer of old pain alights briefly on his face. It might just be a feature of the light. It's hard to tell.
         Slowly, dazed, Lena looks up at him. The room is starting to tilt, almost lazily. Her chest feels so cold. Not her skin but her chest. Right inside, where her heart is. A large lump of ice, sending frozen tendrils into the rest of her body, crystals forming in her blood, stopping it cold. It hurts. It really does. The body remembers. Even when the mind won't let you. And it doesn't want her to know.
         "I . . . I don't understand," Lena says hesitantly. "You say I was . . . hurt and I'm in the hospital but I don't . . ." gently she touches her burning forehead, shutting her eyes for a second, opening them again wide. "Why don't I remember?" Even her voice is trembling now, she's really getting scared. Did something happen to her memory, did she have amnesia for no reason at all? There's no answers here, none that she can accept.
         Suddenly she jams the heels of her hands into her forehead. "Ah . . . God, why don't I remember? Why?" Her voice sounds pinched to her own ears, entering the upper octaves that she hates to venture into. A screeching pleading. The kind that never gets you anywhere. It's certainly not working now.
         "Lena, please, don't upset yourself like this, it's-" without realizing what she's doing she turns on the man, throwing a harsh glare his way. He holds his hand up, palm out, saying, "I know, I know, it's easy for me to say that but if you just-"
         "I'm in the hospital," Lena says very slowly, trying to keep her voice level, knowing that she's going to fail, "and I don't know how I got here or what . . . happened to me . . ." and her eyes are already blurring, her voice shaking in time with the seismograph of her emotions, dipping toward the end she doesn't want to wade into, "and you come here and tell me I was . . . hurt and . . . none of this makes any sense and I . . ." she's running her hands through hair that feels greasy, unwashed. When was the last time she showered. God, it feels like days ago. But she can't really recall. Oh God. "I just don't know what to think or . . . anything . . . ah . . ." two handfuls of hair tug at her scalp, like she can jumpstart her memories that way. She's already jerking sporadically, dry weeping, her nose beginning to run. Pathetic, Lena. Just pathetic. You fall apart the first chance you get. Typical. Like the little windup toy you are. Her hands release her hair, falling limply to her sides, autumn coming early. There's more she wants to say but she has no energy to say it, even if she tried the words would come out unintelligible, translated into her own imperfect form of gibberish. So she doesn't try. But she doesn't know what else to do.
         The bed trembles a little and Lena looks over to see two hands gripping the edge of the railing. Two hands that could change the mattress into solid diamond. Or nitrogen gas. Tristian told her that once, when he was trying to explain the concept to them. As far as we can conceive . . . they can do whatever they want. That's what he said. God, she remembers that. And the thing he was talking about is standing at the end of her bed, looking at her with a gaze that can only be described as sympathetic. But that's like saying the distance to the sun is a bit of a hike. It's only words. That's all she has.
         "I need you calm, Lena . . ." the man is telling her. It's a voice that commented on the cooling earth.
         "I can't . . . be calm . . ." Lena responds, nervously wringing her hands together. Another habit she thought she was rid of. God, first chance she gets, it all comes back. First sign of adversity. "I don't know what I'm being calm about."
         "I know," the man says, touching his forehead in an oddly human gesture. "This is hard. I know. But we have to take this one step at a time. Because . . . I'm afraid if you want this to get better it's going to have to get worse first."
         "What?" to her, the words are smiley faced nonsense.
         "Do you remember anything about tonight, Lena? Anything at all?" His voice is quietly insistent, slightly probing. In the dark he seems to be squinting, like his eyes are the microscope lenses and she's the glass covered specimen. God, he looks so much like Tristian. She never realized that before. And yet they look nothing alike. Somehow they don't.
         "Just . . . ah . . ." her head strains again, staring into the swirling black waters of memory, trying to catch a glimpse of something she might recognize. "Just . . . going in . . . I remember really loud music and . . ." her eyes are closed without her even thinking to do so. She tries to keep her face smooth, calm. Little tremors keep springing up. Too young to develop a twitch, Lena. Too young. For any of this. "And . . . dancing, little, I think and talking to people but I don't . . . it's just all . . ." her face tenses in concentration, trying not to focus on the throbbing of her brain, like it's trying to escape, ". . . all scattered, just . . . oh . . ." the pounding reaches a crescendo behind her eyes. Lena presses her hands to her face again, bending down a bit on the bed, like she's trying to make herself smaller. So the world won't see her, so it won't pass her by.
         "Mm, yes . . ." the man murmurs, apparently to himself, though he could be conversing with an entire panel of specialists. Tristian never said how many there were. Or maybe he did. Two? Three? More? For the moment, one is more than enough.
         "Why does it hurt so much?" Lena asks no one in particular, a small child wondering what day Christmas is going to fall on this year. Too frustrated to care otherwise, she glares at the man again, her voice strung out into a near hiss, "Dammit, why don't you just tell me? Is that so hard? Is it?" It's like yelling at a statue. The man is staring at some point past her, so intently that Lena feels nervous, she's tempted to glance behind her to see if anyone is standing there. Her heart keeps making hollow thumps in her chest, a train speeding without brakes.
         "If that was all that was necessary, there would be no reason for me to be here," the man tells her distantly. Only part of him seems to be here. God only knows where else his mind might be. "Your friends could just as easily supply you with that information."
         The news strikes her nearly in the face. "They . . . they know? Were they . . . hurt too?" It'd be almost comforting to think that someone was going through this with her, even as Lena knows how selfish that thought it. She'd never want anyone else to experience this.
         "No," the man responds. "Only one other person was hurt . . ." one side of his face twitches upward, "and that was entirely through their own fault. You've no need to concern yourself with it." He leans forward again, both hands firmly planted on the railing. The bed creaks with sudden, insidious weight. Lena fights to keep her body from pushing her farther back. Stay calm. That's what he said, right? Just stay calm.
         "Lena," the man says clearly, "right now you're upset, and you don't know why. You're confused, and you don't know why."
         It's like he's telling her what to feel. But he's right. Lena's not sure if he wants her to confirm that or not, but when she goes to find the words, it seems they've fled. Biting her lip rather self consciously, she can only nod.
         His hands come off the railing, seem to hug his shoulders. "Very well," the man whispers to himself, pivoting in a slow circle, pacing around like he's trying to get his bearings. Suddenly he stops, looking down at his crossed arms. "The reason you don't . . . remember, Lena, has to do with the hurt you suffered."
         The world recedes, she finds her entire attention riveted on his figure. Lena thinks she makes some kind of sound but it's hard to tell. The man doesn't even seem to notice, the rest of the room might as well barely be there as far as he appears to be concerned.
         "And I can . . . if you want me to . . . I can make you remember . . . and you'll know why you're upset and confused, better than if someone just told you. It won't make the pain go away, but you'll know and . . . hopefully you'll have a better chance of . . . dealing with the pain." The man pauses, takes a breath he doesn't need and cranes his head to look directly at her. "I can do that. If you want me to."
         Lena feels his lungs catch in her throat. Before this she could convince herself that she was merely talking to a strangely eccentric Tristian faking a bad accent. But now she's in the realm of science fiction, what it's telling her, what it's asking her . . . it's just not possible.
         Just as it's not possible for an entire restaurant of people to suddenly reappear in their homes.
         Just as it's not possible for Tristian to carry around a giant glowing sword.
         Just as it's not possible for a man to suddenly appear in her room and claim that he can do miraculous things for her.
         "How?" Lena asks, when speech finally decides to return to her. Her voice barely has enough strength to move the air. Her body feels weak, like she's turned into straw.
         "How?" the man questions. A patient smile intrudes on his features. "The memories of what you've experienced tonight aren't . . . gone, merely buried, I guess you can say. And what I can do is . . . kick the dirt off of them, so to speak." He's explaining relativity to tribesmen, pointing at the starlit sky and trying to convey the magnitude and beauty of spacetime distortions, the curvature of the Universe when seen edgeon, the way light glints like suspended crystal droplets when you finally manage to outrun its grueling pace. "I can see them now . . ." his voice is strangely hushed, "submerged, almost slumbering and . . . and you did have fun tonight, Lena, you did enjoy yourself and those are memories you . . . deserve to have."
         God, it sounds too good to be true. Just thinking about it sends a herd of chills rampaging all over her body. This hospital gown isn't nearly enough protection from the pockets of frigid weather floating around. "And, you're saying I'll remember . . . everything?"
         "Yes." Golden motes catch the air, fade too fast to register properly in her vision.
         But there's one thing that bothers her about all of this. The one obstacle blocking her way. "And, if I remember everything, does that include what . . . what hurt me? Why I'm here? In the hospital?"
         "Yes."
         Lena draws in a ragged breath, shivering from more than the cold. Suddenly she's very scared and she's not sure why. A rabid animal is clawing at her head, explosions bursting on the inside of her brain, making it so hard to think. "I . . . don't know if I want that."
         The man blinks and his eyes go almost painfully sad. Just looking at him makes Lena want to change her mind.
         "It's all or nothing, I'm afraid, Lena," the man whispers, shrugging a little. "I'm sorry, that's the way it has to be. To go any finer would risk hurting you and I won't do that."
         "Could you . . ." she wets her lips, pushing her tangled hair behind her ears, "could you at least . . . tell me what happened to me? So I'd know? So it won't be as bad? Can you do that?" Her eyes try to bore into him, but she's plunging blind through a sealed up coal mine. There's no way into his face. The man remains a two way mirror and all Lena can see is her own sad reflection. Distorted and elongated. A fun house that's lost its sense of humor.
         "I don't think that would be a good idea . . ." the man tells her somberly, honestly. The expected news still makes Lena's heart sink. "If I told you, it might bias you, you'll get scared and prefer to stay the way you are." Doesn't he see how scared she is now? An almost earnest expression enters his face. Just another mask. Something he puts on to fool the stupid humans. That's all it is. "What happened to you was a very small part of your night, Lena." He tapers his hands together, the tips of his forefingers resting just under his nose, like he's praying. Do the gods have gods? "And yes, it was unsettling and upsetting and something you might feel better off forever forgetting." His eyes flick sideways to regard her. "But . . . if you never know, if you never let yourself remember . . . then you'll be trying to come to terms with a pain that seems to have no source, you'll hurt without knowing why. Stumbling in the dark, tripping over rocks you can feel but can't see."
         She feels so dirty, messy. Unclean. Smoothing wayward strands of her hair, Lena tries to meet the man's gaze, trying to match his detached cool, failing miserably. Oh God, she's so scared. It's asking her to make a decision and neither one appeals to her. What if she makes the wrong one? "But, what if I . . . can't handle it?" she asks, hands fidgeting awkwardly in her lap. "What if I . . . remember and I find that I'm better off . . . the way I was."
         "Lena," the man pronounces softly, "I understand what you're trying to say. I understand your fear. Maybe better than you can," and she realizes that he may just be right, ". . . but all I can give you are these two options. And . . ." he hesitates, as if afraid of letting something important slip out, "I can tell you that either way you'll get . . . better." His head swivels, almost like it's on bolts. It's the eeriest sight. "But there's only one way you can heal."
         This is too much. Oh God, she doesn't want to have to deal with this. But the man is staring at her, lips pursed together, as if waiting for something. He's waiting for her. To give the word. Pressing her hands to the side of her face, she tries to sink deeper into the bed, the unyielding mattress not giving her any space. Cupping her hands around her ears, listening to the wailing howl of passing air, trying to seal off the world, she whispers, "I don't want to have to make this decision. I don't want to have to think about this."
         "Doing nothing is still a choice, Lena." The man's calm tones ring with finality.
         "Ah . . ." she strains against her head again, pressing her palms into the sides of her temples, trying to squeeze the memories out of her. Damn you, come back! Don't hide on me like this! Lena tries to sort out the night, tries to piece the swirling tatters into a mosaic she can use. "Please . . ." she begs her own head, hoping for a last second reprieve, for the memories to suddenly spring to life, dance around in their happy meadows like they used to, reassuring her that everything is going to be okay. But there's nothing. Just this ugly black space where last night used to be. Impenetrable. Opaque. Repelling every effort.
         Desperate, nearly in tears, she casts out for one last option, trying to find ways around his unassailable logic. "Do you know if I'll remember . . . in time?" and she can't bear to look at him, to stare at his familiar face and see his too clear eyes and read his emotions even before his words curl around her. She can't do this anymore. "If . . . do you know?"
         "Ah . . . I can't honestly say," the man tells her. "Lena, I really don't know. I'm sorry."
         Lena shuts her eyes again, feeling her shoulders slump as some resistance breaks within her. "Okay," she says, hardly hearing herself, the words no more than a sigh. Opening her eyes, staring at some blank spot on the wall, trying not to see the man, she says again, "Okay."
         "Okay?" he asks, his tone quizzical. She can hear the narrowed eyebrows in his voice.
         "Do it," Lena spits out. "Whatever you're going to do. Let's get it over with now." She tries to inject bravery into her tone, like those old heroes used to do. They never flinched, even as the noose beckoned. But she can't keep the quavering from her tone.
         "Are you sure?" for a moment he sounds confused. Like he expected another outcome.
         "No," Lena replies, almost crying as she says so. "I'm not." Her voice shifts into a wet growl. "Just do it . . . before I change my mind. Please."
         "Very well," the man says, so quiet that for a second she think she's imagined it.
         Lena closes her eyes even tighter, tensing herself for what she believes is going to be an onslaught of invading memories, waiting for her head to be strafed with unstoppable recollections of a night that has thus far been less than dreams. Lena starts to bite her lip, trying to breath deeply to calm her racing heart, but lets her teeth release the skin, for fear of biting through it. She has no idea what's going to happen.
         One second passes.
         Two.
         Nothing happens.
         Cautiously opening her eyes she turns to look at the man. He hasn't seem to have moved. Doesn't he have to touch her forehead or something, run intangible fingers along her brain? Instead he's only giving her a wispy smile.
         "When are you going to do it?" she asks, trying not to sound impatient. What is he waiting for?
         Then it hits her. Maybe nothing's going to happen at all. Maybe he couldn't do anything. For some reason the possibility makes her a little upset. She had been ready, in some fashion.
         "It's already done," and his voice is the rushing exodus of the retreating tide.
         click
         and a door slides open
         and another
         and another
         and another
         a world of doors slamming open, the air alive with ricocheting locks, bouncing hinges, walls of light piercing the previously shadowed hallways of her head
         the room tilts, sliding out of her vision like greasy overdone eggs falling off a crooked plate, dissolving even before it gets a chance to splatter on the floor
         breaking off into disintegrating cubes, deconstructing into the base colors that make up the reverse rainbows that paint the sky from the inside
         and
         and she remembers
         and she remembers
         and she
         a life wobbling like smashed gelatin comes back to her, a million viewpoints shifting like a hyperactive cameraman, all of them hers, all of them
         his face is right over hers
         and she can't move
         Oh God she can't move
         hands like stark chisels, chipping away at her body, reshaping it
         resculpting
         into something different
         she doesn't want to be like this
         his hands are so slick
         running all over her
         and she can't move
         he laughs like sour milk
         all she hear is
         is his laugh
         filling her head and breaking it apart, cracking it in two, her blood and her brain are singing songs that are out of tune, she wants to struggle some part of her wants to struggle but there's nothing to move, someone went and disconnected her nerves and she can feel it all but she can't do anything
         oh God
         oh my God
         are these the memories
         hands are her neck, leaving snail slime trails of sweat all glistening and he's panting and rubbing himself
         he's rubbing himself
         and his tongue
         in her mouth, searching to find the last light in her brain to blow out the candles in her head she can think but she can't do it's all retreating, it's all
         lips coarse on her face, wearing her down, she has no skin it's all muscle
         muscle and nerves
         it won't stop
         it just won't stop
         someone please just make it
         And Lena feels ejected from her body, there and not there, she can see herself as if from a far distance. The world seems to be vibrating, but that's because she can't stop shaking. Her elbows are in her stomach, her hands are lightly touching her face, her knees are protecting her arms, nice and compact and safe.
         sloppy hands believing themselves to be possessed of sublime grace finding her stomach, tracing the lines, going down, travelling down, finding the path
         the path to her
         oh God
         he wasn't
         he was
         I can't believe he was
         oh
         Lena's teeth are grinding together, her jaw seems fused, it's so hard to breathe, she's breathing in hyperventilating rhythms, her face is streaked with wetness, the gates are open in her eyes and they won't stop, tears are running down her face like a saltwater downpour.
         And the memories won't stop coming, a million man army, every once she cuts down and tries to process, ten more stand up to assault her, batter her into bleak submission, overwhelming her until she's nothing more than a ghost in her own head, unable to find her own voice amidst the shouting military memories, barked commands reminding her of how vulnerable she was. She is. Didn't even have to tie her down. One drink and she went right along like a goddamn lamb. A sheep. That's all she ever was.
         oh
         oh no
         It hurts.
         I didn't think it would hurt this much.
         Bulletholes in the brain and Lena can't stop crying. Each memories is dehydrating her, taking her to pieces, she's curled up into a ball hoping that if she hides long enough they'll get bored and go away but it's not working, they know they've got her. The memories know. Swarming all over her like insects.
         matched his idiotic smile with your own when he begged you to come up with him
         fingers like strips of fire on your cool wrist
         and then his hands were
         why were they
         you didn't want him to
         why were his hands
         The pillow under her head is soaked, her cheek is resting on a sodden lake of liquid emotion. Filled to capacity and it's still coming, pouring out in waves, there's nothing to stop it now.
         "Ah . . . ahuh . . ." comes her voice, a mournful sigh, a jagged cry, nothing coherent, fragments of feeling screaming her weakness and saying nothing. Nothing to say. Not anymore. Her head and her tears are saying it all. Wordless pleas that this is a lie, a dream, she's confusing reality with some nightmare she had after watching that horrible television special. Anything.
         "Damn . . . dammit . . . dammit!" she curses at nothing, her words dripping with angry tears, hardly even comprehensible. And she won't stop shaking. Tucked into a fetal position like she might back right up into her mother and lie there floating in the safe warm fluid she came from, devolve right back into nothing more than a sphere shaped collection of cells. Because cells don't have feelings. Don't cry. It's only when you grow them large and give them brains and teach them what pain is that they start to know sorrow and horror.
         Lena's feeling both right now.
         How was I so-
         How did I let this-
         a tongue tries to slither in her ear
         laughing she goes to swat it away, the world spinning with the motion, setting her head alight into the atmosphere
         "Oh God damn . . . why won't it stop . . . why-"
         how long does she stay conscious
         how long does she suffer
         how
                   long
         "Please . . . stop . . . please . . ."
         And then something solid brushes against her hair.
         In the present.
         Someone's touching her hair.
         Stroking it. Gently.
         "Sh . . . sh . . ."
         A voice borne on clouds, there's someone on the bed with her, sitting on the edge, he has presence and no presence, mass without weight, not even making an impression on the mattress and yet he's here.
         "Don't worry . . . you're not alone here, don't worry . . ."
         And his touch is feather soft, the kind of comfort that only a relative can give, the hand of everyone she's ever known, that's ever been kind to her, past and present and those that are still to come.
         "These are only memories . . . they can't hurt you now, memories can't hurt you . . ."
         Slowly Lena's trembling starts to subside, quiets to a murmur of movement. His hand is smoothing her hair, like she's five years old and woken up from a bad dream. Her mother used to make her cookies and warm milk and sit with her until she went back to sleep. Compared to this man she might as well be five years old. We must all be children. When he sees us we must all look like children, bright burning stars that flare briefly rocket across time with an illuminating glow before fading to black. But the glow remains. For a while it remains.
         Lena sniffs, finding the back of her throat coated with the wet taste of mucus. The world's gone quiet. His hand has stopped its motion on her head and is just resting there. She makes no effort to remove it. The touch grounds her. Part of his hand is lying on her face and his skin feels so strange, warm and tingling, like he's made of fireflies.
         "I'm sorry," the man whispers, and his voice is soothing, intertwined with an intricate pain that she can never begin to understand. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. But it was the only way."
         The reminder causes an old pain to cockscrew through Lena again. She winces, blinking watery eyes, her vision obscured by a waterfall sheet, seeing him out of the corner of her eye. To think this was the same thing that talked to her in the restaurant. Tristian was right. He was. You can't understand them. You don't even know where to start.
         "I can't believe that he . . ." she swallows, her face creasing with the effort. Her chest tightens and she gives a soggy cough. "Oh God that he . . . that I let him . . ."
         "He took your will away, there was nothing you could have done," the man tells her quietly. He sounds like her grandfather. The way she remembers him best, before the cancer took his body and reduced him to nothing more than a fluid filled sac of a man, his entire system rebelling against him. The way he laughed, a deep throated sound that seemed to involve his entire torso, or how he would slip her money when he thought her parents weren't looking. Lena never realized how much she misses him. And right now it feels like he's back again. Right next to her, erasing her worries.
         It almost makes her start crying again. If she wasn't already.
         But she's still weeping a little, cleansing the last bits of her system, it's not so much the reaction to a traumatic recollection as a therapeutic ending. Sometimes you just have to cry. Or else it you won't be able to purge it otherwise.
         "How could he have done that . . ." Lena wonders outloud, skittishly wiping tears away from her face, succeeding only in smearing her cheeks with wetness.
         "Sh . . ." the man says again. "I told you those were only a small part of your night, Lena. There are others that were also stolen from you."
         "But . . ." she tries to interrupt.
         "Concentrate," he instructs her, like she's his student. "Let go." It's not so much a command as a suggestion. This part of the night was bad, he seems to be saying. But not all of it was. Focus on those.
         So Lena closes her eyes lightly, tears caking the spaces in her eyelids.
         And lets go.
         falling like shimmering rain she's caught in the warmest storm of history she's all wet, awash in the night and she's remembering
         remembering dancing with friends, caught up in a circle that seems impossible to break, thudding to a beat that might just be the pulse of their lives
         dancing by herself, forging her own path, the faces whirling around her, intoxicating, her head alive with sounds too dense to be identified, too beautiful to be ignored
         the air is shining
         cold air entering her lungs as she tries to find the breath to laugh at a joke
         clustered at a bar as someone shares a story, everyone moaning in tandem at the same bad pun, unable to stop themselves from grinning all the same
         sitting in a moonlit car, words drifting lazily back and forth between them, suspended on the strings on the night, opening doors and filling in a past that wasn't shared but should have been
         footsteps in the rain leaving gleaming rainbow puddles, ripples extending forever outward
         and the exhilarating touch of a hand, finding that there's no chill at all it's just what you had always hoped but could never bring yourself to believe
         and
         and
         Dawn rushes into the hole. With a stifled sniff, the gap in her head is plugged up.
         Lena starts violently, stiffens and then relaxes. Her eyes snap open. The pressure of powder dried tears are evident on her cheeks, train tracks leading to a place she's never been.
         How much time has passed?
         No time at all. And all the time in the world. Lena gingerly lifts her head up from the moist pillow, finds that her equilibrium isn't quite up to it yet and lays it back down gently. Her eyes flicker to an empty spot next to her on the bed. The sheets are smoothed, almost ironed, like someone was sitting there. Experimentally she runs a hand over the area, finding it comfortably warm.
         Memories and voices and pictures and memories are swimming in her head, falling end over end. But now there's an implicate order, each piece is stepping into place, finding its niche. The puzzle rearranges itself and she realizes it wasn't that complicated to begin with.
         A patch of darkness mars her head, and she shivers, feeling very cold. The bastard. A flash of anger warps her perceptions and her nails bite into her palm again. God, she was so helpless. So vulnerable. Even now she can feel the sickening touch all over her body, dotting from spot to spot. She wants to swat at herself, brush off whatever insect is trying to build a nest in her skin. But it's all in her head. Now, that's the problem. And the solution.
         "If it's any consolation . . ." a voice drifts to her softly, still startling her by disrupting the peaked silence, "Carl got what he deserved. We took care of it. All of us."
         Ignoring the dizziness that tries to shove her down, Lena sits up, leaning on her elbow for support. The man is silhouetted in the window again, just when she saw him the first time. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's gazing at the still rising sun, the oranges and pinks of the brightening sky. Slowly one hand goes to touch the window, his palm flat. Like he wants to go out and chase down the sun, stop it at this most beautiful moment. For some reason, Lena thinks if he really wanted to, he could. But that wouldn't be right.
         Lena finds her mouth suddenly dry. The mention of Carl conjures his shadow wrought face, angular and leering, muttering soft words that had meaning only to his out of control mind. She finds herself drawing a shuddering sigh at the thought and realizes that she has a long way to go still. This has only been the first step. But she wouldn't have been able to take it otherwise.
         But there's one question she has to ask. "Carl . . . did you . . ." her mouth won't form the word but she spits it out through sheer willpower, "did you kill him?"
         The man turns to her, hands clasped behind his back again. He lifts one eyebrow, his face impassive but his eyes oddly amused. At least that's what it seems to Lena. "No, we didn't. But there was justice, Lena. We made sure of it."
         Lena only blinks, sighing once more, a tired sound. "Good," is all she says. All she can say. Anything more might give rise to emotions that would only tear her apart again.
         But there are other memories swirling around inside of her, tendrils crossing each other, the glue that keeps her together. Some of those memories are of the party, some distinct, some hazy, all complete now.
         And some of those memories are still at the party but feel like they were drawn from another palette altogether. Of a land bordered by parking lots and streetlamps and a cold concrete set of stairs. Of a conversation that ranged from illogical to heartfelt to irreverent to blisteringly honest.
         Of Tristian.
         Of her.
         Of the two of them.
         "Can I . . . ask you a question?" she asks the man suddenly. He appears more translucent than before, almost smokey, a gentle wind from an open window might just disperse him to the corners and send him away. "I mean, if that's all right? With you, I mean. If you don't mind." She's babbling but Lena doesn't really care. It's weighing like overripe fruit in her mind, it needs to be plucked.
         "Go right ahead," the man answers her, giving her a smile that can only be described as indulgent.
         "Ah . . ." her head feels better now but Lena still can't resist the urge to rest a hand on her forehead anyway, "you said that you knew . . . you could see my memories before you, ah, gave them back to me? And now that I've . . . now that I can remember them again, I was just . . . just wondering . . ."
         "Yes?" the man asks, showing the kind of patience that can only be garnered by one who measures the years of their life in a handful of sifting sand.
         Lena feels so stupid but she has to know. "Tristian and I, we . . . is that why you gave them back to me? Because of that? Because of him?" Even now she can hear his words, like he's right here. Lena never would have imagined that a conversation like that would have occurred between them like that, out of nowhere, that it would have ended the way it did. But even now it makes her feel strangely warm. Like drifting fallout. But of a kind that she can't honestly say she dislikes. And she's not sure what that means. To her. To anyone.
         The man gives a little laugh at that, which makes Lena flush with brief embarrassment. He takes a few steps back toward her bed, still laughing quietly.
         Sparkling eyes regard her. "So I'm a matchmaker now, is that it?" He gives her a grin that's almost human. "Still, if you're an example of Tristian's taste in women, I must give him credit . . . I know I can't find fault. Did a better job than I thought, hm?"
         Lena finds herself blushing at what she thinks is a compliment. Oh God, the best praise she's received all night is from something that isn't even human. Lena's not quite sure how that makes her feel.
         Then the man's face turns serious and Lena feels a stab of worry. "But no, Lena, I'm afraid I can't confess to such motives, as laudatory as they might be. I . . ." the man turns from her, pacing back toward the window, "what I did just now was an attempt to correct a wrong that had been done against you. To balance the books, so to speak."
         He glances back at Lena, smiling lightly at her. "Nothing we've done tonight has helped you at all. No matter what we did to Carl, no matter how fast we got you here, none of it addressed the wrong that had been originally committed against you . . ." and just thinking about it causes her stomach to churn, it takes a great effort to calm it, ". . . and I couldn't let that stand. I knew I couldn't erase what had been done but there had to be something I could do." He chuckles, the sound self consciously deflating. "That's right, Lena, I have doubts too. Answers don't come easily to me either." Then his voice becomes sober, matching the silent beauty unfolding out the window. The same kind that happens every day. But somewhere someone is seeing it for the first time. And marveling. "And I realized that of all the aspects that make up a person . . . memory is the most important, it's the structure that defines us. In the end, we're only a sum of our memories, of our experiences. And if you take even a little bit of that away from a person, whether the memory is good or bad . . . it diminishes that person. I couldn't let that stand, Lena."
         It feels like she only heard every other word. Her dizzy head is spinning even faster now. "So . . . what are you trying to tell me? That Tristian . . ."
         "Knows nothing about this," the man interjects smoothly. He raises his eyebrow, perhaps sensing her rumbling disbelief. "Truly, he doesn't. I came here of my own accord . . ." an oddly impish smile graces his features, "so consider this my gift to you, Lena."
         "Oh, ah, thanks . . ." Lena responds awkwardly, not sure how she's supposed to feel. Carl's probing tentacles are still leaving ghost trails all over her body but at the same time she can hear Tristian, his measured tones, the words he was saying. He really meant it. All those months she used to wonder and it turns out he meant it the entire time.
         The man nods, accepting her thanks graciously. Casting a glance at the window, he says, "I've done all I came to do here, Lena, so I'm going to leave now." He fixes her with a piercing gaze, like he's staring down at her over thick lenses. "Are you going to be all right here?"
         "Here? I . . ." Lena shifts her position, sitting crosslegged on the bed, crossing her arms, hugging herself a little. Fingers trace out her spine, counting the contours. Someone holds her hand with the pressure that's unrelenting but reassuring all at the same time. Across from her a man older than all of her ancestors combined is asking her if she's all right. Everyone cares about her, it seems. In their own weird way.
         Lena glances down at her lap, sighs a little, inhaling deeply before looking back at the expectant man. "Yeah, I guess I'll be. For tonight at least."
         The man peers at her again and then steps back apparently satisfied. "Very good," he pronounces. He starts to turn and then stops again. "Let me tell you one last thing, Lena . . . I know your memories of Tristian, of tonight, evoke certain . . . feelings, some of which confuse you. I just want to let you know, whether or not you choose to pursue the feelings that you believe exist in those memories . . . whatever you choose, Tristian will understand."
         Lena can only nod. "Yeah," she says a bit lamely, a bit weakly, "he probably will. He's good like that." A lopsided smile punctuates the statement, but her half hearted shrug is her only real answer. "He is."
         "He is," the man echoes, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Well, I guess I'd better be going," he says, glancing around like his bus has just pulled into the terminal. He bends at the waist politely, stating, "Lena, it's been a pleasure. I'm sure we'll meet again."
         Then he pivots on his heel, takes a step toward the rising sun and dissolves into golden motes.
         Lena raises a hand to shield her face against the momentary brightness but the results are gone before the shadow of her hand can fall over her.
         The room is suddenly oddly quiet. She never realized how much his voice filled the empty spaces. Lena blinks, wondering if she just had the most elaborate dream ever, if her mind has finally snapped and she's just lying in some bed, roaming the world drawn by her own delusions.
         But, no. Her hand brushes the spot on the bed where the man was sitting. It's still warm. Gently she touches her head, and for the first time it feels right. There are spike encrusted memories tumbling end over end in her mind but there's enough to cushion and immobilize those memories. And even though they still hurt, still haunt her, Lena thinks that she can get through it.
         Slowly, she lets herself tumble backwards, her body falling free until it hits the pillow, bouncing a little on impact before settling comfortably.
         Lena stares at the ceiling, trying to find patterns in its darkness. None of its familiar at all, but for the first time that doesn't bother her. The only guideposts she needs now are all in her head. Where they should be.
         Somewhere down the hall people are talking in low murmurs.
         Footsteps rattle past.
         Wheels squeak on their journey.
         A child wails, falters and begins to gurgle happily, apparently finding something to satisfy its simple needs.
         The sounds of the hospital enclose her, even as Lena finds herself letting all her breath drain out in a sigh. All her tension. All her anxiety. It's there, still, but she can live with it. For just one night it's not going to bother her.
         And so Lena closes her eyes, letting the night fall away from her, an armor she no longer needs. Relaxing, a warm sleep descends on her like spring mist.
         Her memories beckon, leading her up a staircase laden with promise. A hand is on her back, gently guiding her forward. The touch of a friend. A touch she knows.
         The door lies open, and a sinuous cacophony greets her, interwoven voices of everyone she knows, everything she's ever seen, covering the air like an audio quilt.
         Lena hesitates in the doorway, trying to see in. The darkness is punctured by sporadic spotlights.
         And all she sees are friendly faces. Laughing. Telling her to come right in. There's a place saved right where she wants it. Come right in.
         The door opens the rest of the way, an invitation she can't refuse. The music washes over, stirring her right down to her marrow. It's not something she can resist.
         So she doesn't.
         Grinning until it almost hurts, Lena laughs and crosses the threshold, footsteps unburdened by gravity, sliding right into the twinkling party where she belongs.
         And for just a little while, where she knows she'll be safe.