- XXIX -

* * * * *
         "So this is her?"
         "Mmhm. Our mystery girl, so to speak."
         "I heard about that. Is it really true she just appeared here out of nowhere? Because that's really hard to swallow. I mean, come on, people don't just pop out of thin air into a room."
         "I'm just telling you what the nurse told me . . ."
         "You sure some paramedics didn't just dump her in there and forget to mention it to the rest of us. It's a big place, you know. Sometimes people slip through the cracks."
         "Well if you can explain to me how exactly they managed to get her here without the rest of us noticing, please, by all means, let me know."
         "Okay. I don't know, you've got me. But . . . come on, there has to be some sort of logical explanation to this."
         "We're looking, we're looking. Trust me, it's not good for the old image if we can't even keep track of our own patients. But there's . . . nothing."
         "Ah . . . ah well. Has anybody bothered to ask her, just out of curiosity? She's not comatose."
         "No, no she's not. But she's only woken up once since she came here . . ."
         "And?"
         "And we got nothing out of her. She was highly distraught when she first regained consciousness and even after she calmed down she didn't seem to know where she was or how she had gotten here."
         "But she's sleeping now?"
         "We had to sedate her, her confusion was starting to get her agitated. When she wakes up again we're going to try to have someone there to keep her calm."
         "Think that'll work?"
         "I don't know what the hell to think anymore. I mean, God, even her diagnosis, the nurse that found her was babbling something about a date rape drug . . . Lord only knows how she knew that but . . . damned if we didn't find that stuff there when we tested blood levels."
         "Date rape? Jesus, that's nasty stuff. No wonder why she's disoriented, it screws your memory up something fierce. She probably isn't lying when she says she doesn't remember. Half the night might as well not have happened for her."
         "I know, I know. And . . . it's just a damn shame, you know. It just is. We had a girl last year come in, same reason . . . and she just never woke up. I stood there and watched her flatline and . . . God it makes you feel so goddamn useless, right? All our education, our training and sometimes it doesn't mean a blessed thing."
         "The hell it doesn't. She's still breathing here, isn't she? Nobody's got a perfect track record and anyone who claims so is either a dentist or they're lying."
         "A dentist?"
         "You know what the hell I mean."
         "If you say so . . . you know, it's just . . . we both know she didn't do this to herself . . . that someone had to do it to her? Why?"
         "Easy. Some sick kid was bored and thought he'd try something new to get his kicks. It's so simple it'd make you want to vomit."
         "I hope they find him and take him out and shoot him. People shouldn't be able to do this to each other. It's just not right."
         "Can't argue with you too much there, but I do hope they catch him, whoever it is. It's funny, my daughter, I tell her everytime she goes to some party, watch your ass, keep an eye out for anything funny and if you don't like the way it's going, get the hell out of there."
         "She just yes's you to death, right?"
         "Damn straight. But you know what, this would be a damn good night to go home, drag her out of bed and bring her here and show her what can happen."
         "Heh, it certainly wouldn't win you any parent of the year awards."
         "Hell the effect would probably fade after two days anyway. Memories are too short, if you're not constantly reminding them, it's like you never said a damn thing at all. Kids think they're invulnerable, down ten shots and think they'll just get drunk or at worst, pass out and sleep it off. Maybe have a headache in the morning. Bull. There's a stage past unconscious and they sure as hell don't want to go there."
         "But you can't get it through their heads."
         "Yeah . . . no, you can't. And even then . . . this girl here probably kept vigilant, watched herself, you know, stayed careful. And one second where she wasn't paying attention, and now she's here. You have to love life sometimes."
         "But at least she's here now. I mean, she's in good hands. This story might have a happy ending yet."
         "Oh, I sure hope so. I think she deserves it. But that doesn't mean I still can't get angry over it."
         "Mm. Yeah."
         "Ah, here I am ranting over this poor girl. Let's let her get some sleep, shall we?"
         "Do you want someone to tell you when she wakes up?"
         "Yeah, tell the nurses to have someone keep an eye on her. Maybe she can shed some light on this."
         "I hope she can. This is weird as hell."
         "It is, but you know what, I'd be able to live with knowing absolutely nothing if she turns out okay, you know? Because it's really not important, right? It just isn't."
         "No, I guess it's not."
         "It's not. Now let's get the hell out of here."

* * * * *
         Tristian's walking like he's got cloth wrapped around his legs. Like he's trying to step into a sack and the sack keeps trying to spit him back out. Every step twists the noose around his knees even tighter, his feet are numb, tingling, sparkles of life exploding in his ankles. We're still here, they're saying. Don't forget about us.
         But the door ahead is the only thing he's concerned with. A portal flush with the wall, he could walk right by it and just keep going, locked into a course that won't stop until he hits the wall and peddles blank air. A satellite content to mindlessly follow the invisible track lines of the Universe. But he's more than a satellite, he's got his own path to plot, his own mathematics to work out, calculations scribbled on dirty paper in coffee stained handwriting, the chalk white dust coating his hands the only time they'll ever know that innocent color. A decimal point off and you're aiming for celestial sights you haven't a prayer of reaching. It's an exact, silly little game.
         Still it would be nice to just hug the wall, a blind man rediscovering touch, until he has no choice but to tumble into the room when the wall isn't there anymore. Just fall right in, reinforce that uncoordinated image, pick yourself up and dust off your pants, all the while murmuring an apology no one believes and pretending like the planned plummet was the happiest accident around.
         And really, if his falling into the room pulled a laugh out of somebody, he'd do it just to hear the sound.
         But Tristian knows that won't happen.
         Even as he knows that there isn't room for pretense anymore.
         The door inches closer, the hallway is just hooked into a sliding wall and he's not moving at all. From here he can see the grey toned dimness of the room, a spidersweb spun so intricately that you can't even see the weave. Silken darkness. He's not surprised to find that his hands are moist, weeping the salttears that his eyes can't seem to handle. At least they aren't shaking, he's glad of that. Looking nervous always makes him feel self conscious, like he has to defend his nervousness. And he's not in the mood for that right now. In fact he's not in the mood to really talk to anyone. He'll bottle his words up and maybe take them outside and let them loose when he's alone, where they can flutter to the sky like doves. In here there's no where for them to go.
         Tristian's at the door now, his hand on the frame, as if to keep himself from doing something too rash. Whoa, there let's take a second and think about it. He's already made up his mind, but the excuse for a reprieve, however unnecessary, is enough to cement him to the floor. The wood under his hand feels freshly painted, he can feel the grain of the paint, the handyman's fingerprints, as well as the subtle lumps and imperfections in the wood itself. Down the hall a laugh bursts like a balloon, quick and sharp. He hopes it was a funny joke. It's quiet over here, there are rooms nearby but he can't see anybody inside, the angle is all wrong for peeping. They've got their own private shadows to keep them company. Don't need him at all. Just as well, those others don't interest him really. He's just trying to distract himself. It's only natural.
         Standing in the doorway, he tries to see into the room but finds that there isn't anything to see. There are two windows against the wall, but the curtains are drawn, shutting out the billowing day, though its fingers are playing at the cracks in the shields, trying to pry it open. The wall itself is featureless, not even a pleasant painting or cheery picture to brighten it. The paint color isn't clear in the darkness but he's sure it's some bland, generic color that's supposed to make people happier just by looking at it. Like emotions are dogs you can please simply by rubbing their bellies.
         This hallway is definitely making him nervous, it's too exposed out here. He's too used to being on guard, everywhere he goes he finds himself checking out the hiding places for potential snipers, where a dedicated assassin could lay in wait out of sight. Not even realizing what he's doing, just simple reflex. For the same reason you put your pants on first in the morning. Because you're used to it. Once he even found himself at the mall rating seats in a fast food place as to how safe they would be if someone attacked the place and how quickly the location would let him escape or mount a spirited defense. Then he found himself laughing about it but now, in a lonely corridor sewn up with the imprinting of phantom passages, it really isn't that funny. Crazy people never know they're crazy, he remembers someone telling him. It's the rest of us who have gone mad. That's all.
         But Tristian can't shake the feeling that he's going to put his hand on the wall and finding it sliding over a grimy slickness that won't seem to leave his hands. Or hearing a bellow that could rattle the echoes and crouching down to make himself a smaller target, not sure how he knows to do such things, with only a sickly red glow to illuminate the space around him. Like the air itself is bleeding a hazy red mist. When nothing bleeds red around here except for himself.
         The goddamn tunnels. Even here he can't escape them. Like they mined a way right into the center of his head and refugees keep pouring in every day, elbowing each other for space. An obscure form of claustrophobia. Or tranferance. That's the word, he's sure. Tranferance. Maybe not. Psychology was never his strong point, even if he's worn the cushion raw in the armchair trying to figure himself out. Just because you're not good at something doesn't mean you won't keep doing it. Letting the theory that if you keep at anything long enough you'll get decent at it light your way.
         Tristian stands in the doorway, feeling like a mime getting ready to run his hands over the invisible barrier, and gradually he starts to separate the sounds of the hospital, watching them all arrange themselves in liquid bands, the heavier noises sinking right to the bottom while the lighter ones bubble at the surface.
         The woven conversation of the nurses, words meshing into a dead language.
         He dives, water cowardly parting to let him pass.
         The rattle of gurney wheels on tiled floor.
         Deeper.
         The gentle hiss of air filters, shivers of sound, the murmur of a thousand weakened kittens crying for mothers that have gone away, never to return.
         Deeper.
         A machine monotonously marking out time with dispassionate pinging.
         deep
         Shallow breathing. Air rushing into lungs only to turn around and run right back out again. No party here, folks. Let's find our fun somewhere else.
         deep
         Breathing. In. And. Out. He can almost feel the moist warm air right on his cheek, a message beamed directly into his eardrum. The kiss of the tropical jungle.
         It's coming from inside the room.
         d-
         And then there's nowhere else to go.
         Except in.
         Tristian's caught in a tractor pull with a force he can't hope to understand or match. All you can do in the end is give in to it. So he does. And the room opens up for him, two more full walls revealing themselves to his eyes, closing the box out, sealing him in with just one exit. One exit and two windows. There's nothing on the wall facing him, nothing but faded paint and the dust the nurses can't chase away. Out of the corner of his eye, like it's trying to hide from him, he can see the metal corner of a bed.
         Soft respiration strikes his ear from the left, a bat using unconscious echolocation. Waves forming rings in the air. Physics described as the hula hoop, surrounding him, passing through his body, like he's the immaterial one. He's the one that doesn't belong here.
         Slowly, Tristian turns toward the sound, a panorama unfolding before him. The bed swings into view, rotating itself into place. It's just like any other hospital bed, mass produced factory line structure, tarnished metal forming the frame, white sheets adding a touch of color, pillows that lost whatever vitality they possessed a long time ago, previous occupants siphoning out the lifeforce without hesitation or shame. In this world you have to save yourself. It's not like you have a choice. Darwin said so. And here we are, throwing each other off the mountain in order to get to the top. A top that keeps getting up and setting up shop farther away each time we get near.
         Unfortunately, this just isn't any bed, and Tristian feels his innards stiffen as the image in front of him finally reaches his brain, striking where it hurts most. Signals batter his muscles, urging him to turn away before it turns him to stone. But they don't hospitalize basilisks. That'd be stupid. Nothing here can hurt him, nothing here can do anything to him at all.
         Except why does he have to clench his hand tightly enough for his stubby fingernails to bite like keratin daggers into his palm to keep it from suddenly trembling? Why is that?
         Tristian doesn't know, he's concentrating too much on trying to be strong, on trying to take it all in with a steady gaze and an upright stance.
         "Oh . . ." he murmurs, a buzzing growing in the pit of his stomach, a nest of sorrowful hornets.
         But it's just so goddamn hard.
         You see, it's a face here that Tristian knows, one that he can find in his dreams some nights, one that not too long ago was constantly alive, constantly in motion.
         Lena's on her back, and her face is still. The blanket is pulled up to her chest and he can't see her arms, beyond the elbow the limbs might as well not exist. Like she's wrapped in a loose fitting cocoon. They've covered her in a hospital gown, all prison generic, like she came here because she did something wrong, she's being punished. It briefly makes him angry, though he's not sure at what. At the world. For doing this. To her. That must be it. Raging at a world that's going to keep doing what it's doing anyway because there's nobody around to stop it.
         The gown rises and falls over his chest, looped gentle motions, a ship riding out the calmest waves ever. Her hair frames her face, bordering the portrait. Tristian remembers it being tied back with a small elastic band and how when it removed the borders it only highlighted the lines of her face. But they must have taken it out here. Or Carl took it out, now that he thinks about it, he really can't remember. That bothers him, because he's been trying to engrave this night into memory but when you're bent over the parchment, inking staining your hands, your nose, the chance of closing your eyes for that one crucial second is all too easy. But it disturbs him, because he needs to remember. Because he's afraid that Lena won't be able to and he'll need to fill her in when she wakes up, relay every possible detail, blowing up the picture until you're so close you can see the dots. We're all just components. You put us all together and we form the image but no one knows what it's supposed to be. We're too close, you have to pull back until it resolves properly. But that's a journey you'd never survive. Tristian thought that he had slipped back beyond the boundaries of his small Universe, all the galaxies and stars bundled together, seen through a dewdrop lens, a bubble receding further and further away. He thought he had shoved himself so far away that he was nothing but a time dilated dot, relativity his legacy, everyone spotting him and only seeing the past, when Tristian was a guy they knew, a guy they could understand. He would have been very happy to turn out the lights and close the door quietly behind him, leaving only that fragile light encrusted image behind to mark that he had ever been there. Part of him really thought he had succeeded.
         But that was just a delusional sham. As it turns out, he hasn't gone anywhere at all.
         Tristian stands at the end of Lena's bed, mostly just watching her sleep. She must be sound asleep, since his entrance hasn't made her stir at all. He wonders if they gave her anything to put her out, or if all her time so far has been spent in that greylit oblivion that Carl put her in. There's a chart set in a small angled plastic folder on the wall, but Tristian has no desire to look at it. All that would do is take her condition and quantify it, find hard wooden stakes words to pin her down and hold her there, unable to escape even her own symptoms. That's not the kind of world Tristian wants to live in. His world, his life is a unforgiving place, battering you with grit stained winds, merciless climates and terrain that could function as a weapon. But there's miracles afloat there too, among the desolation, you glimpse them every once in a while, points of bulbous light weighted with mystery. Seeing those, it renews his faith. Seeing those, it somehow makes it all worthwhile.
         But there are no miracles in Lena's world, right? None you can explain, or see. Tristian almost glides over to the side of her bed, keeping a constant distance, like she's some kind of exhibit. The folly of man. Look on the works and despair. Tristian's close to despairing but he's barely holding it in check. Just barely. She's so still, not even really twitching. Dreams aren't racing across her face, gouging transient lines in her smooth expression. There's just nothing there at all. Tristian remembers looking at her and seeing streetlights reflected like ghost stars, close enough to touch yet cool enough to bear.
         He can't see her eyes now. And he would very much like to.
         At least she's not having nightmares. Tristian doesn't know what he'd do if he came in and she was simply thrashing, fighting against the monofilament thread binding her to the bed, her face twisted with a fear that has no face to scream at, no body to hit, nothing real to define it. A sight like that would just be terrible. And he's just not sure what he'd do.
         Tristian stares down at her, resisting the urge to reach out and run his hand gently along the side of her face, the fine fabric of her skin, the warmth sequestered there. He wonders if she would even feel it, and know. Know who it was. Or just wake up screaming, running from the memory of a touch just like that, only holding no warmth for her, just base motives and empty longing. When a simple gesture like a friendly touch has been tainted almost beyond salvation, that's when the true injustice has occurred. Lena may have forgotten this entire night but the body never forgets. Ghost limbs for amputees. As if wishing could bring it all back. Not if all of your cells let the same thought spark them at the same time, not even that would be enough to reverse one tiny bit of time. It's just not possible.
         Behind him is a chair set against the wall. For visitors, apparently. He twists his body and sees her clothes folded neatly and placed on the seat. Her shoes line up at attention directly underneath. Tristian stares at the garments, amazed at how the person can make the clothing, how now all that he sees before him are empty weavings of cotton and wool. These aren't Lena, they never can be. But they carry a trace of her, lingering like an aura, fireflies forming the outlines of her face in their coldlight dance.
         Very slowly, Tristian bends down and slides his hands under the pile of clothes. Almost reverently he lifts them up, the light softness solid air in his hands, and with equal gentleness lays them down on the floor next to the chair.
         Grasping the chair by the top of the back, he picks up it and brings it forward, careful not to knock her shoes out of their neat arrangement. He wants to leave it all as he found it. Don't disturb the museum. Even the dust is historical. It could be Caesar's body for all you know, that you're breathing in. And what might he think of that. Probably nothing at all.
         He plants the chair next to the bed, leaving enough room for his legs, swinging himself into it with a grace he rarely allows himself. There's a mild protest in the form of an expulsion of a burst of air from the chair. Other than Lena's simple breathing and the sterile beeping of a monitor machine, there's no other sound to contaminate the room. In a way, it's pristine. Quiet. Modern nature indulging in a form of static beauty.
         And then there's Tristian, about to leave his muddy footprints all over the dirt, break branches to mark his passage, sit by the edge of a clear lake and throw rocks in, all the while thinking that all this was set up just for him to come and see.
         Tristian has to allow himself a small smile at that thought. That's him, all right. The typical tourist.
         Lacing his hands together, he leans forward in the chair, positioned so that he can see more than just her profile. This way he can savor the entire picture. Her eyelids aren't even fluttering, they're paralyzed in place, even dreams refuse to be an escape for her. Whatever she's been given or whatever was done to her, she's totally immersed in the dark ocean, floating in a sense deprived oblivion, nothing to see, nothing to touch, nothing to hear. No feeling. For Lena right now, existence is just a word bandied about, something you hear over the rumor mill. It has no intrinsic meaning.
         No more meaning than the concept of life on other planets.
         The still sculpture of her face is oddly beautiful. It's totally relaxed, the outward appearance of calm, even when inside the storm is just getting ready to rage. That's the problem with the surface, it tells you nothing. As a kid, there was a house with white picket fences, an impossible manicured lawn, a cute dog playing in the yard, all belonging to a kid maybe a year or two younger than him. The mother was always smiling, always had stuff for visitors, cookies and things. The father worked a white collar job, always offered a gruff handshake on greeting people, drove a good car. Tristian remembers watching him walk into the house, offering a neighborly smile to the young man who shared the block with him, his briefcase swinging jovially.
         Tristian wouldn't find out for years that seconds after the door swung shut on that pretty house, the father put his briefcase down, take off his suit jacket, and then roll up his sleeves so he could proceed to beat the piss out of his family for imagined wrongs. And it went on longer than Tristian would like to admit. Right down his street. In the perfect house.
         God. All these things, they haven't occurred to him in years. Moments like this, he feels almost guilty not thinking about them constantly, all these bleeding splinters of suffering splattering the terrain of his memory like dirty summer rain. It's like he's furthering the injustice, twisting the pain by not keeping the embers of his anger alive. But that's just the problem. Nobody stays angry forever. We all forget. And right now Tristian's not feeling the same pure anger he was before, just looking at Lena is almost calming, her breathing is so regular, her sleep so apparently undisturbed that you can't help but think, hey, maybe it'll all be okay now. It's all going to turn out just fine.
         While in the retreated recesses of her mind, a man stands with red droplets staining his otherwise impeccable white shirt, his hands balled into fists, crimson dye coating his hands, dipping fingers into the can of paint known as the human body. While the person at his feet cowers and tries to throw a scream through walls that prove to be impermeable. Nobody ever hears. We never hear the screams that might mean the most to us.
         She really is beautiful, though. Tristian finds he could watch her sleep all night. The sudden intensity of that simple statement surprises him, he's never seen himself as man prone to such things. Not that the word beauty has been banned from his vocabulary but he's just . . . it's never been applied this way before. To a person. To describe certain feeling churning within him. He wants to take her hand, feel the warmth of her fingers against his, hoping maybe she'll feel that pressure, grab it like a fishing line, reeling herself back to consciousness. Back to him. Tristian would like to think that the depth of his feelings, feeling he barely even understands, would somehow act like magic medicine to revive her when an army of doctors armed with their drugs and their knowledge couldn't accomplish such an act. It's fanciful, for sure.
         This is the moment for it though. Right? In all the movies, the hero holds his vigil over the girl who's won his heart, pours his silent desire for her into longing stares, intense body language, all geared toward the one goal. Maybe he even gives a little speech, just to add drama or to cover up the lack of incidental background music. And just when the audience really believes that the hero is going to shuffle from the room, shoulders slumped in heavy despair, the girl slowly flutters her eyelids open, blinking herself back into the world.
         And the two of them share a silence that speaks volumes and volumes. Music swells, strings calling out pitched notes of triumph.
         Slowly, and then faster, like they're trapped on a derailed train sliding down a hill, the hero and the girl move toward each other.
         The music is now a Greek chorus, tonal notes holding each moment like it's a pearl of eternity, something to be held and turned around and around in the palm of one's hand, to be admired in as many angles as possible.
         Then the kiss, soft at first, tentative, like they can't believe this is happening and then tendrils of reality take hold and passion gladly erupts. Breathless, arms around each other, the silent vow is clear in the motions of their trembling bodies. Nothing will ever get between them again.
         A softly trilling piano delivers the final message.
         Love conquers all.
         The camera pans backwards, perhaps a look at the window, at the shadow of dawn creeping onto a world that's just waking up. It's the renewal, it seems to say, in this bright morning that only seems just like every other morning, wondrous things have happened. The renewal and the rebirth and the restoration. Of faith. Of hope. Of love.
         A final shot of the rising sun, a deep rich orange floating like a blind eye over the horizon.
         Fade to black.
         Roll credits.
         Sit back and wait for the awards to come. That simple.
         Tristian blinks, his eyes snapping back into focus. A quick glance shows that nothing's changed, but he knew that. This isn't some movie, this is life. A life. His life, her life. Perched in his open guard tower, Tristian feels like a sentry, trying to protect Lena from the spirits that threaten to disrupt her slumber. The guardian keeping eternal watch over the princess, waiting for the princess to come and rouse her from the sticky darkness coating her mind, a paint no solvent will dissolve. Only a kiss. Movie magic. Tristian wishes he were that prince, but he can't be both. There's just no way. You can't be protector and partner, you can't supply both security and closeness. One has to be sacrificed for the other to exist. Tristian's not sure where he falls in, neither wardrobe contains any clothes that fit him. The prince's finery just hangs on him, he can't let himself go near her looking like that and yet he has little choice. While the guard's armor is too tight, he won't be able to go far enough away with that. He'd have to stay close. And that's not right.
         And yet a protector is what he is, right? It's what he does. What he's supposed to be trying to do. Should be easy.
         After all he's got this sword.
         "Hey, Lena," Tristian murmurs, his voice feather soft, reaching inside his coat to tug at something on his belt, "everything's going to be okay, all right?" Slowly he brings a stubby cylindrical object out into the open, turning it a little to watch the polished plastic metal hybrid catch the light, imposter stars glittering, trying to capture his eye.
         "I've got this, you see. And because of it, you're supposed to be safe," he muses, taking the sword between his two palms and running his hands back and forth, rolling the sword like bread dough. The heaviness is somewhat reassuring, it makes it all more real. Gives his life some justification. He doesn't imagine all of this, it's real.
         "I've got this sword," he tells her, smiling a little at the trembling inadequacy of the words. "That's what I told him. That I have this sword." Tristian finds a humble sigh seeping out from his lips even as he grips the sword tightly in his left hand, hefting it like a dumbbell. "It doesn't mean a damn thing, Lena," Tristian adds after a moment, trying to keep the bitterness from leaking into his tone, shaking his head, as if disgusted with the rounded reflection of himself he spies in the hilt of the sword. "You're still here," he notes plainly, the calm in his voice seeming strangely out of place. "And there's nothing this goddamn sword can do about it," he says, knuckles burning milk white as he tries to squeeze the sword, holding it at almost eye level. "Nothing at all."
         Glancing at the sword once more, he lays it across his knees, resting his forearms over it, squaring his shoulders and leaning forward again. When he speaks, his voice even more hushed, as if afraid Lena might suddenly awake and hear his words. Or even worse, it'll penetrate the structure of her sleep draped mind and rebound into whatever mental cavern she's been exiled into. Sitting there with only a single fire to throw her surreal shadow onto the jagged rock walls. Painting pictures with animal dye to try and tell the world what she's going through. But nobody understands. It'll be a long time before they do. Language hasn't been invented yet.
         "Are you in there, Lena?" Tristian asks softly. "Can you hear me? Do you know I'm here?" He cocks his head, twisting his neck so he can see her face better, his eyes flickering from feature to feature, lingering where he can, trying to find some sort of reaction. Anything. He wants to call her name again, but someone has disconnected her hearing, she didn't pay her bills and now it's debtors prison for Lena. In the one cell we can never escape from, the key thrown away by a warden who's on the take. Tristian caught the graft but the key is lying in the bottom of a river, carried by current, kinetics sweeping it out into the sea. So now he has to pick the lock. But the only pick he has will cut the prisoner and the prison.
         Tristian presses his hands together, looking down at the sword lying practically in his lap, and puffs his cheeks out, expelling a tired breath.
         "I've been . . . thinking, Lena," he begins, using the pause to look up at her, to see if she's paying attention. Did her face twitch just then? Did it? No, just the light. Nothing like a captive audience. "About you. About me." He's managed to keep his voice level so far, detaching his emotions from his words. Easy to make eye contact when the other person doesn't bother opening their eyes. "About us." But now he can't pretend, the last word, the simplest of all words gets split, his voice bucking, his hand lightly gripping the ejection seat switch, ready to disembark when the turbulence gets too rough.
         But, no. He has to do this. Biting his lip a little, Tristian puts his shoulder into the storm and vows to keep moving forward. Even if he goes down in flames, he'll fight for every last inch. The two of them deserve no less.
         "Tonight . . . something special happened," Tristian says, wondering with keen amusement just how the inadequate the word is. For him. He's treading uncharted ground, has been all night, sailing on into future waters without the wakes of previous voyagers to guide him, tell him he's going into the right direction. "And maybe it's not that special, not to you, maybe because it's the kind of thing you feel all the time. But for me . . . I can't even describe it . . ." he looks curiously at his hand, fingers stroking his palm rapidly, trying to restore suddenly poor circulation, "it's never happened before and you know, it's like trying to explain color to the blind. I've been blind, numb, my entire life and now I'm seeing again, feeling and I'm not sure where to start."
         He lets his hand drop to his knee and leans back in the chair, glancing at her from an angle, smiling a little. "But you'd say I'm just weird, right? Tell me that I'm analyzing it all too much, that I'm no different from anybody else. That it's because I keep trying to convince myself that I'm different . . . that I'm some sort of alien, that I feel the way I do." He hugs himself suddenly, as if cold, arms tight whips constricting his body. "And you'd be right. And wrong." He closes his eyes tightly, pantomime shadow boxers choreographing liquid colorless dances in the void of his eyelids, memories running on an all night show. "Because I am different, Lena. You showed me that . . ." he opens his eyes, regards her with a familiar stare, a fondness coating his vision, "or at least I hope I'm just not any other guy. Because, I mean, you're not just any . . ." he shakes his head, throwing the thoughts wrapped around his face like barnacles free, "I'm trying to say that . . ." and he stops again, rubbing his face vigorously with one hand, like he's trying to revive deadened tissue, before it's past hope. "God, even now I don't know what to say, nothing comes out right."
         His hands slide down until his arms are casually crossed slightly below his chest. His eyes never leave her face. "I hope you appreciate all this effort I'm going through for you, Lena," he remarks airily, "because I wouldn't do this for just anyone. I hope you know that." Tristian begins to laugh but the sound is dry, muted, shouted into a vacuum, ending as a small, snorted type of noise, like Tristian just inhaled something unpleasant. "Hell," he whispers, bending down at the waist, leaning closer to her without shifting forward in the chair at all, ghostly stomach pains wrenching him down.
         "Hell," he says again, more a quiet declaration than the oath against the inevitable it was before, "maybe I haven't changed, Lena. Not in one night. But . . ." and his eyes seem to frost over, "but tonight I found myself thinking, hoping . . . wanting to talk to you at the party, to dance with you and . . . you know, maybe . . ." and he has to glance away, his eyes closing slightly, wincing from blows that struck long ago, "maybe having coffee with you later, you know, at the diner or something." Instead he spent that time with the two least romantic things ever to grace his presence, listening to conversation piped in from the edge of nowhere. "I . . ." and his voice drops, barely even qualifying as a whisper, ". . . was looking . . . forward to saying goodbye to you tonight. Honestly. I was."
         Tristian seems to fall into himself, his body shrinking without going anywhere. An attempt at an offhanded shrug is his only coda. Even that says nothing. His words barely make an imprint on the air, no trace to leave behind. Lena won't wake up to find his words floating over her like a child's mobile, even the dust won't register his presence. Tristian finds he prefers it that way, or he thinks he should. Old habits, maybe, keeping their grip even when you've run them through, blood staining immaculate sand.
         "But that didn't happen. Those were just dreams . . ." Tristian notes softly, his hand gently touching the edge of her bed, fingers tracing the almost imperceptible fabric, though staying away from the contours of her body. He goes no closer. It wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be fair. "Good dreams, I guess." A twitch on the edge of his lip. "For me, at least." His hand flattens, fingertips pressing against the yielding mattress. "But that's all they were and . . . maybe on some parallel world, that Tristian and that Lena are doing just that . . . it's possible. Everything's possible nowadays, once I thought I could draw the line, but now," another shrug, turning the world onto his shoulders, " . . . you never know what's going to happen. And it's not even that outer space garbage . . . a month ago, I would have said that tonight was impossible. Just a dream." He sighs, his hand on the bed clenching into a weak fist, not enough anger present anymore to even complete the motion properly.
         "But here we are. In the real world. And . . . here you are, Lena . . ." he glances down at his knees for a long time, as if waiting for some sign, something that will tell him that the Lena he sees here is nothing more than a grim mirage, born of his worst nightmares, existing only because he refuses to face his fears. But he can, and does. And they stare right back at him. Everybody's forgotten how to blink. None of this has anything to do with him. That's the part that's hardest to accept. All of this might as well have happened on the other side of the world. "And I'm so . . . scared, Lena. Rationally I know, I know that you're going to make it, even if the doctors didn't have everything under control there are . . . powers . . . forces that are looking out for you." He gives a shaky laugh, hanging his hand nearly between his legs, his voice muffled as gravity forces his words through the floor. They serve as gentle inspiration for a paraplegic child who can't come to grips with the fact that she'll never feel her legs again. But Tristian will never know that. "But . . . tonight I feel like I . . . relearned how to care and . . . then I see you hurt, more than I've seen anyone I know hurt before and I wonder . . ." nearly biting through his lip, teeth searching for a vein to tap, his fingers wrap around his knees, "is this caring, Lena? Is it supposed to hurt this much?" and his voice is gritted anguish, innocence feeling the whip for the first time, first blood seeping underneath their fingernails, staining the skin. "Is it supposed to feel this way? Because I don't . . . I want the good caring, Lena, I want the kind that everyone always talks about, the warmth you hear at the sound of someone's voice, the tingling from a touch, all of that, I want to feel. Am I wrong to want that, Lena?" He slowly raises his eyes to her face, some part of him hoping that one of his words will be the key that triggers the breakthrough, shatters the ice encasing her body. But there's nothing. Still nothing. It's so frustrating, this feeling . . . this feeling of helplessness. Watching the fire roar and knowing that you're dealing with something that you can never control or defeat, only contain, only beat it back to a line that you can never go beyond.
         "Maybe I am," Tristian admits with an honesty that rakes cold fingers along his voice. "Because caring isn't . . . you can't divide it into good and bad, it's . . . I used to see my parents argue and . . . and they'd yell and say stuff and in their eyes I could see that . . . inside they were tearing themselves apart . . . they wanted to stop but they couldn't do it . . . and I wanted to jump up and shake them and tell them to stop it, that it wasn't doing any good. Couldn't they see that?" He folds his hands together, tapping the air to the beat of a song being played on a scratched record. "But they could. They knew. Sometimes . . . sometimes caring means that you have to push forward through the pain before it gets better, you can't be scared to go or else . . . else you'll never get past the pain." He pauses, his hands trembling violently suddenly, like he's trying to hold the most dangerous fairy in the world between his fingers. Between stuttering breaths he gasps, "But I'm scared. For you. For me. Scared about what's going to happen now."
         His shoulders jerk suddenly and he nearly sits back like a rocket in his chair. "I nearly killed Carl tonight, Lena. You probably don't know that." He's trying very hard to keep his voice blandly conversational but goddamn emotion keeps getting in the way. Treehuggers throwing themselves in front of your bulldozer. You have to understand, sir, it's all in the name. In the name of progress. "But I almost did. And . . . I can't stop thinking about it, I . . ." a lipless smile ravages his face, "I think about it almost as much as what we did tonight. They're running neck and neck, Lena."
         Tristian's body relaxes, giving into a force that refuses to let itself be pinned down by idle description. "But I didn't and . . ." the nagging weight of the forgotten sword in his lap suddenly comes to his attention. He glances down at it, almost in wonder, like he's never seen it before and can barely fathom its use. "And I think I did the right thing . . ." he's picking the sword up, balancing its insidious weight in his own too soft hand. "But . . . Lena, would you have wanted him dead? After what he did to you, knowing what he put you through, if you were awake right now and could answer me . . ." his voice trembles, a butterfly taking off with new wings, ". . . what would you have wanted me to do?"
         His stare pierces her, trying to rip back the veil of sleep that has adhered itself to Lena's face. After a second he just sighs again, his eyes roaming the lump under the blanket shaped like the girl he knows. Under there, she seems so small. Fragile. Like the blanket is the only protection against a world always backlit by a harsh glare, we're nothing but whited out shadows in the end, something you have to squint to even begin to see properly.
         "I wonder . . ." Tristian answers himself, his voice curiously dull, "but I don't want to know. Ever. Because I know some part of you must want him dead and . . . even if you wanted it more than anything, Lena . . . I couldn't. I just couldn't." His voice is the wet splattering of rain on achingly dry rocks, shuddering its way back to moisture. "Not for you, not for anyone. Like Joe said, we don't have the right . . . maybe I'm still the same but . . . I'm different too, I have a responsibility to . . . to find a better way. Because killing . . . it's necessary sometimes, Lena, God you'd be surprised how often that is, but it's so easy that we don't have any choice but to look for other options. And only when there's nothing left to do, when there's nowhere else to turn, then and only then can I use this," and the sword seems to grow more solid in his limp grasp, "with any sort of clear conscience.
         "And, what it comes down to, what I've been trying to say is . . ." he bows his head and closes his eyes, resting the tip of the sword against his forehead, a tingling mass that's colder than he expects, "I wish I had been faster, Lena. God, you don't know how I wish that I had been. That I had known earlier, that I had paid more attention," voice a staccato rant, he has to reel himself back in before he's echoing off the rafters, "the goddamn list goes just on and on. But all of that is nothing more than idle hope . . . the important thing is that I can help you now, that you're going to get better, I know you are. And I'm going to help you. We all are. But Carl . . ." and his eyes snap open, lips curling in distaste even at the name, like he can't bear to speak it in her presence, ". . . you don't get better from being dead," at least most of us don't, "and while what happened to you haunts me now, seeing you well is going to tear all those fears to tatters, it'll make it all better . . ." his voice dips into something somber, his tone sinking a like plumb line into an ocean where he makes far more sense than he'll ever realize, "but if I had killed Carl, it would have haunted me for as long as I live."
         The eyes that regard Lena are oddly clear, the clouds have gone away now, weather patterns finding new hovels to darken. "And I'm sorry, Lena, but that's just how it is. How it has to be. I hope somewhere deep down inside, you understand."
         He reverses the sword again, spreading his legs slightly and planting the end solidly on the chair, laying both his hands on top of the other end, a vaudeville actor about to launch into his craft. The air's too still, the audience is too cowed to even bother to clap. Or even boo. If someone walks in right now, Tristian has a feeling that they'll just turn around and walk right back out without saying a word, trying to be as quiet as they can. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe we're all going about it the wrong way, if someone had seen Lena going with Carl and had said something, maybe more of the dreams that nestle like unhatched eggs inside his skull would have burst forth, gasping in the fresh air that marks the world. And, far more importantly, Lena wouldn't be here tonight.
         We call ourselves social animals when we've only gotten half the phrase right, we're paying lip service to the civilized nature of our hairless compassion, the intricate connections that pulse in lightspeed rhythms between us, when in the end if it doesn't affect us, we can't bring ourselves to care. The saddest fact of all. Stepping over the wailing body, trying to make sure they don't have the temerity to bleed on your newly shined shoes, and when the crying gets cuts off, you're just happy for the respite.
         Tristian's no different, he can't pretend that the mirror he uses to gaze at himself is any more polished than everyone else's. He tried to convince himself that stepping back into closeted shadows was for the good of everyone but him, when in the end those were the people he was hurting. You can throw the greycloak over your head, send stimulation scampering away, but the world won't go away. It's stubborn like that. Keeps calling for your attention, even when you don't want to be bothered. The audacity of it all. Assuming that you ever want to care. That you have to. But Tristian does. He does. He just never understood how necessary it was.
         "So here we are," he tells the sleeping Lena, trying to fashion his words into arrows that'll pierce the meshed armor clouding her slumber, but the penetration would do her more harm than good. Let this be a half remembered coma dream, old relatives visiting you, dropping in to give advice that only winds up being the various factions of your head speaking with different heads. Mouthpieces all. We've got no new opinions, only the same old thoughts, reprocessed and repackaged. Shinier bodies. Sexier eyelashes.
         "But where do we go from here?" Tristian finds himself asking simply, not sure who he's really directing the question to. Resting his chin on his hands, he notes soberly, "This isn't the end, not by a long shot," and it's hard to keep residual anger out of his voice, "I want to think that when you get out of the hospital, it'll all be okay, just like you drank too much and passed out, or something. But it's not." His eyes harden, trying to keep the soft unprotected emotions in, knowing they won't survive long in exposure to the outside world. "It's not. The wounds will go deeper than that, it . . . God, Lena, I hope you're finding this sleep restful because it may be the last time it's like that for a while." His voices grows more muffled as he says that, like he's trying to keep it buried inside. Don't let her hear it. It might come true. It's going to come true anyway.
         Always the pessimist. Always spewing his depressive scenarios, smokestacks fouling the air. When the sky falls, he's the one claiming they finally dropped the bomb. Sometimes the sky just has to fall.
         "Oh, you'll bounce back, it may feel like a long time but you'll bounce back in no time at all," Tristian says cheerfully, smiling through the whiplash pains of foresight, trying not to let it all show, "I mean, you've got Jina and Will and Brian and Jack," he gives a smirking shrug, friendly-like, "well maybe you'd rather not have Jack around but, you know, all these people. Helping you. It's going to make it easier, Lena. I know that. You'll see."
         Joints greased by acute reflexes sweep him up into a standing position. The sword disappears into his jacket, a magician packing up his trick hats for the night. Nothing up my sleeve, you see. Not even my arm. Standing over Lena, Tristian's struck by how peaceful and how helpless she looks at the same time. Not one muscle has moved on her face the entire time he's been here, and it's not like he's been watching the wall. The beep from the monitor machine fades in and out, ambient music for the paralyzed, a soundtrack for your stay. The latest hit from the Monotones. Pulsing Your Way to Paradise.
         While staring at her, he's aware of how the day is moving, fighting back the vestiges of night. Dawn is coming. Sound the horns. It's coming. The long night is nearly over but the day is just as long. All it means is we can see the rocks before they trip us up. A monster in daylight is just as dangerous, at least during the night you're on your guard. And even then. Sometimes the monsters crawl from unexpected holes.
         His breath falls short, just inches from the finish line, and he finds himself gasping, one hand clutching the back of the chair, a cane that he's not ready to use just yet. At odd moments, the situation hurts him. When he's less than ready, it bites him. Why her? he can't help but think for maybe the hundredth time tonight. But who else then? Who else would he have wished this on? Nobody. Nobody at all. But apparently it had to happen. Goddamn destiny. Goddamn it all.
         "You've got them," he whispers, his voice dropping lower with every phonetic beat, "and . . . you've got me." An ironic smile coats his face like dripping paint. "Yeah, Lena, I know, I'm not going anywhere. Sorry, but you're stuck with me for the meantime . . ." a self mocking laugh keeps tickling his throat but he pushes it away. It has no place here. He's being serious. He's pretty sure he is. "And it's not just because . . . because of tonight," so many memories tied to one word, how does it stay afloat, "I mean it was great but . . ." he takes his hand off the chair and rubs his forehead, trying to erase the smudge he calls his brain. The fingertips come away glistening, slightly slick. Strange. He doesn't feel warm. "You're not going to remember . . ." and he can't say he's surprised by the sudden toneless timbre of his voice, he hasn't wanted to admit this all night to anyone, especially not himself, ". . . and I'm not going to tell you."
         His voice shivers over the last few clusters of syllables. Is that the way he wanted to say it? Just like that? He's not sure. But it's been said, however clumsily, however lacking in cheapened elegance. "Tonight . . . it . . . Joe was right, none of what happened came out of nowhere and . . . out there was only a catalyst, but if you don't . . . remember," and he's having a hard time formulating this concept, events don't just drop out of sight, they become museum pieces, to be seen by all, examined for as long as the structure holds, ". . . then we're back to the way it was before. Buried. And . . ." his voice catches, borders on outright dishonesty before he wrestles back down to his terms, "that's all right. I mean . . . I'm okay with it." His face feels flushed, his throat is cotton dry but he still can't stop shivering. He can't believe he's reacting like this. They're just words, Tristian. Just words. Nothing more.
         Still, he has to zipper his jacket up, jam clammy hands into the deep pockets, a picture of an imminent departure. "It wouldn't be right, you know? To just . . . expect us to pick up where we left off when . . . when you've got so much else to worry about. It would just be harder on you and . . . you don't deserve that." Any second he expects her to open her eyes, regard him with patented shock and tell him that he's got it all wrong. Another dream. It's not going to happen. "You need a . . . a friend, not . . . not whatever we were heading for." There is a word for it, but he can't bring himself to say it. It'll just highlight how far away it's drifted, out of range for even the most dedicated search parties. Let him pretend he never understood it that well in the first place.
         "And, who knows," he exclaims with sudden forced cheerfulness, his shoulders rising in an question shouted to no one in particular, "maybe someday we'll get another chance. We both know it's there, right? The feelings are there." His voice soften again, becomes gentler, the doctor informing you of your cancer. "But even if we don't, that one . . . tonight was enough. For me, it was."
         He's starting to move the chair back, running his opening film in reverse, picking her clothes off the floor and laying them back in their proper position. He can't resist smoothing out a wrinkle. It's details like that, that make the world. "I'm doing the right thing," he's saying, not facing her, just in case she can see his face, echo radar mapping out the terrain of his features. "I know I am . . ." and suddenly he finds there's nothing else he can say. Either he's convinced her or he hasn't. And even if he hasn't, she can't do anything about it anyway.
         Yet he feels so coldly barren, scoured by winds sewn full of sandpaper. He glances out the window, the gathering orange red of the sky. This is the way it has to be. He knows that.
         But, God, he wishes it had turned out differently. Tristian won't pretend otherwise. He's disappointed, but not with Lena. They both did everything they could, and all they were able to garner was just this taste. Just one salty taste. Tristian touches his lip, rubbing his fingers together like he's caught something oily. Then he sharply rams the hand back into his pocket, taking several rapid steps toward the door, his footsteps cacophonous explosions in a place where sound is patently outlawed. No one notices. Justice is sleeping tonight. Any violation goes.
         Two steps takes him to the door. At the entrance he turns, looks over his shoulder, gazes at Lena, like she might fade away any second. Like he was just talking to himself. Probably was. But he doesn't want to think so. It had to mean something. Somewhere in the bleached cave where he carries his thoughts, he has to believe that. And maybe he'll turn himself into an optimist, after all.
         Tristian's looking back at Lena and invisible wires are yanking at his skin, twitching it all into a smile she can't see. Moveable plastic, shaped for your pleasure. It refuses to go near his eyes. His lips move, opening slightly, cracking the airlock and letting the void rush in. Words try to crawl against pressure. Someone laughs again, disembodied, naughty children running up the walls. Lips press themselves together, the faultline sealing itself. Breaks again, reseals.
         If he makes any sound, it's nothing we can hear.
         For her sake, he seems to be trying to hold onto the expression. While he's facing her, he manages to do it. But eventually he has to turn away, and for a second, you can see the sliced wires pawing at the air. It changes his entire expression but he's not facing the room now and it's hard to tell. Shadows and profiles swallow their secrets. There's no way to see. Perhaps it's best. It was nothing you needed to see anyway. Look away.
         A blur, a shape moving out of synch with your vision. And then, like a ghost stepping back into whatever void it sprang from, he's gone. With only his Cheshire footsteps to mark that he was ever there.