Disenchanted (29 page)

She grabs my arm and pulls me along. The contact makes it easier to focus on not only my surroundings—not that there’s much to see besides barren trees and rock—but her as well. The constant shimmering between death and beauty stabilizes leaving only the beauty part.

At the edge of the stereotypical spooky forest, she stops, yanking me back. The rest of me feels lighter than a kite as my heart plummets. Exactly what I would have done had I taken that last step. Pebbles roll from under my toes as I teeter on what looks like the edge of the world.

“I take it this is it.”

She nods staring at the obsidian perfection of the hand resting on my arm. Raising the other, she studies its crystalline beauty, her features soften and longing fills her eyes. By touching me, she’s become an exquisite otherworldly work of art made of two glassy stones.

Swallowing back fear that threatens to choke and fighting the urge to pull away, I almost feel sorry for her. It’s definitely time to go before she changes her mind about me staying. I’m in the business of making others look good, but spending eternity in hel playing personal stylist to a goddess isn’t what I had in mind.

She pulls away quickly, power and prestige, winning out over vanity, and the dizzying cycle of beauty and the beast resumes.

“Yes,” she says the faintest touch of regret in that gravelly tone. “From here, you go on alone.”

The ground continues crumbling in front of my feet, the debris falling so far I can’t hear it hit the bottom. “So I just jump?”

She shrugs. “If you wish, but one step is all you need.”

One step sounds simple enough, but it’s a long way down. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling and the big splat I’m going to make when I find the bottom.

“What is this place?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the nothingness on the other side of the line.

“The Between.”

“Between? As in, between worlds?”

She nods.

A race to the top of my spine starts as I remember what little I know of The Between. It’s nothing, except unfiltered chaos. The possibilities of what can happen when you are there are endless. I could end up sitting on my couch eating Moocha Java, or in an endless loop of dealing with past complaining clients. At the very worst, the beings that live there could rip me to shreds. The longer you’re there, the greater the chances of you ending up in the nut house if you make it back. Navigating The Between is no easy task for those who know how. For me, it’s going to be near impossible.

Chewing on my lower lip, I glance from her to the chasm of nothingness below and back. Maybe staying wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I mean really, how taxing would being her personal stylist be? I’m tired, but that could be from all the walking and my physical condition, not from her zapping the life out of me, right?

Turning to ask if we could come to some sort of compromise, her hands extend and the force of her blow sends me over the edge.

Guess that would be a no.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I’m running, to something, no from something. The rational part of my brain tells me I’m dreaming, but fear doesn’t seem to care. It’s too real.

Shadows spread across the bleak landscape. I’m being pursued. I don’t know by who. Only that they want me and if they catch me, it will be bad with a capital B.

That little voice of reason again tells me it’s not real, but others soon drown it out. Maybe they’re just the reaction of an overly vivid imagination, but they sound real. Real scary and real threatening.

Run is the only thing I can do. Stay ahead of whatever hunts me. That’s the only thing that matters, keeping one–step ahead. Waist high, grass slaps and slices. Adding insult to injury, I’m naked. My legs hurt and my lungs are on fire, but it doesn’t matter. Something’s out there and if I slow down—or gods forbid, stop—it’ll get me.

I stumble, ground cover tangling around ankles that twist painfully. Tears sting my face and blur what little vision I have in the encroaching darkness.

Something screeches in the distance followed by howls and something that sounds like laughter a lot closer. My body protests as I misstep and tumble to the ground. Clawing at the grass, I pull myself a little further, then collapse.

I lay there in the fetal position, shaking with silent sobs. Unseen fingers caress my skin, cold like a winter breeze. The world spins as whispers thrum in my ears. Exhausted, terrified, humiliated, to the point of not caring anymore, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Let them take me, just let it be quick and as painless as possible.

Silvery light blossoms behind my eyelids, chasing away the darkness, sending the voices and hands with it. Slowly I open one eye, then the other and push myself up. I’m alone. Even the grass is gone. No sky, no land. No ceiling, no floor, no walls. There’s nothing, nothing, but the light. Soft and silvery.

The fear of being pursued and hunted is replaced by another kind of fear. Being alone. Utterly and completely alone in this vast nothingness. It sounds silly, being afraid of nothing, but I am.

My poor, tired brain runs in all directions at once and nothing becomes something. Something even more horrifying. Nothing is exactly what everything I’ve worked for has become. In the blink of an eye my world, once so full became empty. Stripped naked, just like my body.

No
, says that little voice of reason,
not taken, just changed
.

“No, he took it. Destroyed it. Everything I ever wanted gone. Poof!”

The important things are still there
.

“Like what?”

Your friends. Your family. Your self–respect.

“Ha, my family hid things from me and my friends want to use me,” I say feeling the unwanted guest of guilt creeping in.

Your family did what they thought best, and there is no proof your friends wish to use you.

I don’t want to feel guilty, I want to pout and feel sorry for myself. I don’t want to think about the good things in my life. I want someone to blame other than myself. I want to rail at the world for everything that’s happened. Most of all I want to take the easy way out, like the rest of society, I want to ignore it and pretend it will go away.

You can fix this
.

“No, I can’t!”

You can, and what’s more, you know you can
.

I scream, covering my ears with my hands.

Oh gods, I’ve finally stepped over the edge. Trapped in my own mind, doomed to hold pointless conversations for eternity.

Stop being a whiny little bitch and do something for a change
!

Damn, now I’ve done it. I’ve gone and made myself mad at me. I snicker and that turns to giggling, then a full–blown rolling–in–the–nothingness belly laugh. I really have gone mad—ooops—make that crazy.

Keely.

“Yeah?”
My
voice, is suddenly deeper and very sexy. The giggling intensifies until tears are streaming down my face.

Keely!

“What?”

Come back.

“Come back where? Reality? Sorry, no can do.” I’ve become a Tickle Me Keely doll, the slightest thing setting off the laughter. Even things that aren’t funny, like my slender hold on sanity.

Come to me.

“If I knew who you were, I might think about it.”

Do not think about it, just do it. I refuse to lose you.

“You lose me? Hel, I’ve lost myself.”

My giggles come to an abrupt stop with the hot stinging pain in my cheek.

Forgive me.

I lay my hand gingerly on my throbbing flesh, the tears in my eyes no longer from laughter. Is this what they mean by a danger to yourself? Will the
others
part come later, because I’d sure like a crack at the owner of that invisible hand. Wait, it’s me. My psyche is taking arguing with yourself to a whole new level.

“Fuck you,” I scream, cradling my aching face. “Just go away and let me be.”

Curling into a ball I lay there choking on my own tears. Wave after wave of emotion wracks my body—anger, fear, hopelessness. I’ve reached the point of not caring what happens, showing just how pitiful I truly am.

Invisible hands grip my arms, squeezing until my sobs become whimpers. Jerking me upright, shaking me like a naughty child in the toy aisle.

You are acting like a foolish child, not the capable woman I know.

“Ha, then you don’t know me very well.”

I try pushing the hands away, but there’s nothing there, just the painful tightening around my forearms. Another lovely illusion brought to you by the cracked mind of Keely Fey.

I know you and what you are going through better than you think.

“Whatever.” My lower lip protrudes and I feel the urge to say,
you could never understand what I’m going through
. Amazing how a woman of my years can be reduced to adolescent angst.

I gasp as the grip on my arms tightens. Red imprints flush to the surface, amplifying the intensity of my delusion.

Stop.

“Stop what? I’ve already teetered off that tiny ledge of reality. It’s too late, so just leave me be.”

I give up struggling and just hang limply. It’s too late.

Self-pity is the only pity, you will receive.

Apparently, the contempt I feel for myself is out in the open. Even I can’t stand me when I’m sitting on the pity pot.

“Fine, I didn’t ask for anything from you. Just go away. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

All I want to do is lay down and close my eyes. I’m tired. Tired of things I can’t do anything about. Tired of the intrigue. Tired of the lies and half–truths. Tired of being placed under a microscope. Tired of everyone thinking I’m something I’m not. Tired of being used. On top of that I’m just plain tired, physically and mentally. Like that’s not evident considering I’m chatting with and physically abusing myself.

“Just go away and let me sleep.”

The voice starts to recede as I pull inward, drifting off. In my dream inside the dream, I’m standing at my wall. That lovely shield that stands between me and everything else. I begin piling brick on brick, walling off that part of myself, just like the dead. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Three more walls, and I’ll finally be alone.

The voice keeps rambling, but I’ve given up listening, substituting an internal radio station. Humming along with my favorite band I move to wall number two, three if you count the one previously installed. It’s hard work, but it helps. Keeping my hands busy seems to cloud the echoing drone of that voice I’ve come to think of as my male side.

What? Women are always claiming they want to see the feminine side of men—problem is when we do, we usually want to toss it back in the closet—it’s time we admit we have a male side.

Before I can slam the last brick into place, something clamps down on my shoulder spinning me around. I let out a yelp. If I had panties on, they’d probably be wet right now. The familiar white gold hair and silvered skin lets the air out of my tires.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“I’ve come to find you. Have you forgotten The Between is where we always meet? The only place we can meet?”

Images of our last meeting float across the big screen of my mind, accented by the hand that strokes my arm. My pulse flitters like a captured butterfly.

The desire to touch and be touched by him is there, but different. Not the rightness of interlocking puzzle pieces that need to be together. Plain old,
I’ve had a couple of drinks and want to take you home
, thinking with your crotch. Nothing
special
. Nothing I can’t shake off, or ignore.

“Well, you found me. Now leave. I know misery supposedly loves company, but I want to enjoy it alone.”

“Nope, don’t think so.”

I open my mouth to tell him to take a hike then snap it shut. Wait.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. I said I don’t think so.”

There’s none of the softness of our last time together in his harsh features. Or even the animal hunger he tries to keep hidden. Something twisted, not right about the set of his lips.

The speech pattern and tone, so not right. Vereinen uses proper, old fashioned English, no conjunctions, or slang. Eyes are just wrong, size, shape and color. Vereinen’s are pale like mine with just a hint of silvery grey to distinguish them from the white. These eyes are grey, too dark, too small and even though narrowed, too round.

The more I study the face in front of mine, the more I notice the
wrongness
. Too full and round, no prominent cheekbones, nose too broad, lips too thin. Height is next, I’m looking him right in the eye. His frame is too wide and squat. The hand that holds my arm is rough, calloused.

Not Vereinen. My first clue should have been that he didn’t try to pull me into his arms. Obviously, I don’t pay attention to clues. My second should have been him insisting we meet in The Between. Whoever this is, he’s not Einen. I don’t know what kind of cruel joke my addled mind is playing, but I’ve had enough.