To Be Free (8 page)

His monologue continues on
beyond that, but I don't focus on the words so much as the sound of
his voice - rising and falling, deep tones that catch the interest
of an ear as it brings you along a soothing ride. It's a voice
anyone could fall asleep to - and try to fight the nausea. When I
open my eyes I can still see the ghosts of hikers past, and even
beyond that before this became a tourist hotspot. When he continues
on, talking about when she came to tell him she was pregnant, the
ghosts fade back to the past and the constricting vise around my
lungs loosens, allowing me to breathe deeply again.

The rush of oxygen almost
forces me to my knees, but instead I press my hands to my forehead
and push my fringe back, looking into concerned hazel eyes that
have gone so many different shades of brown and green since I've
met him.

His voice fades away as he
realizes I'm back up to speed, and he leans forward in his seat
again, the concern never leaving him.

"Are you alright; you looked as
if you were in physical pain there for a second," he questions, and
I nod weakly as I walk back to the boulder, sitting on its rough
surface with a grateful sigh. Quinn hands me his canteen, and I
take it with a breathless thanks, gulping the cool liquid down and
forcing myself to take smaller swallows than I want to take, so I
don't choke.

"I'll survive," I mutter,
handing him the half-empty canteen with a thanks. Setting it
nearby, he turns to face me a little more fully while I lean my
forearms against my thighs, hands limp between my legs as I watch
the rain drip from the leaves. A few drops run down my neck, and I
welcome the cool. "It's... a side-effect, I guess, of my gift. I
can control it on most days, but it sneaks up on me most of the
time and I can't really control it no matter how hard I try. When
I'm agitated, it's worse."

"What does it do?" I close my
eyes at his inquiry, propping an elbow on my thigh to push my
fringe from my eyes and look at the mud at my feet.

"Time becomes fluid; past,
present and future happenings become one, and I can see each
happening around me - I can hear the words spoken, the sounds made,
the smells, everything - and the ghosts of the past and future walk
around me," I sigh, closing my eyes. "Believe me when I say it's
complete chaos."

He's quiet for a moment, simply
watching me as I gather my strength again and take a much-needed
breather. Then, he speaks again.

"Does this... happen with every
gift?"

This I smile slightly to,
shrugging a shoulder and wincing at the stab of pain that attacks
me from the gesture.

"It depends;
every one of our abilities has different setbacks. I know Five was
always insanely tired after using his, and Eight was weak as a
newborn kitten for hours," I tell him, looking up at him afterwards
and quirking an eyebrow. "As for you... I haven't noticed anything
after your
initiation
, so to speak. Any findings?"

Quinn frowns, looking towards
the forest opposite our perch for a moment, his bag of dried fruit
forgotten in his lap - quick as I can, I snatch it from his hand
and tip a few of the unsavoury pieces into my hand, handing it back
after. He simply arches an eyebrow, and says no word on the
matter.

As I chew on the tasteless
pieces, he answers.

"I... there
was so much pain," he admits, looking to the bag of half-empty
fruit in his hand as if he's never seen anything quite like it. "It
hurt to breathe and there was so much confusion - I didn't know who
I was or
where
I
was for a second. I felt the heat against my skin and
inside
my veins,
igniting my nerves; the hissing cold of rain on me, a brilliant
contrast; I couldn't hear anything. It felt as if there was a
storm
inside
me."

I nod throughout his entire
explanation, chewing my lower lip thoughtfully.

"There are
different ways to use our abilities," I start carefully, looking to
my hand and stretching my fingers. "They have radars they use to
pinpoint the location someone uses these gifts, though I don't
quite understand the technology behind it, so I made sure to hide
just
how
strong
temporal shenanigans can be."

"...and how powerful can these
be?" he prompts, and I grin at him.

"I could send you back to your
hometown in an instant, and you'd appear there in the present," I
reply with a laugh tacked to the end. His expression is priceless.
"There's so much I can do with this - but I can only send someone
to a place they've already been to, and it takes a hell of a toll
on me. I see crooked for a week straight, sometimes less.

"As for how
to invoke these, the way I go about it is to imagine what I want,
and to
see
it
happen. I'm creative by nature, so imagining things isn't as
complex as you'd expect."

"Yet you were a science major,"
he sighs, shaking his head. I wave off the comment.

"Geology; can you tell me
exactly what you felt?" I question, looking at him fully. He
doesn't flinch when our eyes meet, making him one of the only
people to ever get accustomed to my uncanny gaze. "Maybe I can
figure out what makes yours tick."

Rolling his eyes at my
expression, he massages his calf slightly as he speaks, tearing his
eyes away. There's shame in his expression, clear as day.

"Anger,
hatred..." he begins softly, the wind picking up briefly at his
words as if reacting to his uneasiness. The rain, as a result,
worsens slightly, "...and so much fear. I was so afraid of dying,
so afraid and so ashamed of what I'd done, who I am, and I hoped
for the chance to see Meredith one last time. Your words kept
ringing in my head, a dangerous echo of
I
hope you die
pulling the memory of Kenny
from the depths of my mind. I'd forgotten about him, and I felt so
much shame at forgetting the one man who, for one night, made me
feel alive."

His monologue runs dry then,
spent, and his head falls into his hands, the picture of defeat as
he shakes his head, saying no more. He's mouthing words, however,
whispering only slightly:

I'm so, so sorry I forgot you.
So sorry I forgot you when I promised I never would.

I watch him a moment, mentally
destroying himself as I run through his words and latch onto every
last hidden meaning - and those underlying words, those thoughts
and emotions remind me too much of the fourteen year old boy who
was so scared to sleep at night and was so afraid of the one girl
he thought he knew, thought he loved... so much so that he almost
died.

I just want to die. I hate this
man I've become, stepping over the pains of those around me and
manipulating them. Being born the way I am and being unable to
change who I am - I would change if I could. Anyone would, when
born in this dystopian nightmare. The words you spoke to me were
the whispers of my own mind, reminding me that I'm as worthless as
I thought I was, and even more so. The scum of the earth, for
forgetting the one man who made me realize how you can be living a
dream one night and a nightmare the next. That the ghosts of the
past are all too real, and catching up with me fast.

So I reach
out to him, the same way I did that first night, and one of his
hands falls from his face as he registers how close I've gotten,
turning his head slightly and blinking at me. With a weary smile
speaking the words I can't say -
I
understand Quinn I've been to hell and back and it's calling me
once more, nightmares and ghouls of my past dragging me by my feet
to the pits of despair
- I wrap my arms
around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck in a manner quite
reminiscent of when we fell asleep.

He's immobile
a moment, and I hear him swallow thickly before he thaws out and
returns the gesture, arms stronger than mine and not the bare skin
and bones I've become - and the heat of the embrace is welcome, the
smell of rain, dirt, leaves and something distinctly
Quinn
back in my nose
and just as pleasant as the first time.

Maybe even
more so than last time, a smell I'm starting to associate
with
safety
and
comfort
.

Eleven presses his own face
into the crook of my neck, speaking no words as we both take
comfort in the gesture. His fingers are digging almost painfully
into my back, but I let it be and hold his head in place with one
of mine, head leaning against his as I close my eyes and relish the
warmth of another human body that hasn't died yet, hasn't had rigor
mortis set in.

"I don't know how you manage to
do that," he whispers, breath tickling whatever exposed skin it can
find as it skirts over me. I suppress a shiver, letting my curious
amusement leak into my voice.

"Do what?" I question, and his
fingers relax now, resting easily at the small of my back. Some of
his hair is tickling my face, and I press it back with my hand.

"Manage to calm me the way you
do," he specifies, and here I can't help but laugh lightly,
practically boneless in his arms.

Like this, I can see why his
wife loved him and why his friend didn't say no. Quinn is the kind
of man who, upon touch, radiates comfort and safety, feels like a
home and simply puts you at ease when you're around him. I'm
agitated by nature thanks to a certain something that happened to
me in my life, and yet...

You're not the one who should
be saying that, Quinn.

"When I was
younger - around fourteen to seventeen - all I wanted when I was
hurt, alone and afraid, was to have someone hold me like this. To
tell me everything would be alright, even if it was a lie," I reply
evenly, the mere mentioning of that time making me tense up. His
hands rub soothing circles along my back in response, and I feel my
lips tug into a smile, closing my eyes. "I wanted a place to call
home; someone I could see and think
safety
, and could tell I was loved.
Of course, I didn't get that."

He whispers a thank you, his
usually collected and smooth voice hoarse, and a faint pressure on
my neck right where it meets my shoulder. Then he slowly pulls
back, and as our eyes meet there's nothing but reluctance in the
way hands fall from shoulders to biceps and back to waist, fingers
clinging carefully to slick fabric. Finally, he pulls his hands
away and the change in angle makes mine slip down to his wrists,
eyes falling downwards with a sheepish smile.

Funny, I didn't run a
marathon.

• To Be
  Vulnerable
  

QUINN

The trail of fire remains,
burning pleasantly along my skin as we make way once more, avoiding
conversation. After the awkward clearing of throats and the avoided
eye contact, we geared up again and continued on our way through
the trail, long after the sun has set.

The clouds part, revealing the
night sky and Seb sighs gratefully, stating something about being
able to navigate with the stars and throwing a small, sheepish
smile my way. Our clothes have dried substantially since, the warm
winds caressing our skin as we make headway.

Why did I do
that...?
I frown as I watch the man walk
along in front of me, my eyes falling to that one spot on his right
shoulder where, for but a second, I kissed his person.

Nine leans forward slightly,
squinting as he stares at something just beyond his field of vision
- right before his face lights up and he turns to face me, grinning
from ear to ear.

I shouldn't feel guilty at all
for looking at him - it's not like I was looking at his-

"We made it!" Seb shouts,
running back to me and grabbing my hand before I can protest. He
then pulls me along, running through the mostly dried-out dirt
beneath us and towing me along. I stumble after him, his antics
somewhat amusing to me despite the situation.

Ass. I was going to say ass, by
the way.

We race through the winding
path, the moon disappearing behind the horizon a witness along with
the stars as we reach a shack thrown alongside a clearing clearly
meant for campers, a fire pit set up for that very purpose. It's
old, to say the least, with aged boards making up the walls and a
few shingles missing from the roof from nature's merciless beating.
One of the steps leading up to the door is broken, and the
floorboards creak under our combined weight as we carefully slip
inside.

The inside smells of mildew and
old wood, the macromite on our suits bathing the inside in a
curious blue and yellow light. Once I shut the creaking door behind
me, we dump our burden near it and look around.

Obviously time hasn't been kind
to this place, to say the least. A family of racoons probably made
their home here at some point during the off season, tearing most
of the blankets and drapes to shreds and making a mess of the
wooden furniture. One and a half beds survived out of maybe a
dozen, the half part being questionable as there's a curious,
foul-smelling stain along the mattress that's been otherwise torn
to bits along the other side. There's a door leading to a bathroom
that's been relatively untouched save for a broken window and a bit
of rainwater collected on the ground, and again the electricity
doesn't work.

It's eerie in that outpost.

Seb sits on the edge of the
only surviving bed - they've got a costly repair job, I'll tell you
that much - and watches me as I run my fingers along one of the
gouges set in the wooden wall. He falls onto his back as I glance
around the brown-and-grey room, seeing the destruction once again
and finding nothing new.