each contour. The bone, the hardened skin and pieces of tendon. Nothing escapes her. “Oh, you aren’t cursed, Ien Montgomery. Not even close. You are striking. I think you have simply forgotten.”
My eyes fill with water, my heart with relief. Her words reach inside my soul, nurturing a part of me long since dead. I wish the words were true, fantasize that they are. But I know better, her truth is as blind as she.
“Do not mistake blind for unseeing, Ien. I have more clarity than most.”
“How did you—?” Again I scratch at the flesh of my palms. This is one strange dream, so palpable.
“The world needs to see the real you if you are to survive. Not the mask you wear, but the person who composes such beautiful music and risks so much for love. Make everyone see, Ien. Then you will be free.”
Her words cut me to the quick. How can she know what lives in my heart? How can she see so much of me?
Only one answer makes sense…
This isn’t real.
“You doubt your five senses now? Here, touch me.” Her frail hands wrap around my own. She guides me to her face. It’s soft and warm. “I am as real as you.”
I recoil, my mind riddled with confusion. So much has proven false these last few months. So much I don’t understand. She must be an aberration, a phantom sent to confuse me further. I glare at her, searching for proof. She seems so solid, so real. My hands begin to shake and the tears overflow my eyes.
“I assure you I am real, sent only to help you heal. You do want to heal, don’t you, Ien? You do want to get out of here, yes?”
Before I can process her questions fully “yes” escapes my mouth. She smiles and for the briefest of moments I feel more than see something sinister within that smile.
I pull away, trying to decipher my emotions. I’m warmed by her concern and chilled by whatever it is I feel behind her eyes. All at once I am consumed by this frail, slight woman in front of me. I want her to be real, want the optimism she brings to mean something.
In truth, I need it.
I force my misgivings aside, giving into the hope I covet.
“Tell me about your mother, Ien. Tell me why she has sent you here.”
A new flood rushes through me, unleashed by thoughts of Mother. Answers rise up from the hatred kindling in my heart. Should I tell this stranger that Mother has no capacity for love? That I am nothing more than a failed project, sent here for disposal. Do I speak of the fire that took my face, or the days I writhed in pain as layer upon layer of skin peeled away?
Or maybe I should describe the look on Father’s face when he ordered my death. Or the sound of Mother’s voice while she prayed for it.
“Mother condemned me the day I was born.”
Sister Anne opens her mouth to say more, but her voice fails. There is nothing left to say, no way to heal the truth of my words.
To Mother, I am but a cursed shadow.
15.
“Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”
~William Blake (The Clod and the Pebble)
~
Ien watched Sister Anne, waiting for some sort of reaction to his words. There was none. “We will talk more tomorrow,” she said as she rose and left the room.
He stared at the door, a strange mixture of sadness and hope swirling around him. She did not come back the next day, nor the day after that. But she did visit sporadically over the next few weeks, bringing seeds of hope in her words that bloomed in Ien’s chest. Maybe there would be a way through this yet.
Maybe.
His face still wasn’t healing. Sister Agnes still refused to tell him where he was. And Mother—Mother never visited. Not once. Every day that passed brought Ien closer to death. Even Sister Anne’s visits couldn’t change that.
“Why do you focus so much on dying?” she would ask whenever Ien lost himself in thoughts of Mother’s threats.
“It isn’t that. I just know
My eyes fill with water, my heart with relief. Her words reach inside my soul, nurturing a part of me long since dead. I wish the words were true, fantasize that they are. But I know better, her truth is as blind as she.
“Do not mistake blind for unseeing, Ien. I have more clarity than most.”
“How did you—?” Again I scratch at the flesh of my palms. This is one strange dream, so palpable.
“The world needs to see the real you if you are to survive. Not the mask you wear, but the person who composes such beautiful music and risks so much for love. Make everyone see, Ien. Then you will be free.”
Her words cut me to the quick. How can she know what lives in my heart? How can she see so much of me?
Only one answer makes sense…
This isn’t real.
“You doubt your five senses now? Here, touch me.” Her frail hands wrap around my own. She guides me to her face. It’s soft and warm. “I am as real as you.”
I recoil, my mind riddled with confusion. So much has proven false these last few months. So much I don’t understand. She must be an aberration, a phantom sent to confuse me further. I glare at her, searching for proof. She seems so solid, so real. My hands begin to shake and the tears overflow my eyes.
“I assure you I am real, sent only to help you heal. You do want to heal, don’t you, Ien? You do want to get out of here, yes?”
Before I can process her questions fully “yes” escapes my mouth. She smiles and for the briefest of moments I feel more than see something sinister within that smile.
I pull away, trying to decipher my emotions. I’m warmed by her concern and chilled by whatever it is I feel behind her eyes. All at once I am consumed by this frail, slight woman in front of me. I want her to be real, want the optimism she brings to mean something.
In truth, I need it.
I force my misgivings aside, giving into the hope I covet.
“Tell me about your mother, Ien. Tell me why she has sent you here.”
A new flood rushes through me, unleashed by thoughts of Mother. Answers rise up from the hatred kindling in my heart. Should I tell this stranger that Mother has no capacity for love? That I am nothing more than a failed project, sent here for disposal. Do I speak of the fire that took my face, or the days I writhed in pain as layer upon layer of skin peeled away?
Or maybe I should describe the look on Father’s face when he ordered my death. Or the sound of Mother’s voice while she prayed for it.
“Mother condemned me the day I was born.”
Sister Anne opens her mouth to say more, but her voice fails. There is nothing left to say, no way to heal the truth of my words.
To Mother, I am but a cursed shadow.
15.
“Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.”
~William Blake (The Clod and the Pebble)
~
Ien watched Sister Anne, waiting for some sort of reaction to his words. There was none. “We will talk more tomorrow,” she said as she rose and left the room.
He stared at the door, a strange mixture of sadness and hope swirling around him. She did not come back the next day, nor the day after that. But she did visit sporadically over the next few weeks, bringing seeds of hope in her words that bloomed in Ien’s chest. Maybe there would be a way through this yet.
Maybe.
His face still wasn’t healing. Sister Agnes still refused to tell him where he was. And Mother—Mother never visited. Not once. Every day that passed brought Ien closer to death. Even Sister Anne’s visits couldn’t change that.
“Why do you focus so much on dying?” she would ask whenever Ien lost himself in thoughts of Mother’s threats.
“It isn’t that. I just know
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