With an image of Landon standing beside me, holding my hand, I look right into Nightmare’s empty eyes and rasp, “See you there.”
Twenty-Two
The Element just throws back his head and laughs, teeth glinting in the feeble light. He bends down, presses his cold lips against my ear once again. “Shall I tell you how he died?” he whispers. “Should I tell you every tiny detail? Oh, he was so much fun, that child.”
I honestly don’t know how I’m going to kill him. There will be no spontaneous surge of power, no burst of strength. I’m alone and weak and dying. I’ll be joining Landon and Maggie soon. Too soon. I close my eyes and remember the way Fear’s fingers felt on my cheek.
“You’re not listening, little bird. How can I hold your attention? Hmmm. Ah, did you know that as I pulled out his nails one by one, Landon screamed? No, wait, how thoughtless of me. You wouldn’t know because you weren’t there. He was completely alone when I killed him.”
“I … hate you.” For the first time, I feel it, that Emotion. It’s weak, without the actual being around to force his essence on me. It’s a subtle slither through my veins, a memory wrapping itself around me until I’m caught in its mesh. A bitter taste on my tongue.
Nightmare doesn’t hear me—my voice is barely a whisper and he’s walking to the table again, apparently unsatisfied with just knives. The light bulb above flickers again, and it would be just too fortunate for the power to go out, so I don’t even entertain the hope.
The Element comes back, settling down onto the chair again. The legs scrape in the dirt. He rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the table, examining me in a detached way like I’m a fascinating painting.
“You’re leaving me no choice,” he says, sighing. “Though I don’t enjoy getting messy.” His other hand appears, an odd clamp positioned between his two fingers as if it’s a cigarette. Then he picks up a knife, and I have no idea what he’s planning to do. He moves his face closer and the single ray of light bearing down touches his skin. It casts disconcerting shadows over his features. “One last chance. Your father?”
My father? I don’t know who that could possibly be, much less where he is. I look away, because Nightmare isn’t the last thing I want to see in this lifetime. I close my eyes and think of Fear, of Joshua, of Charles, of Sarah, of Maggie, of Landon and Rebecca. You all got me to care.
Just as Nightmare is adjusting his hold on the clamp in one hand and the knife in the other, something hits the wall. Something heavy; we both hear the thud. It’s just outside the door.
He pauses, pulling his tools away. “I should drain you now,” he mutters, distracted by whatever’s outside. Belying his hard tone, his face is caked in frown lines. Go to the door, see what it is, I urge him silently. Nightmare’s hand lowers as he considers the best course of action, and suddenly the knife is just inches away from my twitching fingers.
I need to act quickly. Nightmare takes one step toward the door. I find one last scrap of stamina within me and jerk over and reach for the blade. I have no choice but to snatch it by the sharp edges, and I gasp as pain licks through my hand. I try to sit up and my body screams at me. The world blurs in a wild blend of colors and heat. My torso is tilted from the movement, and now the upper half of me hangs off the table. I can’t get back up, but I clench that knife as tightly as I can, trembling.
“How—” Cursing, Nightmare leaps at me, about to take the knife back from my limp fingers, but then a figure appears briefly on his shoulder, shrieking.
“Get up, get up!” the thing squeaks.
Talking to me, I think distantly, moaning. Something tugs at my hair and I struggle to move again, but then Nightmare is there, digging his nails into my skull to lift my head. He grins in my face.
“What are you going to do with it?” he taunts me. “Go ahead. I’m curious.” He releases my hair to wrap his fists around my hand, the one holding the knife, and dares me with his smirk. I struggle to keep my head up. Neither of us moves. I look into the depths of his gaze and see all the darkness he’s done and caused. I loathe him and wonder how one individual can go so wrong.
Before I can decide what to do, the tiny being is back, darting between the two of us with another high-pitched shriek. “Get him, get him!” that same tiny voice orders, and suddenly through the haze I recognize it. Moss. Little Moss.
Nightmare is still as a stone, watching the Element appear and reappear at random spots around the shack. He’s wearing that odd smile. Just as Moss runs along my other side again, begging me to “stab him, stab him,” Nightmare flies over me and the table, arm shooting out, and then Moss is in his grip. “Drop it,” he orders me, meaning the knife.
I do, with just a moment of hesitation. But even when it falls to the floor with a woeful clink, Nightmare doesn’t let go of Moss. With an intense expression, he closes his fist and begins to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. She’s probably not worth draining.
A million images and memories pound into me like the bullets in my back, drawing blood and tides of Emotion despite the illusion that’s still miraculously intact. Rebecca was wrong—even danger such as this, facing death itself and choking on a sensation of feeling, hasn’t broken it. I sense the power hanging on by a thread. Most of the wall has crumbled.
I remember Landon and the way he squinted at words on a page. She’ll be back. She always comes back.
Rebecca and her passionate abandon as her skirt twisted around her thighs. Please come back!
Their mother and her constant, wrinkled worry. No more dancing.
I see Maggie and her sweet smile. Since you can’t go to the ocean, I thought I would bring it to you.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
I witness Sarah and her pain, scrubbing vigorously at the kitchen sink. When someone is pretending to be something, or hiding who they are or what they believe, they’re really more … protecting themselves.
I’d like to think that it’s never too late to change the way things are.
I invoke Joshua’s image. Frustrating, stubborn, kind, enduring, irrevocable Joshua. So many words, so many looks, just a few unrequited touches. How many of them have secrets they don’t want the world to know? How many of them wear masks everywhere they go? We’re anything but typical.
What more can there be?
And then there’s Fear. His impossibility, his adoration, his infuriating ways. His kisses, his persistence, his sacrifice. At least I know that if you can’t feel anything for me, you can’t feel anything for him, either.
Why are you the only one who can’t let go?
I should have—
“Elizabeth!”
The name jars me, and I crane my neck to find my little friend. Moss is gasping, her tiny fists pounding on Nightmare’s finger. She grapples and keeps making weak, frantic sounds. Her big eyes fasten on my face. Help me, she mouths. Already she’s fading. Her inner light sputters as her life drains.
I can’t do anything but watch. The edge of the table digs into my stomach as I observe Moss’s time slipping away. Her gaze meets mine one last time, and she reaches out with her hand, flailing for me. At just the right moment, Nightmare shifts closer—he’s laughing, riveted on Moss’s face—and her fingers land to rest on my ear.