Anathema - Part One of Three
"Let's
play pretend."
One of my
favorite games. I used to love playing pretend. For starters, it was the only way
I ever found anything. If my keys were lost, I could spend all day searching
for them, unless I played pretend. Asking myself, "If I were my keys,
where would I hide?" guaranteed a maximum of five minutes' retrieval time.
Back then, my life was easy and that game only made it easier.
Maybe I should
take the time to introduce myself. My name is Anna. Well, the shortened version
is. My full name is Analusia Paris, after two places my mother visited and
loved. I'm eighteen years old, depending on how you look at it, and I hate the
dark. I quit playing pretend two years ago. Two years and sixty-four days,
seven hours and thirty-seven minutes.
Oh, and right
now, we're pretending that I'm alive.
I'd say that's
a respectable reason to resurrect the game, even if Sebastien and Ianthe don't
agree with me. They sit as far away from each other as possible. Both are
tense, wary, and Ianthe's fingers flutter nervously in her lap. Occasionally,
she reaches up to tug those fingers through her long golden hair. Really, truly
the color of pure gold. And I don't blame her for her nervous habits. I
remember what it was like, trying to find something to do with my hands so they
didn't betray my awkward anxiety, all the while thinking of words to fill that
stifling silence.
In contrast to
Ianthe's nervous fidgeting, Bastien sits stubbornly and defiantly still, as if
daring us to notice. And, of course, we do. His melting chocolate eyes stare
straight through me. Through transparent skin once the color of café au lait, through
silky locks only a few shades darker, and through eyes spinning into an odd
mixture of gold and green. Curiously, my eyes are the only opaque thing about
me, and Bastien meets them with little reluctance.
He never did
shy away from a challenge. I suppose, at this point, that is what I represent.
We've always been close, Bastien and I.
I could be egotistical here and tell you that he's always wanted me,
always felt like there was a part of me I wasn't giving. I'm not really sure
telling you that would serve any purpose, but it's too late anyway, isn't it?
He claims to
be in love with me. But I'm dead. Nothing is going to change that. No matter
how much Bastien wishes, hopes, pleads, and prays, I'm still buried under six
feet of mud. I'm sure if he thought any chance rested in my cold veins, he'd be
outside digging me up.
I've assured
him it would be pointless.
Ianthe, it
seems, is Bastien's soulmate. She's a witch. Neither she nor he has mentioned
this little detail, but I can tell. All the signs are there, clearer than a
funeral toll on a gloomy Monday morning, not to be morbid or maudlin. She's
given up on pretending not to be nervous now, instead twisting the pendant
around her neck this way and that. It gleams and spasms in the light.
Yes, let's
play pretend. The silence has stretched long enough.
"Let's
pretend I'm alive."
Interesting
how Bastien flinches when I say that. He rubs his hand over short-cropped dark
hair, tiny nubs of curls, lighter than his eyes but with more red in those strands.
Only a few shades darker than his skin. Just like mine. Even though I see the
subtle pain arch across his face, I continue.
"In our
make-believe world, I'm eighteen and going off to college. Or, if we really feel
like using our imaginations, we can pretend I got discovered by an exclusive
modeling agency and hopped a plane to New York, where I became fabulously
famous. If that's too much of a stretch, I'll understand." The look on
Bastien's face says it isn't. "Wherever I am, it isn't here."
Ianthe's hands
pause their nervous twisting, winding and unwinding the chain around her silver
pentagram, frozen for just a second in endless time. Bastien has already told
her he doesn't want her, several times, and once in front of me. If I was still
alive, I would have slapped him.
Finally, he
speaks up. He keeps his eyes trained on my wavering form, pointedly avoiding
looking in Ianthe's direction. "I don't see any point to this."
He wouldn't.
I'm sure Ianthe doesn't, either. Earlier, I noticed the confusion roiling over
her features like a tumbling wave crashing against shore. I'm not sure she
wants him any more than he wants her, though I am sure she doesn't know what to
think.
First of all,
to find out your soulmate is human. Second, that he's in love with a ghost. Of
all the luck. If I was her, I would be praying to the Goddess as ferverently as
possible, pleading to make this all a bad dream. But then, Ianthe doesn't seem
all that bright, if you ignore the glare of her hair in the candlelight.
I close my
eyes briefly, hoping for the strength to deal with his stubbornness. He isn't
an easy case. "We're pretending, Bastien. Pretend you see one."
It's hard to
keep the sharp tones out of my voice. I want so badly for him to realize that
he can't keep me with him, even if he stays in this room for the rest of his
life. I'm a myth, a fantasy, but I'm not real. At exactly seven o'clock every
night, he can pretend that he and I are still together, but when he reaches to
touch me, he grabs only empty air.
It's a hard
realization for him to swallow. I know because he's told me, and because I can
see his emotions wage war in those mahogany eyes. He doesn't seem to understand
that I'm his anathema. I told him once, and after looking up the word, he
laughed at me. In that moment, all I could think was how appropriate my
nickname was, because it could be derived from this -- a word that truly
modified me -- as easily as from the label my mother had given me.
And truly, I am
his curse, such as the word "anathema" denotes. It can't be easy to
have a love life when you've got a ghost floating through your curtains. Not
that I would mind being circumspect. I could very easily make myself scarce
while he and his soulmate did --
Well, those
are things I don't want to think about. I have my own memories of Bastien
without creating memories for another girl. Frankly, the thought disturbs me. I
really don't want to be around for that, because it would mean that I'm wrong.
See, my theory
is simple. If Bastien falls in love with someone else (and who better than his
soulmate?), I get my Get Out of Jail Free card. I've been waiting for that
privilege for two years and sixty-three days, seven hours and forty-six
minutes. I had a one day grace period at the very beginning, while I raged and
screamed and demanded to know what the hell was going on. It focused into sharp parameters once
Bastien shakily informed me I was dead.
It's good to
know these things sometimes. I thanked him politely for telling me, recommended
a good shrink, and promptly floated through the door. When it occurred to me
that moving through objects is not possible according to the laws of physics, I
started to think he might be right.
Bastien hates
to play pretend.
"I never
liked that game." His voice is flat and uncompromising. What a shock. It's
nearly impossible to get Bastien to do something he doesn't want to do. Right
now he doesn't want to admit I'm dead. So why doesn't he want to pretend I'm
alive?
Simple.
He would have
to let go.
I wish they
made a greeting card for that. You know. Something like, "Sorry, I'm dead,
but move on with your life before your soulmate thinks you're a
necrophiliac." But I think that might overstep the bounds of decency. Even
Hallmark has to draw the line somewhere.
I'd bet you
ten dollars they could even make it rhyme, but I have little use for money
anymore.
Pushing those
thoughts aside for another time, I shrug. "Deal with it," I respond,
and I'm sorry to say my voice is very unsympathetic. "I'm playing a damned
game, and the least you can do is humor the dead girl."
His mouth
snaps closed. I think that reminder might have done it, because he doesn't seem
overtly anxious to say anything else. Oops. Chalk one up for insensitivity.
"The dead
girl looks like Tyra Banks."
Suddenly I'm
shocked into silence. It's not that I haven't heard that before or that the
idea is something new, but this *is* the first time I've heard Ianthe speak.
Her voice is quiet and cultured, like that of a princess who has spent her
whole life locked away in a tower, with only her tutors to keep her company.
She and
Bastien met today, for the first time, and she told Bastien they were soulmates.
He sneered, from what I understand, and walked away from her. I think he told
her he was already in love with someone, and she got angry enough that she
followed. It's not surprising that she doesn't know what to expect.
"I can
understand why Bastien would want you over me."
How do you
respond to a statement like that? It isn't easy, especially not to a girl who
is slim, beautiful, and most importantly, alive. Time to throw the cards down
on the table. The sad thing is, I've only got a pair, and neither half is
really mine.
I look away
from her soulmate finally, ripping my gaze and my soul away at the same time.
"Well, I can't."
She stares at
her hands then, her lower lip trembling. Her skin is so flawless that even I am
amazed at how it glows, like a lily petal with light streaming beneath it.
Maybe the certainty behind my words refreshes her own doubts and dreams. Maybe
it angers her. If I cared, it might make a difference.
But I don't.
Obviously,
neither does Bastien.
"It's you
I love, Anna." So much passion suffuses his voice. I want to tell him I'm
not me to love, but I think I have a better chance of convincing a cat to leave
the mouse alone. He's got about the same attention span.
My weightless
shoulders shrug, the light playing oddly on my dark skin. You wouldn't think I
would reflect light, me being dead and all, but apparently that doesn't make a
difference. "You love a memory."
He doesn't
like that answer any more than he liked playing pretend. And speaking of
that...
"Let's
pretend that I'm alive and gone." My voice is harsh. Sometimes you have to
be brutal to the ones you love, or they will never fly free. I've never been
one for keeping mine in cages, no matter how gilded the bars might be. It would
hurt me almost as much as it would hurt them. "And let's pretend that I
don't want to be with you. That I've told you that."
His face
falls, while Ianthe looks merely perplexed. Neither seems to understand where
I'm going with this. And here I thought I'd stated it rather blatantly only a
few minutes ago. "I'm not yours anymore, Bastien. I belong--" I sigh
and my voice trails off. I really don't want to hurt him, though if it's
necessary, I will. "I belong where you can't go."
I should have
expected the stubbornness that creeps across his face. One of the first things
I learned about him is that you can't tell him that he can't do, have, want,
etc. He's like an errant child in that respect. Forbidden fruit is his favorite
food.
"I could
go." Hushed, quiet tones. "I could join you right now."
Wonderful. I
just love when he gets ambitious. "No, you couldn't," I reply.
"Don't even think about it. There are no guarantees here, Bastien."
Ianthe is
silent once again, but now she's shooting curious glances out of the corner of
her eye. His statement must have aroused some uncertainty in her head. I don't
know if it's interest in why someone would be willing to die to be with me or
in what that tells her about his personality. I'm hoping it's the latter.
Interest is
definitely a good thing. I hope she's reading more into the devotion aspect
than anything else, because clearly, Bastien is devoted. We hardly need to
prove that.
"It's
worth the risk." He meets my eyes defiantly.
Maybe too
devoted. Did I mention something about slapping him earlier? Oh, what I would
do for a pair of hands...
I glare as
well as I can from my wavering image. "It's *not* worth the risk! It's
stupid to even consider that." I didn't realize it at first, but my skin
has started glowing. I take a deep breath, ignore the distracting gold light,
and stare him down to the best of my ability. It's not easy when you're not
solid. "You have so many opportunities and so many things you could do. Do
you really want to waste those experiences for me?"
"I don't
think it would be a waste," he shrugs.
I want to
scream in frustration, but Ianthe looks ready to bolt as it is. It's probably a
good idea not to scare her, since she seems frightened enough. "I really don't care what you
want," I snap instead, which probably isn't a good idea, either. Ianthe
winces. I notice that the glowing has stopped.
"You
don't care if I'm happy?" He sounds hurt. His dark brown eyes are crushed;
his full mouth droops. When he sits back, his shoulders sag.
Trust him to take
it out of context. Now the question is: do I pacify him or tell him to go to
hell?
Definitely the
former. Tact has always scored me more points in the past. Why would anything
be different now? And I don't want to lie to him.
"Of
course, I care." No matter what derisive comments I might make to myself,
I really do. You can't spend seven years of your life with someone and be
completely apathetic. You can be enraged, contemplate homicide, and consider
therapy, but you still have to feel something. "But I'm more concerned
with what's best for you than with how happy you are about it."
After all, his
obsession with me is *not* healthy.
He glares.
"You're a ghost. How do you know what will make me happy?"
Oh, goody. The
question makes me itch to give him a brain transplant. I've been dead for two
years and we're still fighting about his tastes. I hate how he insists on
treating me just like he did when I was alive, because I'm not. Realizing
you're dead really changes your perspective on things, let me tell you.
"I know
you well enough to know what won't."
Bastien
doesn't seem to know what to say to that. I decide to let silence reign while I
stare out the window into the endless dark. How funny the three of us must look
sitting here. Or, to anyone passing by, the two of us. Bastien and Ianthe
really haven't moved from their self-exile on the couch and I can barely be
seen at all. Just a whisper in the soft glow of the candles.
If anyone
looked inside and paid attention for more than just a few seconds, they might
be curious about those two, sitting like strangers. They might wonder why the
boy talks, refusing to look at the girl as he does so, and why the girl doesn't
answer. Why this one-sided conversation pains the two so much.
Or they might pass
by without caring.
"Sebastien."
He jumps when I use his full name. "Why would you want to die?"
He looks
surprised. Again, nothing new. "I don't," he says, leaning forward to
rest his elbows on his knees. "I just want to be with you."
He's just contradicted
himself. The only way that will happen is if he's dead. Ianthe's pretty face
has twisted into a scowl. Apparently, I'm not the only one to see the irony
here.
The scowl
morphs into a mask of annoyance. Perhaps she's tired of being silent, of letting
her soulmate profess his love and pierce through her soul at the same time.
Whatever happened, she's now riled up and ready for the attack.
"That's
not what you just said," she murmurs, staring at him out of sky-blue eyes.
Challenge sizzles in the air. She tilts her head, those hooded, jewel-like eyes
still fixed on him, and asks, "Do you ever leave this apartment?"
"Of
course," he scoffs, "I have a job."
She shakes her
head, her long, blond hair rippling over her shoulders, while I fight not to
roll my eyes. Really, the boy can be so dense sometimes. "I'm not asking
about your job. After-- Anna, what time did you say you died?"
"Seven."
"After
seven, do you ever go anywhere? Do anything?"
I can answer
that question right now, and cheerfully would if it wouldn't make the situation
worse. Instead, I keep my mouth shut. I think Ianthe is on my side now, which
sends hope coursing through my non-existent veins. I can even allow myself to
hope she might want him.
Bastien
doesn't seem happy about the sudden switch. She hasn't said much and I think he
assumed she was in agreement with him. His face turns even darker than usual,
the smooth skin crinkling into angry lines. He wipes a hand over his face as if
trying to clear his head.
"Well?"
Ianthe seems to share my intolerance for hesitation.
It's a shame
we share all the traits he hates, instead of the ones he loves.
"No, I
never go anywhere." Unlike with my little game, he seems to know where
this is leading. His shoulders tense in preparation. "I have no reason
to."
I guess having
a life isn't that important to him anymore, because he nearly *has* become a
shut-in. I have no memories of being alone after seven o'clock at night. Like
he says, he has no reason to be away. His unspoken comment -- that he has every
reason to be here -- hangs heavy in the air. I don't know if Ianthe doesn't
notice or if she ignores it. Either way, the effect is the same.
"You have
no reason to live?" She's read into that statement and drawn her own
conclusions. Bastien doesn't seem too keen on the idea of suicide, unless the
thought is connected to being with me. I guess that's why he flushes angrily at
her question.
"Did I
say that?"
You didn't
have to, I sing silently, but I force myself to stay out of this. Ianthe is
working where I have failed. Besides, I've been arguing with Bastien for over
seven years now. Maybe she's got something new up her sleeve that I don't.
"Did
you?" she counters. Her blue eyes glitter like lapis, like sapphires. I had
a star sapphire once. Her eyes remind me of it. If you look closely enough, at
just the right angle, you can see the beauty buried inside, that tiny fracture
of light that sunbursts into a star. Shame it comes from an impurity in the
stone.
I wonder if
that should tell me something about Ianthe.
She calls my
name, so I shrug that thought aside.
"What?" Being a ghost has not improved my attention span. I
missed Bastien's answer to her question.
"I asked
how you died." She leaned back again at some point, still crunched into
her corner of the couch, still cowering away from Bastien. I don't know if she
thinks he's going to bite her or what, but if he weren't here, I'd assure her
he's human. In present circumstances, mentioning that in front of him wouldn't
get a good reaction, I'm sure.
"Why?"
Suddenly, I love these one-word answers. They give me time to stall.
She flicks her
tongue nervously over her bottom lip and makes a vague gesture with her right
hand. "I want to know. I mean, you died in this apartment, didn't
you?"
So maybe she's
a little brighter than I thought. Why else would I be haunting the place? It's
not for the decor, trust me. The place is way too dark for my tastes, and more
often than not, Bastien has only candles for light. I like candles. I even like
candlelight. I do not like floating through every piece of furniture in the
house because I can't see a damned thing.
"I
did," I admit carefully, thinking of how I want to answer this question.
No real mystery to what happened, but I would definitely give her a different
version than I would give Bastien. After all, she is a witch. Besides the
pentagram, the black dahlia gracing her finger flashes like a billboard.
"It was nothing special."
The look she's
giving me says she isn't stupid and she isn't buying it. "Were you
murdered?"
I glance
uneasily at Bastien. He's shaking his head sadly to refute her question.
"No," I say slowly. "I had a heart attack."
She still
doesn't look convinced. "Did you really?" she muses. Something in her
blueberry eyes tells me she knows there's more to it than that. I'm not sure
how she knows. It's easy to get a sense of a living person, but does a ghost
really give off the same vibes?
"Hmm."
I tilt my head, staring at that ring, each petal shaped and sculpted from some
sort of black stone. Maybe onyx. "I really like your ring."
Blinking in
surprise, she holds it up, looking at it like she's never seen it before.
"Thank you. It's a family heirloom." She slides my patchy image a sly
glance out of the corner of her eye. "It was my
great-great-grandmother's."
I manage
polite disinterest. "Really? How nice."
She nods, then
she starts to cough. Great, big hacking coughs, like her lungs should join us in
a very short amount of time. Not a pretty thought. Her body doubles over and
she wheezes, taking gasping breaths of air in the few seconds she has to do so.
Blond hair falling forward and obscuring her face.
Bastien
doesn't seem to know what to do, whether to grab her or shrink away.
"Get her
some water, Bastien!" I snap. He can be so useless during a crisis, if
that's what this is.
He jumps up
from his seat, racing down the stairs, his shoes clacking against the tile as
he runs. Apparently the water from the adjacent bathroom isn't good enough. I
waft closer to see if I can help.
Ianthe stops
coughing abruptly. She sits back, her eyes bright and narrowed. "What do
you know about my ring?"
I pause for a
moment, my eyes widening like two growing saucers of light. It looks like
Ianthe is a little more cunning than I thought. And now it's time to tell her
what I know.