Over and Over Again

3

She squeezed through the pack of people plaguing the streets. Pounding in her head. The myriad scents that amalgamated to form the air of the square.

The roaring cars.

Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Falling.

***

Emilia didn't remember the fall. Nor did she remember being passed idly by, by the people that clattered down the pavement, the gravel, the floors. She, there, for who knows how long.

She woke to the smile of a girl. Fuzzy, as if a filter had been put on her eyes. Under her, the silken spread of bedsheets.

"She'll be alright?" she heard. A girl. Familiar voice.

"Yeah," another person said. This time, it was a guy's voice. A sinking feeling. But not out of fear, no. This was warm, as those days in her childhood when, before the cascade of memories from those foreign lives, she played with Mama in the wheat fields, yesterday baking the hills into a wake of brown, feathery patches, crisscrossing with a lonely shrub, tree. Then, that immense forest...

"She looks doozy," the girl said. A hand landed on her forehead. A yelp. "And awfully hot. Methinks she has a fever."

She was in her clothes, still. That was a relief. It'd have added to her already-growing embarrassment wondering whether the brother of the girl had helped strip Emilia naked. But that wasn't of concern now.

"I'd say so too," the guy said.

Fruity voice. Beneath the filter, Emilia stared. She caught glimpses, between the horrid pauses of unconsciousness. Middle-parted hair, black as night. The slender v-curve of a jaw flowing down into a somewhat-thin neck. Olive skin, peeled, white, textured like porcelain it seemed. Polo shirt: blue. She shivered.

"Where'd you find her even, Nyla" the guy asked. Emilia heard a snort. But she wasn't sure; it could have been a hallucination.

"Not that nickname! I told you, never that. Do you want to be called, War? Do you?"

A laugh. Sweet. Melodic. Like the vibration of a lyre-string. "Fine. Fine. But seriously, Amalia, where'd you find her? And why'd you, like an i***t, call me out of the house to take her home?" A faked scoff. "Don't tell me you're into that kind of thing!"

"Don't be stupid," the girl, Amalia, said. Her voice was serious. "You know what I told you two weeks ago?"

"Yeah. Those assholes."

"I wasn't being totally honest with you then."

"What—?"

"It's not what you're thinking, Warren." A touch on Emilia's face. In the intense warmth, it was cold. A gentle, pleasurable kind of coldness. "I didn't run away from them. Couldn't. My knees were shaking badly. But she...she helped me, you know. In a moment, those guys were about to sift through the stalls, looking for me. And I even chose the first stall to stay inside. But she coughed. I think she did it on purpose. I was scared for her. Really. And ashamed. Because I couldn't face my own problems, and now somebody was going to suffer because of it. I waited for the scream. Nothing came. I heard Marcuse swearing and Jerry stomping his big feet. Then, the crash of broken tiles."

"Broken tiles," Warren said. "You must've heard it wrong."

"I looked," Amalia said. "Looked hard and close at them. Took photos of them, and the two idiots, though that's a secret between us. But the tiles were broken. Before she left, she called out to me. Told me I should face my problems head-on."

By this time, Emilia's mind was clear. At least, to the extent that she could correct Amalia on what she said. You're wrong, Amalia, she thought. You're dead wrong. I didn't tell you to face your problems. I told you what I'd been doing the whole of my life. When it matters the most, run. Because you don't know how hard it is, you don't know how difficult life is. You don't know how much fear leaves you devoid of strength. That's why you run. You never fight because you don't have the fight in you. You never do. When you think you do, the rug is pulled out under you, and you're left there. Wondering. Wondering how you were so stupid. You're left there with nothing but regrets, pain, and a broken ass. Nothing to show for.

"Was she safe?" Warren asked, breaking the sick girl's reverie.

"I think so. I mean, she puked into the toilet. There's that."

"How funny," Warren said. "I puked into a toilet at that time, too."

The ringing of a bell. Hurried shouts.

"That's Mom, I think. Come home at last." Warren sniffed, funnily. "Bit irritated, judging from the noise. And brought home some food, I'd guess. Come down, Amalia."

"But—"

Warren sighed. "We'll leave something for her. I promise."

"Thanks, War,"

"Don't call me that, Nyla."

***

She was long lying on the bed, still too weak to get up. Not only were the nightmares intense, they were also of horrific length. Each moment, it seemed, in that world lasted twice that of reality. So, that she may have been sleeping for an hour or so, but was in the dream for two. And the fact that she had even managed to pace out of her apartment and into the square was amazing.

Emilia didn't know what thoughts flittered in her mind, then. But she recalled the soft cries of swallows and redbirds swooping outside, accentuated by the bells and chimes that rang, fondled by the breeze. The scent of lemon and mango filled the room, spirited by sage and sandalwood. Being in its presence comforted her, as if, once, she had experienced it already. Although that wasn't true, it still comforted her. Something that is always true with nostalgia: that even though our remembrance of a memory violates that selfsame memory, we still cherish it as our own.

The shuffling of feet. The widening of the door, revealing the amber lights the siblings had once passed. The entrance of a woman, tall, an inch short of six feet, wearing a white dress bejeweled with turquoise sequins and some brown pants. Her arms, relatively tight for her age, fell into wrists covered in bracelets. Of wood, of lazuli, of jade.

"Quite pretty, aren't you, dear?" The woman, presumably their mother, sat beside her. Laced the flowing, dark hair in her wrinkled fingers. "But listen to me, yes, that if you hurt my children in any way, I will personally destroy you. And that, I swear, on my soul. For I am Lizaveta Murlov, Enchantress of the North."

Emilia emitted a sound close to 'What the hell are you talking about, old woman?'

"I know, dear, I know. Quite surprised to see another one of your kind, eh? Don't worry. I won't tell. I am a keeper of secrets."

If they could go any farther, Emilia's eyebrows would have ripped through her forehead, circumscribed the whole of her head, and found themselves back above her eyes. "Please. What are you saying?" she managed.

"A witch," Lizaveta replied, rolling her eyes. Suddenly, those wrinkles under the eyes of the woman ceased to remind her of the sun's rays and concocted images of spiderwebs slowly but surely trapping their prey in the overlapping silver-strings. "I know you're one. I could smell it on you from a mile away. That strong scent, like mildew, like overdue milk, like rotting eggs. It's dirty. Be honest: how old are you and why, in Deuce's name, did you try to trick your way into my house?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Miss...No idea."

Lizaveta's gaze bore into her eyes. They radiated scarlet, like the fiery fires of hell. "You're lying. But subtly lying. I know you're telling the truth about not knowing anything. But you don't specify what. Truth be told, if only you weren't so coated in that thick, stinking scent, the evil eye would've seen through you top to bottom now."

"Evil eye," Emilia muttered. She gasped weakly. "You're a witch."

"And you're not bright." Footsteps swerved along the stairs, the rattle reaching their ears as the door was left agape. Lizaveta whispered; the door shut, the locks bolted noisily, just before the siblings could arrive.

"Open the door, Mom!" It was Amalia. "You're weirding someone out again!"

"Be quiet, Amalia," Lizaveta hissed. "Or I'll eat you alive. Warren, take your sister downstairs and take a walk through the woods. I'll be chatting with Ms. Parker here for a few minutes before we"—she grinned, rather maliciously—"feed her anything. You'll take her home, won't you, War?"

"Fine, fine," Warren said, his soothing voice hushed by the wall of paneled wood. "See you in half an hour, I guess."

"Thank you." She turned to face Emilia. The footsteps of the siblings had died out now, the last ray of hope Emilia found fading on the horizon. "That boy is so understanding. Don't you think? Let's see. His sister, chased by goons, idiots, manages to escape from their clutches and not even a hint of shock in him. Just rage. And much of it faked, I would say. And now, a total stranger, taken in by his sister, from the streets, if you'll remember. Yet you just saw him, as unreactive to the whole thing as if I said it would be a sunny Tuesday."

"What's your point," Emilia snarled.

"Wanted only to point out," Lizaveta said, "how curious my son is, compared to boys of his age. Almost as if he's seen death, you know."

Emilia paused. "You're a witch. You're really one, aren't you?"

"And you are, too, I presume,"

"No. Not like you."

"But with a certain elongation of life?"

"You can say that,"

"Ah. I haven't seen wrong. Your eyes are dulled, dissimilar to those of your age. As are my son's. Curiouser and curiouser, wouldn't you think?"

"I don't have anything to do with your son." Emilia coughed. Lay back on the bed. The sleek frame of ebony was possessed by approaching shadows, distorted by the light that winced through the encasements. "Nothing at all. We're strangers."

"Yet you have this look," Lizaveta said, "that seems to say that you know more. That you know him."

"I just met him,"

"Perhaps," Lizaveta said. "Perhaps. In this life, at least."

"This life."

"You've let down your guard completely, my youngling. 'Tis true that you are no witch, and I shall leave you alone for it. But know this, touch my beloved son any more than you have touched him and you will perish for it. The same goes for my wondrous daughter. She is a cherub—nay, not a fair comparison. All cherubs are monsters. A dove, if you will. A beautiful dove. And she takes pity on the weak, whether or not they deserve it."

"What would you have me do," Emilia asked. "She was the one who seized me in the streets."

"No, my dear. I seized you from the streets."

Emilia didn't understand. Nor did she have time to. The next moment she was conscious, the window let in moonlight, cicadas crackled like broken radios, and scented candles filled the room. With lavender, poisonous beauty.

She got up.

The door opened.