The Touch of Heaven

Chapter 6

V

So I guess I wasn't the special snowflake anymore, huh?

Immune. It was a weird word and a treasure in a world that was getting ass-f****d by an incurable virus nobody knew how to control, temper, or cure. Previous attempts to develop an antidote to the Phantom simply resulting in the virus getting pissy and mutating around the cure in a few minutes. So that wasn't very f*****g effective. It was bizarre, though. I didn't know why I was immune. The people who had taken samples of my blood and other fluids (to my disgust) simply said it was odd properties in my system the Phantom couldn't get past. Nobody could explain it. That's probably why Mom and Dad had taken so f*****g long to get the tests to start exploiting the miracle in my system. Or maybe they'd just sneaked off on their honeymoon and left me to rot in the asshole of New Jersey. Smooth move.

This was a miracle, either way. Celia was, bizarrely, completely accepting when I told her I, too, was immune. She'd apparently believed for a while that she couldn't have been the only one and danced around the subject when I asked her her further with some notebook questions. The rest of her settlement – a village of about a few-hundred people who lived outside government protection but did their best to keep safe anyways – knew as well. Unfortunately, it had drawn the eye of that wild-haired shitweasel known as Jango. Celia told me she'd struck a sort of deal with the raiders in exchange for the safety of her village; once Jango started getting a little too greedy with circumstances Celia refused to specify, Celia cut off the deal, and Jango had lived good on his threat. They'd skull-f****d the village and tried to take Celia by force. That was how she ended in up in Haven. She seemed weirdly unfazed by the fact the people she'd been living with had been run out into the woods and her settlement torched to the ground. Maybe she was just a chipper spirit who believed things could and would get better. Maybe it was part of a malignant plot brewed by a cunning mind manipulating me for her own gain. Or maybe she was just a chipper spirit. Sure was the impression she gave me; she was pretty bouncy and seemed to live on her own rules in her own world. When she said she wanted to see Mayor Pleasance, she wouldn't stop barking about it, and after Lt. Donald Jones himself had taken a little extraction of her and later my blood for testing and future comparison, she'd been granted it. I hadn't seen her since. All that s**t didn't really matter, anyhow; we had a f*****g celebration to get on with.

It was being hosted at Jilton's place. Surprise, surprise, she'd conveniently "forgotten" today was registration day and had spent the day stocking up on snacks for the movie night and buying about a dozen movies from the local video store. There was a giant-ass thing of Dr. Pepper – a four-pack of two l****s, I think, party-sized – another four-pack of root beer for Mint, much to their absolute glee, a selection of various flavors of Doritos, and a plastic bag of pot cookies Lavender insisted were reserved for the adults. Jilton had promised to sneak me a few regardless. That made me reasonably happy.

It was 6:30 PM, now. The sooner we'd start, the better. Lavender and Darby were already at the kitchen table, chatting up a storm. They were fine with their legal names – Gladys and Billy – and used those in normal conversation with one another. They were still fine being called by the nicknames they'd given themselves in Paradise. Thank God, because calling them by those names still felt horribly awkward to my tongue. Jilton was fine with essentially whatever the hell we wanted to call her: Jilton, Maxine, Max, or, hell, Lynch. She was very much a fan of David Lynch's psychedelic works; Eraserhead, she'd proclaimed, was her second-favorite movie. Her favorite, to everyone's surprise, was Mrs. Doubtfire.

Everything was more or less set. Jilton took to dispersing the snacks as Darby and Lavender continued their conversation. Me and Mint were currently on the floor in front of the couch, which had been not far from the television. Mint's gaze was locked onto the window outside. The sun was going down early – winter did that. They seemed concerned, and I gave them a little prod to ensnare their attention.

"Huh?" they said, a bit alarmed and realizing they'd apparently spaced out. Not cool; spacing out was my thing. I tilted my head in concern to try and pry out what was bugging them and they quietly sighed.

"It's just Miles," they said. "He hasn't arrived yet. It's already past six-thirty. He wouldn't be this late, would he?"

I snickered. He probably didn't even know we were starting yet. We'd given him a call with our planned time, but he'd probably been wrapped up in a hundred other tasks at the time. He'd promised to come, though, and he probably would, albeit bundled in a thousand coats due to the very light snowfall that had picked up a half-hour ago.

"He's probably just fashionably late," someone said from behind us. Both me and Mint turned to look up behind us as the sweet scent of popcorn, layered with warm butter and some dill pickle-flavored topping, filled our noses. Jilton, from behind us, leaned down to put a bowl of the stuff between us with a wry smirk on her features.

"Milesy's a strange one, alright," Jilton said. "I'm sure he wouldn't miss the chance to loosen his screws, though, am I right? Tonight's a party. Relax."

Mint nodded. "I suppose."

Jilton chuckled dryly. "You don't seem convinced. Hey. Mint. Got a secret. Real Easter egg sort of thing. There's some ice-cream in the fridge and a big old saloon mug in the cupboard. Make yourself a float or two; don't tell auntie Lavender I gave you permission."

A giddy smile immediately caught onto Mint's face as they sprung up and practically flew over to the kitchen, literally vaulting over the couch and everything. Jilton watched them start organizing the ingredients for the float in amusement. Darby and Lavender, too, had briefly paused their conversation to stare at Mint.

"Easy to rile with a little sugar, huh?" Jilton said to me. "Bet they'd make good friends with Sonny the Cuckoo Bird. Heck, I think they'd make a decent cereal mascot in their own. Can you see that? 'Minties?' Gives your morning breath the freshness it needs. Goodness in every bite."

I was quietly laughing by this point as Jilton trailed off into another series of irrelevant pop-culture comparisons. After Mint was done getting their float ready, Jilton cleared her throat and rang a cowbell she'd been hanging onto, putting on her best Christopher Walken voice.

"Attention, everyone," she said with that sort of odd droll voice Walken talked in, "movie night is commencing. Got us a selection of flicks. Whatever we don't watch – and do watch – tonight is yours. On the house, courtesy of your very own Director Maxy."

Everyone, including me and Mint, stood up and came to the center of the room. There were a bunch of DVDs wrapped in almost Christmas-looking decorative wrapping, complete with labels for our names. Darby wheezed in good-hearted laughter as he looked over the pile.

"You sure are making a right big deal out of this, ain't you?" he said, looking at Jilton.

Jilton shrugged. "You can say 'theatrical flourish' is my middle name."

Darby scoffed. "Or f*****g 'bloody well pretentious,' more like it. You get me Oz like I asked?"

Jilton smirked. "Open your packaging and find out."

With little hesitation, Darby snatched the two cases marked with him and tore them open. They were Rambo: First Blood and Stone Cold respectively. He smiled.

"Nice," Darby said, his voice rough but sincere. "I've been looking for these two. Find Oz?"

"Tonight's movie night," Jilton said. "If you want to marathon your oh-so-tasteful adventures in 'don't-drop-the-soap land,' you can do it on your own time."

Even Darby laughed at that. He shrugged. "Guess we'll put Stone Cold on tonight."

Lavender stepped forth. "Quite generous of you to get us all of this, Maxine. Anything for me?"

Jilton took a case wrapped in deep-purple wrapping, knelt on one knee, and offered it to Lavender in the same way someone might propose to another. "My lady."

Lavender laughed at Jilton's behavior and opened the wrapping. It was a copy of Black Swan, to her happiness.

"So you know I like Natalie Portman?" Lavender said, looking back down at Jilton. "Or is this just coincidence?"

"Oh, no, it was pretty plain obvious you were a Portman fangirl. But I also recall one time we went out you remarked you like a good psychological tale, something with a bit of style? Thought Darren Aronofsky would be a good place to start."

Lavender smiled. "Thank you, Jilton."

Jilton turned to us. "And the kids? Take your pick."

I leaned over and snatched the one disc marked with my name and essentially bit into it like I was eating a drumstick. Tearing the wrapping with my teeth, spitting out the stuff, and wondering if it would go good with some ranch dressing, I opened the case. The Cabin in the Woods. I smiled. I recalled Jilton making a recommendation for it – and a whole bunch of other Joss Whedon-written stuff in general.

At the same time, Mint squeaked behind me and suddenly embraced Jilton. "Thank you!" they outburst, overjoyed. Had Jilton wrapped an entire f*****g kitten?

Alas, Mint was just holding a copy of Lilo & Stitch. That explained quite a bit; that was their favorite movie, by a good and long shot. Also in their hands was a case I could make out as The Pebble and the Penguin, another thing they'd been wanting to see. I frowned a bit. I recognized that as a Don Bluth movie – specifically, a Don Bluth movie from his post-80s career, which was mostly agreed to be surreal at best and trash at worst. Jilton hummed a bit and opened up the last case on the couch. It was a copy of The Straight Story, the singular most atypical movie David Lynch could be capable of directing – and, as such, the one Lynch film Jilton hadn't watched yet. Mint would probably like this one. Jilton stood up, ringing the cowbell again.

"Alright, all," she said, ditching the Walken voice this time. "Here's to splendor. Here's to grandeur. Here's in commemoration of everything we've gone through and loved. And, most importantly, most of us getting a job. Though we all might like to bask in the monotonous placidity of freedom, a cold splash from the seas of reality is all it takes to remind us life is dredging, hateful, and cruel."

Brief pause.

"So let's forget all that tonight and have some fun. Who's up first?" Jilton capped, plopping down on the couch.

Mint spoke up first. They'd already seen Lilo & Stitch a hundred times and I gave them a little nudge to watch The Pebble and the Penguin first; get the worst out of the way first, I reasoned. So, alas, we ended up watching that.

Yeah, it was terrible. Not as pandering as A Troll in Central Park but still a painful experience. Everyone – even Jilton – seemed near-asleep by the movie's end. Except for Mint, of course, who happily bobbed their head along to every single torturous song (written by one money-hungry Barry Manilow) and seemed to genuinely gasp in surprise when one of the characters seemed to had died. Of course he'd be back. Evidently, Mint hadn't learned their lesson by the hundredth fake-out death present in almost every single film Disney made. There was one song in the film that summed up my thoughts exactly: "Good Ship Misery."

If you're into pain and agony

If you love the great indoors

Welcome to the Good Ship Misery

The misery's all yours!

My eye was twitching throughout the entire song even as Mint bobbed along and tried to memorize the words. I'd be memorizing them. Not because I wanted to, but because the song was so ungodly catchy I think it'd end up replacing "That's The Way I Like It" as the resident ear-worm in my head. Regardless, I related to this song. A ship filled with nothing but absolute misery for everyone on board? Sounded like every morning I woke up with the f*****g sun in my face. The animation was choppy as all get-out, too; no wonder Don Bluth and Gary Goldman had jumped ship on the movie's production.

Hah. Jumped ship. Pun.

If you're thinking this could never be – think again!

If you're thinking it's the Ritz – fat chance!

Sorry but the Good Ship Misery – is a reality!

Hubie, baby, this is the pits!

Sure was.

We watched a good few more movies that night. The Cabin in the Woods was next; Lavender desperately trying to cover a hesitant Mint's eyes during the "s*x in the woods" scene and Mint screaming when the scene's inevitable jump-scare proceeded was priceless. Stone Cold was next. Lance Henrikson was a beast as that flick's baddie. Darby enjoyed every single moment and so did I; Lavender and Mint seemed a little less favoring. Jilton was high by that time and giggled at ill-fitting moments. We finished off, appropriately enough, with The Straight Story. Jilton wasn't kidding when she said it was a weird note in Lynch's filmography; instead of weird and horrifying (the only truly bizarre scene was that "thirteen deer in seven weeks!" breakdown on the part of a one-shot character), it was a gentle, heartwarming picture that everyone – even the drugged-up Jilton – enjoyed. It was past midnight, when it finished up. The Straight Story had left us all with a warm, fuzzy feeling in our gut, that little bonfire in your heart that just made you feel all nice and tingly. Jilton was on the verge of passing out on the couch, one eye open a peek, and Darby and Lavender were still awake, quietly chatting with each other. I was utterly tired, myself. I felt pleasant. Wonderful enough to go to sleep and dream of moonlit oceans.

I felt Mint suddenly rest their head on my shoulder and nuzzle it affectionately. They were tired too, as evidenced by their long yawn. I leaned a little closer into them as they quietly spoke and the credits of the movie rolled.

"Miles never showed up..." they said, a little sadly. I shrugged. It was his loss, honestly. I'd been too distracted by the movies to wonder at any point where he was, and too tired now to give it much thought. He'd probably just ended up busy. Mint shuffled a little closer. "He talked to you any about what you wanted to do for a career?"

I looked down at them and remembered my encounter with the raiders. Even before then, Miles didn't really seem interested in talking about career registration. It was something quite a bit more personal; otherwise, why the hell would he have randomly divulged all that information about anxiety?

He'd been building up to something. I didn't know what. I'd ask him tomorrow, I figured.

I just tiredly nodded to Mint. They weren't awake enough to really think about it any deeper or prod in further, so they just gave a wide smile and embraced me. "I'm glad. I'm so glad, Tango. I want you to be happy. I know you've been anxious and I don't like it when you are..."

I shared the embrace with my arm and pulled them tight to me. I relished their company as well as any sort of physical affection I could get between those that mattered to me. Mint paused a bit before continuing.

"You're feeling good?" they asked, quieter than before.

I nodded.

They pressed their head in closer into my shoulder. "Good... That's good..."

Neither of us felt the urge to stay awake anymore. Still locked in a tight embrace, we fell asleep together with as much effort as it took to butter bread.

I open my eyes.

Once again, my mind tries to subconsciously write off what I see as the product of a drug-warped nightmare. But I know for a solid fact I'm not dreaming. Everything is infinite, blank, and utterly unrelenting. And then the colors appear; magnitudes of twisting blues and green, undulating twirls of yellow between white as the world exploded and my mind was filled with a joy strange to the lower world. This wasn't Heaven. I recalled the Preceptor's earlier words to me in this state.

There is a Hell to counter Heaven's effects. A bliss. A mirth. A beaming smile upon a radiant face. The mercy of hell is recompense for the agony of Heaven.

I'm in Hell. Once again, I'm in Hell.

It's everything opposite from what I felt in Heaven. The only thing I could feel when I was in that dimension was a searing, biting, seething pain that chewed away at my mind like fire. It was a godawful experience – everything blaring at me to just shut up and die.

Hell isn't like that. The voices of Hell don't whisper or mumble, or growl in harsh black tongues. They speak in loud, clear voices I can lucidly understand, and they beckon me further into Hell. So I drift through this world of blue and red and purple and ultraviolet and everything a man could not conceive. I am a butterfly drifting through the infinite universe; meager and unable to make a true change in the world, but content nonetheless. Hell plays with my senses. Hell elucidates my mind and invigorates in ways I never thought possible.

There he is again. The Preceptor. He sits at that same beat-up table, casually floating through the midst of the formless world of Hell around him. The same empty chair waits for me, floating underneath the chess-board table and the Preceptor, with another tea cup of bile in his hand. He signals me over to sit in the empty chair, regarding me with his cute little bead-eyes. I find that moving through Hell is quite easy, much more so compared to Heaven. My mind and my body walks as two; my mind simply disconnects from where my physical body was – rooted in Earth, I assume, and physically asleep – and floats to the Preceptor.

"Commendably done, Tango!" the Preceptor says, clapping his furry, clawed hands together with a measure of pride. "This is our first lesson. And you have completed it extraordinarily."

I tilt my head, or the feeling of doing so passes through me. "What f*****g lesson?"

The Preceptor points behind me. "You have learned to travel. You have separated your mind from its anchor – its physical body. You – or your Shade – is now walking through Hell itself."

I don't get a word he says. Regardless, I look behind me. There, I can see a little image in the world, perhaps a thought that got lost from my head and decided to drift. It was my own physical body – in Earth – sound asleep, resting tight in Mint's firm yet gentle grasp. My body here is simply a flashing silhouette of its original form, a shape in my form changing from one psychedelic color to the next.

"You are unconscious in your home world," the Preceptor explains, merrily, "yet you walk awake in the second world. Why do you think this is, Tango?"

I pause for a bit. Then I recall something the Preceptor said earlier. "Because I've already seen Heaven."

"Exactly as said, Tango," the Preceptor says. "You do not know what circumstances caused us to meet. But. You should know why we continue to meet – it is because you have decided you like Hell."

I didn't speak for a bit, looking incredulous. "And how do you know that?"

The Preceptor chuckles. "Simple. I know the subconscious will and desire of every being that passes through Hell's gate. When I talked to you, I learned your every thought, your every intention, in this moment and all others before and after it."

I feel a little violated. "So... is that you knew who I was?" I say.

"Precisely that," the Preceptor says. "Mind-reading. An advanced technique when done in such dimensions, but one I will teach you in time nonetheless."

"Hang on," I say, not a second after the Preceptor's finished. "What do you mean, 'teach' me?"

"Because it is foretold by your future thoughts," the Preceptor says. "That and many another terrible thing. Your time in all worlds is not yet over. You will seek a key that will bring balance to all worlds. And you will find it – you are destined to."

I back up a bit, still confused. "...What? The f**k do you mean, I'll find a f*****g key?"

"Tango," the Preceptor says, "a great doom threatens your world. It threatens to pull your world into a great cosmic war." The Preceptor puts out his hand, and bizarre, flickering images appear in his mangy palm. It depicts the existence of three worlds – Heaven, Hell, and sandwiched between both, Earth – on the verge of literally coming together.

"You're saying-"

"A clash against interdimensional forces, between Hell and Heaven. It is this doom that shall destroy all three, Tango."

The worlds came together. Everything – just like that – disappeared. My eyes shrink a bit.

"But," the Preceptor says, casually brushing away the remaining sparks in the air that remained in the image, "that shall wait ever yet. I glean, from your thoughts, that I teach you, and lo, it is my teachings that propel you onward to defeat this doom. That is why we meet again, Tango – and why we shall continue to meet, so long as your mind keeps its instinctual reaction to keep coming back to Hell."

I'm still perplexed. Beyond all f*****g get-out, actually. How the hell am I supposed to stop a cosmic f*****g war between worlds in any form?

"How does that come by my f*****g hand?" I say, anxious.

"I do not know exactly," the Preceptor says, "but I can say. It is for certain by your hand, Tango. Yours and yours alone. That is why I come to teach you the techniques of Mylotheia."

I draw a blank. "Pardon the French, there?"

"It means 'mind magic,' in a rough, imperfect translation of your terms. Every being that traverses the planes of Heaven and Hell are gifted powers beyond the reach of Earth. You are immune to the energies of both Heaven and Hell. Ergo. You are capable of wielding these powers. Did you not demonstrate sentience even while you were forcibly hooked up to Heaven by those you perceive as evil, and talk to your mortal albino companion while their mind was cracked?"

He really does know everything. Every single thing I've felt or will feel. Now I really feel violated.

"It is through this power – Mylotheia – that you shall fell this doom in the future. You've demonstrated the most simple of Mylotheian techniques; disconnecting your mind's body, or your Shade, from your body so it may traverse Hell's dimension separate from your physical body. You unconsciously demonstrated it twice before, each whilst you were exposed to Heaven's energies months before in your time. The first time, in that Mad Room, you nearly went mad in your own body. The second time, you came much more regularly, to the point you could converse with your albino companion. And now – the third time – you have it perfected. Yes?"

I consider the dizzying magnitude of what he's saying and slowly nod.

"Disconnecting your Shade from your physical body is almost an instinctual thing for a being who's mind is capable enough to stand the energies of these areas. In your world, Hell and Heaven can only be accessed to the others of your kind by literally ripping open holes in the Boundary and opening holes in reality in your own worlds, perhaps pathways through dimensions. None of your kind can stands it energies – even severely weakened forms, like the Phantom. But you – immunes – can connect to Hell or Heaven whichever way your mind decides. You come here through falling asleep. Others connect by subjecting themselves to extreme sensations, perhaps sensory deprivation, perhaps an emotional state highly euphoric or depressingly melancholic."

"So..." I say, with slight uncertainty on the situation. "I'm for sure not the only immune, huh?"

"Far from," the Preceptor says, "but only the first to be discovered by an institution as famous to your kind as Paradise Association. Immunes are simply people who are more, perhaps, evolved than others of their kind. Their minds can stand the energies of Heaven and Hell. That is your kind's first new major step in evolution; you go beyond mere intelligence and become beings accordant with your own minds. Then you shall eventually learn to transcend beyond your simple physical shells, become your Shade, and learn to make your world like ours."

I take one look at the shapeless world of colors around me and scoff. "So we're going to turn our universe into a formless, psychedelic nightmare in time?" I say, a little agitated.

"To the perception of a being from your world, Hell and Heaven do resemble that," the Preceptor says, a little condescendingly. "As I said. You are not fully evolved to our potential and thus our eyes just yet. You are simply more evolved than the rest of your kind – but it will take quintillions of years in your time to advance to a state when you can even begin to perceive what I know as common. You can stand what you see without harm, but yet you cannot comprehend it. The rest of your kind cannot so much as perceive us without shattering their own fragile minds and going mad."

"Why could Mint briefly drift through Heaven with me, then, huh? And why didn't they go nuts like Ash?" I say in a challenging tone.

The Preceptor chuckles, again, in his mellow, echoing laugh that sounds like the breaking of bark. "I have said I know many things, and that is one thing you shall too in time. But. They will play a special role in what is to come – shall we say? You will find out in time."

I sighed. "Playing the vague prophet, are we?"

The Preceptor laughs. "Yes. Quite. Anyways. The immunes have been recruited by our kind to be trained in Mylotheia and will be sent to fight out in the great war that is to come. But. I foresee you are to stop this war, Tango. I see that you shall see yourself defeat this great, unknowable doom and save us all. So I aim to train you in advance in Mylotheia every night you connect from now on – so that future will come to pass."

I should be almost insulted I was being conscripted to say a number of worlds I just realize were doomed. I should b***h about how the Preceptor had just spoiled the plot of my life – not cool! – without so much as a rudimentary hint as to what I'm supposed to do except f**k around with him for a couple years and hope I somehow blossom into a force capable of stopping said sudden doomy future.

You know? It's probably just the weird-ass f*****g effects of Hell's energies in my mind, but I almost instantly accept this was all true and I needed to do it. Or maybe he was just subconsciously forcing me to say yes.

"Very good, Tango," the Preceptor suddenly says.

I blink back to reality. "Huh?"

"You just recognized my own usage of a Mylotheia technique within your own thoughts. The inducement of compulsion and, thus, control."

Not cool. I frown at the Preceptor. "Probably would have said yes anyways, dickweed."

"Oh, that I know as well," the Preceptor says. "I simply like to make sure everything is absolutely according to plan. Every step of the way."

"Mmm," I say, "understandable. Now, tell me about some of these f*****g Mylotheia s**t you say you'll be teaching me. Mind-reading? Mind control? You training me into some sort of bonafide dream-walking psychic?"

"Of a sort," says the Preceptor. "I see it so that you flex the muscles of your mind; the undeveloped parts of your body, or, rather, your mind. Think of it as the organs for your mind's body; they are mental muscles that allow you to control the energies of Heaven and Hell in the same way you would use your hands to manipulate objects in your own world. But. Since they are still eons unevolved, the most you can do at this point is exercise those muscles to do your best to weakly manipulate the energies of the world around you. When you develop these skills, you can learn to manipulate the Shades of other beings, with such things as the manipulation and reading of their own thoughts, feelings, and compulsions. And yes, you will learn to control others, as well."

"f*****g sweet," I say. I'm a little more stoked for training now.

"Yes," the Preceptor says. "Eventually, after whatever period of time it takes to train you, the conflict between Hell and Heaven will begin. And with my guidance and sight of the future in mind, you will save everything."

Yeah. Alright. Sounds like a f*****g deal.

"Unfortunately," the Preceptor says, "your continued time here is short."

"Why?" I ask. "You on a f*****g budget or something? Only willing to talk for ten minutes?"

"Three hours have passed in your world," the Preceptor says. "But you are about to be awakened by circumstances within your world. They ruffle your external body. Our training waits, but for now. Would you like another thing to think about as you awake?"

I sigh. I really want to just say "no" and leave it at that – I have a fuckton to think about and panic when I wake up. But through more subconscious compulsion, which makes me nod my head before I realize what had happened, prompts the Preceptor to nod in return. Immediately, the table we're sitting at completely distorts out of reality. The Preceptor's head turns into a mass of bacterial, writhing energies clumped together like tumors, flailing about in the air. His right arm dissolves into a trail of nine-dimensional protoplasm shaded a form of blue no human eyes could look upon that oozes up to my ear and whispers something.

"Beware the Never-becoming," the Preceptor warns.

I remain somehow undaunted by the indistinct abomination the Preceptor's suddenly become. "What the f**k are the Never-becoming?"

"Would you like to know a small fraction of what a Never-becoming is?" the Preceptor says.

I nod. "Hit me the f**k up, Doctor."

The protoplasm touches my head.

The pleasant world fades.

Torture. Pain. Agonizing hell. A thousand shades of all gnawing fire. Things without faces, biting at the endless dark. They bite. They writhe, They want inside.

They never were. They wanted to be. But all they ever became were a pure, wanting, envying black. They scream for form. They touch our minds with a hellish energy.

Pigs ground into flesh; writhing red tapeworms; images like screwdrivers plunged into the eyes. I can't stay awake. Everything's screaming; the existence of these things is a rotting, infected wound in the flesh of reality that wants to consume everything. My heart wants to tear itself from its chest. Why won't it end?

Why won't it end?

Why won't it end? Why won't it end? Why won't it end?

Why won't it end?

I woke up feeling like a nail had been hammered in my eye-socket.

I wasn't in Jilton's room. I wasn't with Mint anymore. I wasn't anywhere I knew or recognized. I was in a car, I could tell, as consciousness rushed back into my head like a gradually-filling bucket. We were going fairly fast, by the rumble of the world around me. I slowly sat up and realized I'd been strapped into a seat belt. Someone – not Miles, Lavender, or Jilton (or even f*****g Mint, amusing as that would be) – was driving with me in tow. I could instantly tell who it was in my growing sense of panic.

It was Celia.