Page 53 of Tortured

I’m in a wooded area that breaks into an expanse of lawn. Beyond the lower trees, tall structures of windows and rock reach above them toward the heavens.

How are they so tall? What technology allows them to pierce the sky and block out the natural world?

I crawl to my knees as I continue to gape. I pause to take inventory. I have nothing but a knife in my boot. I’ve lost my twin blades, my other gear. They are still strapped to Huflaih.

I hope he survived.

My clothes are ripped and dirty. Sand fills my pockets, the crevices in my body armor. I absentmindedly brush myself off.

The grassy field beyond the wooded area is packed with people running and walking and sitting on benches, talking to no one, or talking to a slender rectangular box in their hands. The encroaching buildings loom overhead like monsters—rigid, angry beasts.

I gag. How can I even describe the odors? Rotting food. Sweat. A chemical slurry of gases. My stomach twists. I crouch into a ball, my senses on high alert.

Be still. Don’t smell, don’t hear, don’t see. I pull everything that is enhanced about me inside a little ball. I will myself to be normal. A long time ago, I had once known what normal meant. That seems beyond my grasp. Every cell in my body is changed. I know that. I feel that. But somewhere deep inside, I also know I can control it.

I will not be beaten yet.

What else could you possibly do to me?

I’m yelling at Niawen.

Her death is too fresh. Too raw.

She doesn’t deserve my rage.

Forgive me. Oh, please forgive me.

A moment of clarity settles over me, as if my hearing decides to take control. A sympathy of soothing notes sings to me. I have no idea what instruments call to me, or how the sheer number of them come together in such harmony. I hear every individual beat from every individual instrument.

I look up, following the music. Fifteen feet in front of me, a woman lies on a pink ruffled blanket. An array of food is spread around her. A book—I narrow my vision on the title, Merlin—lies face down over her stomach.

She wears skin-hugging pants, and a white knee-high dress under a violet knitted top. I marveled at the strange apparel and soon realize all the people in this realm are dressed bizarrely.

Her fingers twist a white cord. More intriguing, the wires attach to her ears. As I observe this peculiarity, I comprehend that the music comes from her ears.

I cock my head and rise to my feet. Thoroughly absorbed, I study her. Nothing else exists for the moment, and for that, I am grateful. All the overwhelming sensations have ceased. I almost laugh. Am I finally normal?

Her hair is golden. Her nose—scooping and tiny. Her lips—a squashed heart, slightly parted. After all this time, I know the exact features.

No. I’m haunted.

I will always be haunted. I stumble toward the woman.

She can’t be real.

I trip. After years of moving with such fluidity granted to me by the light, I trip.

The offender is a hard, dirty-white, flattened path. It stretches on in either direction on either side of me.

What in all the realms is this? My hands are scraped where I caught myself. They should heal shortly, but pain burns them.

I curse.

The golden-haired woman rolls upright, removing the strange wires from her ears. “Are you all right? You have to watch out for those sidewalks. They trip unsuspecting people left and right.” The woman giggles as she stands and comes over.

I brush my hands off on my pants. The skin has started to scab over. Somewhat relieved that I’m still in fact abnormal, I grope to my feet as she loops her arm through mine and steadies me.

I catch her scent. Heady, feminine, and sweet. On a deeper level, her pheromones connect with me.

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