Page 70 of Possession

Then, Henry is beside me. “You’ll need to lay down,” he says.

I nod, wordlessly following his direction. My palms soon rest flat against the floor, the wood cold on my calves and thighs. Henry stands over me with his wand, and behind him is Ryan. I can see his expression now, and a mix of anxious and excited.

My attention goes back to Henry as he crouches next to me. “Close your eyes,” he says, and I do. “I’m going to put you to sleep now, all right?”

I pause. I want to say… no, that, even if Aris is, I’m not ready, but I just shut my eyes and nod.

“You might want to count backwards,” Henry suggests.

Again, I nod, but my mind doesn’t go to numbers. Instead, I try to envision Aris, where he is resting inside of me, but it’s like he’s evaporated. His presence, always been so heavy, has changed. It’s like he’s on the balls of his feet, readying himself for a sprint. Preparing to leave.

To leave me.

A tear leaks out of the corner of my eye, falling somewhere by my ear.

Mary, he says.

Aris, I say.

Good-bye, we think together.

Chapter fifteen

Something smells… like ozone. When I try to plug my nose to block it out, I find that my arm is too heavy to lift. I let out a groan, then a cough, and try to sit up, but my core won’t function properly. I sprawl back on the floor, staring at a familiar ceiling.

I have just enough energy to turn my head to the side, and see that I’m in the middle of the circle. My arms are stretched out like wings, legs placed like the Vitruvian Man. The wind strikes my bare skin, making me tremble, but I don’t have the strength to shiver.

Tendrils of alarm still stunt my breathing. What if something went wrong during the ritual? What if I can’t move again?

A flush of energy comes before I really start to panic, and I manage to raise my shaky hand off of the floor. By now, I’ve gotten used to the smell, so my fingers go to my necklace instead of my nose, touching each corner of the octagon once and then again.

Inspired by the slight return of strength, I work to free the rest of my limbs, but the process is slow. Some time passes, and I’m unsure how long exactly, before I sit up.

Finally able to look around, I see that I’m alone. The fire has died to cinders, and I’ve smeared the chalk on my skin and clothes. I don’t care enough to wipe it off. It’s dark now outside now, and I wonder how much time has passed. Where has everyone gone? Why have they left me?

I know that if I try to stand, I’ll fall flat on my face, so I stay seated and continue taking deep breaths to catch up to the current moment.

Aris?

I don’t feel him, can’t hear or sense him; still, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that he’s gone. It would be just like him to play a nasty trick like this. I remember our good-byes and Aris explaining how the ritual would work, but it’s incomprehensible to think that he actually left.

I shut my eyes and try to concentrate. Slowing my breathing, I look within, searching for the curling mist.

There is… nothing.

Nothing in my head. Nothing in my joints or the folds of my brain.

The loss bites at me. But why? We are not friends; we were never friends. Friends don’t take control of one. Friends don’t allow or disallow or hurt each other.

But I’ve never been certain if Aris understood that. Whatever he is, it isn’t human; he is removed from our ways. Maybe he doesn’t know any better.

My eyes open, a few tears falling. I don’t know why I’m crying.

All I know is that I have to get out of here, but my legs still feel like jelly. Standing will result only in cracking my skull open; I’ve no doubt that my arms wouldn’t be strong or quick enough to catch myself if I fell.

Finally, I lay back down. I must fall asleep at some point because I jerk awake at the sound of heavy footsteps. With a groan, I have to imagine myself training with epic montage music in order to sit up again. It feels like I’ve done twelve thousand curls instead of one, and I’m panting when I turn my head, startled by the sight of Ryan.

He’s wearing the same clothes as earlier, though they’re a ruffled, like he’s been doing real workouts to real montage music. His stitched tracksuit tells me that it’s still the same day, though I doubt that he owns many outfits, and he towers above with his usual sour expression. He approaches the edge of the circle before abruptly stopping, his weight seeming to bend the floorboards and shift me slightly, like we’re on a trampoline.

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