Page 42 of The Broken Places

“Well, regardless, Internal is taking this extremely seriously. They want you at their offices right away. And Lennon, I’m sorry, but you’ll need to turn in your gun and badge.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

—Kahlil Gibran

Seventeen Years Ago

Patient Number 0022

The sun grew dim, the warmth abated, but still Jett walked, following that elegant bird as it dipped and rose, its head turning now and again to make sure he wasn’t lost.

Don’t be afraid,it told him, speaking in some way he didn’t know how to explain, delivering messages straight into his head.

The scent of pine increased, and then something else met his nose, mixed with the smells of the earth and the air. Animals.

Sheep. Pigs. Goats.

He moaned and gripped his head as acid fear rained down, penetrating his skin and melting his bones.

Feathers.He felt feathers on his cheek, ruffling over his neck, and he gasped, turning slightly to see the dove sitting on his shoulder. The dove let out a cooing sound, tilting her head and rubbing it on Jett’sjaw.Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Thud, thud, thud.His hammering heart slowed; air filled his hollow lungs.

Feel your feet on the ground. Feel the air on your skin. Feel the beating of your heart within your chest.

The dove flapped her wings, and he felt the press of her feet as she pushed off his shoulder and flew into the air, swooping and soaring. Free.

Come with me.

I don’t want to.

But you must. If you want to be free like me, you must. Your story is here, and we’re going to find it. Together.

I don’t want to find it. It’s not a good story.

Even bad stories must be told. Especially those.

Why?

Because once it’s over, a story is only something with a beginning and a middle and also an end. You’ll see it as a whole, and there will be no need to live it anymore.

But he wasn’t living it, was he? How could he be, when the memories of it only came in punching flashes of red light and shrieking pain? Jett watched his dove fly for a moment, flapping and gliding, soaring, above and away. The forest around him dimmed, and he knew the beginning of his story was up ahead, the one he didn’t know but couldn’t forget. He had no desire to find it, but he also didn’t want his dove—his guide—to leave him behind.

A child darted from behind a tree, startling him so that he leaped back. The little boy was laughing, and his laughter both echoed sharply and was somehow muffled, as if two separate times had collided right in front of him. The boy was here, and he was there, or maybe the other way around. The boy didn’t turn his head, so Jett couldn’t see his face before he disappeared behind a different tree on the opposite side of the path.

Follow.

I don’t want to.

Follow.

Jett lifted his foot. It felt like it was stuck in quicksand. But he put it in front of him and then lifted the other, moving forward into that dark wood where the little boy had run.

The animal smells came again. But still he clomped forward, his guide never flying out of sight, only dipping and rising and soaring so that he could keep his eyes on her as she led the way.

A farm.He’d come from a farm, and though he’d vowed never to return, he was returning there now. A feeling rose inside him, a prickly mass that was flavored with salt and acid. It tasted like his tears and his pain, and it felt like a boulder that might crush his inner organs into a bloody, soupy mess.

When he wept, he felt her feathers on his cheek.Back, forth, back, forth.And he felt his feet on the ground and the beating of his heart. And then he continued on because there was nowhere else to go.

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