Some Quiet Place (3 page)

Of course, these paintings explain nothing. They only raise more of the questions that I don’t know the answers to. Who are these people? Who lived in the house? Is it real? Why do I dream of it? Common sense urges me to let it all go, but instinct orders me to solve this mystery.

Tonight there are more images crowding around inside my head. The nothingness holds fast, though, a firm lock to the door that I’m trying to open. Over and over again, I see the shadow, the trees, the girl’s open mouth and the silent scream.

You will forget everything.

It pops into my head, random and fresh. I sit up straighter from my perch in the barn window. This memory is new. The voice is unfamiliar—no way to tell whether it’s male or female—but my intuition tells me I should know it. I reach out and grasp the sentence, tightening my hold, remembering it over and over again, trying, trying to place it. This might prove that there is outside involvement. Someone has done something to me, made me to be the way I am.
You will forget everything.

Not everything,
I think. There are holes in the wall, this I know. Where else would the dreams be coming from?

I look at all the angles, as I have so many times before. I have the ability to see the unseen. All these dreams, the nothingness—

“Elizabeth.”

At the sound of the familiar voice, I turn. Fear stands in a dark corner, looking at me, one side of his mouth tipped up in a mischievous smile. I study him, blinking. I hadn’t sensed him coming. “You don’t usually come to see me this often,” I say after a pause. “You found something.”

A breeze drifts in through the open window, and Fear’s white-blond hair ripples. Unaware, he raises his brows at me. “Something has happened here, I think. You looked like you were on a different planet when I came in. What is it, hmmm? Did
you
find something tucked away in that pretty head of yours?”

He’s never seen my paintings before, and though I don’t look at them, Fear glances away from my face and notices. He makes a sound of interest, striding from one to the next, doubtless memorizing them as clues to the mystery that is me. “You’ve never told me about your … hobby before.” He lingers in front of one, arms folded behind his back. He tilts his head, and that silky hair brushes against his jaw. “Your style is sloppy; there’s no way of knowing who the girl is. All I can make out is her teeth and her dark hair.” He reaches out and touches the curve of the girl’s cheek in one painting. Phantom fingers brush my real cheek as he does so.

“Stop it,” I say.

“Or what?” He spins to face me. “You don’t care.” When I don’t reply, he sobers. “Tell me.”

I shake my head. “You don’t need to know.”

He steps closer. I feel the air around us cool, and his essence clashes against me. When yet again I remain stoic, Fear sighs. I look up at him from where I sit.

“It’s not boredom, or just the need to know,” he informs me, eyes glittering. “I pity you, Elizabeth, and I want to help you.”

Now I stand, and it brings me so close to him that our chests are almost touching. My wall of nothingness quivers at the proximity. It’s an odd sensation. I just arch my neck back to meet his earnest gaze. “You don’t pity me,” I tell Fear. “You don’t want to help me. You want to help yourself.”

A scowl twists his beautiful face. He clenches his fists, checks himself, and forces himself to unclench them. A moment later his impish smile has returned. But under
neath the charming façade his intent still lurks. “You do puzzle me, Elizabeth the Numb.”

I turn my attention from him to the paintings. Shadows slant over them now as night sneaks in. “Whatever you think you found, Fear, is nothing. If someone did do this to me, they made sure that the trail to them would never be uncovered.”

“Ah.” He lifts a finger. “But that’s not true. I found this.” He reaches into his black overcoat and takes out a newspaper, yellowed with age. He hides its contents.

“What is it?” I ask, just as he wants me to.

Fear unfolds the paper, mocking me as he pretends to read it. I don’t play the game by reaching for it. He sighs, relenting, and holds it out to me. “Oh, very well. Since you want it so badly.”

I take it with both hands, noting my own picture on the front page. I’m about three or four—it’s one of the pictures Mom has framed in our living room. It’s the girl that I don’t recognize as myself; her face glows with that inner life.
Girl Survives Car Accident
, the headline reads. But as I start to scan the words—I’m barely past the second sentence—the entire article fades away, the letters, the picture, everything, until I’m holding nothing but a blank paper.

“What is it?” Fear frowns when I hand it back to him. He takes in the empty page, brow furrowed in thought. “The plot thickens,” he murmurs. “But now we know that there
is
someone behind this. Your immunity really could be a power of some sort in play.”

“And how do you propose we find out?” I ask, sitting back down and looking out the window again. The hay pokes at the bottoms of my thighs. “I’m starting to think whatever happened to me was meant to make me forget something. I don’t think it’s just emotions that have been removed from me—there are memories missing, too.” If that’s what the dreams are. But are they my memories? Or … someone else’s? And why can’t I remember when this change in me occurred?

I turn to face Fear again and see his gaze sharpen. “Maybe they did this to you to hide something. You could’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to … ”

The sun has finally left, and the moon’s faint outline begins to emerge from the other side of the sky. “Maybe,” I say.

Before I can ask him about what the rest of the article contained, Fear tucks the blank newspaper back into his coat and bends down to me. “You’re so distracting; I’ve lingered here too long. See you soon, Elizabeth,” he whispers. His lips touch my ear and his arctic breath fans my face. It smells distinctly of strawberries.

The Emotion vanishes, and an instant later a man jumps from the shadows of the loft with a long knife, making as if to stab me in the stomach. He’s wearing all black and his face is swathed in a ski mask. When I only stare at him, making no sound of alarm, the attacker disappears right when the blade is about to go into me.

“Fear?” I call.

“Just checking,” he chuckles, his voice coming from the night sky.

Four

“You did this.”

A whisper in my ear. The words are a hiss, meaningless to my groggy mind. But the strong sense of someone watching drives me completely awake. Fear? My eyes open to darkness and take a moment to adjust. The black becomes solid shapes. Dresser, mirror, chair. I’m alone; there’s nothing but the furniture and the night. Yet there’s a hint of power in the air. I sit up, frowning. It’s raining outside, a light smattering against the glass of the window. It casts quivering shadows over everything. Something isn’t right.

“You did this.”

I turn. The voice comes from my left. Young, soft. I make out a human shape, standing in the dim corner, that wasn’t there before. Slender. Not an Emotion, my senses tell me. Something else. “Who are you?” I ask. Thunder rumbles.

The strange visitor doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. For what seems like hours we both remain frozen. Questions linger on the tip of my tongue. The storm intensifies, and a flash of lightning illuminates the room. And I’m able to make out his features.

It’s impossible.

It’s wrong.

When he continues to stare back at me with accusation in those familiar eyes, there are no plausible explanations. Because it’s him. The boy who stars in all my paintings. The boy who never moves, never changes, never speaks. The one who the beautiful girl screams over with such anguish.

“You’re dead,” I tell him, clutching my blankets. Can’t be, instinct keeps insisting. This is another one of Fear’s games. Another illusion. My wall of nothingness stirs. I imagine a brick cracking, pieces of rubble showering down.

The boy doesn’t acknowledge this. Now that the lightning has subsided, he’s shrouded in oblivion again. For an instant I wonder if he’s gone—disappeared back to the recesses of my mind—but then his voice emerges, drifts to me again: “You killed me,” he whispers.

The storm bursts one more time, and I see that a stream of blood has slipped out from beneath his hairline to run down one side of his face.

My eyes fly open and I jerk upright, twisting instantly toward the corner where I know the boy won’t be.

Because it was just a dream.

No whispers, no blood, nothing but the realities of this world.

How strange.

The rain is gentle outside, not as portentous as it was moments ago. Oblivious to my plight, the millions of drops fall to the earth with a symphony of wet sounds. I shove my blankets to the floor.
Hot, too hot in here
. I lie back again and invite sleep to return.

I’ve known Joshua Hayes since we were small children, placed in the same kindergarten class. We’ve never been friends, exactly, but we’re always aware of each other. Once in the fifth grade, when a group of boys gathered together and tried to make me cry by pinching my arms over and over, Joshua defended me, landing in detention with even more bruises than I had.

It wasn’t until the beginning of high school that his feelings began to change. He watches me as if he sees more than what there is. He probably takes my silence as deep contemplation, takes my endurance of Sophia’s vicious treatment as patience, sees my solitary state as a choice to stand apart from the others. Though he’s right in his belief that I’m different from everyone else, he’s wrong about the reason for this. I’m not special or an independent thinker. Yet I’ve never bothered to correct him in his beliefs because he’s never approached me.

But he wants to. I see his desire growing each day, notice how the Emotions’ visits to him at school are becoming more frequent. I watch and wait, knowing I’ll have to put this fire out someday soon.

“I’m going to let you choose your partners for our first project,” Mrs. Farmer says early Monday morning, toward the end of class. She tiredly brushes her hair out of her eyes.

“What’s the project?” one of my classmates asks. Susie Yank, the tiny girl everyone has labeled
nerdy
and
know-it-all
. She’s really just lonely, taking solace in knowledge rather than drowning in her friendless existence. I see Longing standing beside her, touching Susie’s shoulder as the girl glances at Sophia, probably imagining what it would be like to be her best friend. Longing is a beautiful Emotion, with long sleek hair and slanted, exotic eyes.

Mrs. Farmer sighs. “I was getting to that. Your job, along with your partner’s, is to make a portfolio of your own work. We’re going to focus on creative writing for a while and take a break from the classics. I’ve given you partners because I know some of you struggle with writing. So you can help each other and feed off of each other’s ideas.”

“What does the portfolio—”

“Your portfolio”—Mrs. Farmer glares at Susie—“needs to have two poems and one short story, along with two peer reviews. This handout will have the details on what the reviews need to contain, as well as the specifics on the poems and story.”

As she begins to distribute the assignment, I feel Joshua’s gaze on me. I see that Longing has duplicated herself so she is also standing next to him—it’s how the Emotions answer so many summons. It seems that Longing is fickle today; instead of touching Joshua’s shoulder, she leans down and presses a long kiss onto his lips. Joshua can’t see her, of course, but humans have instincts just like the rest of the living creatures of the world and he turns away from me, frowning, touching his mouth. He’ll dismiss the sensation as nothing. Longing looks at me and winks.

“Poor baby,” she croons to Joshua, addressing me. “You torment him so, dear. Why not give him a chance? I bet he’s
delicious
.”

I don’t respond. Longing pats Joshua’s cheek, grins at me one more time, and disappears. She’s also left Susie, so there are no other Emotions in the room at the moment. Only their influence.

“
Zombie
.” Sophia holds the handout in front of my face. She waves back and forth, fanning my face. “Hello, anyone in there?” I reach to take it from her, but Sophia jerks it away from my grasp, disgust etched in the lines of her face. “You’re such a freak,” she snaps. “What’s wrong with you? Huh?
Answer me
.”

“Nothing I say will satisfy you,” I say, glancing at Mrs. Farmer, who’s staring at the clock now. Her glasses are crooked on her nose. I look at Sophia again. “Can I have the paper, please?” I know it’s fruitless, but I try because it’s what she expects, and what the kids around me listening expect. Sophia waves it in my face again.

“What are you going to do?” she hisses. “Try to take it from me. Come on, Elizabeth. Take it from me.”

She holds it in front of my nose again, prepared to snatch it away. I don’t move as I calculate. Mrs. Farmer hasn’t noticed us yet, but if I defend myself it could get me in trouble with the office, and thus in trouble with Tim.
Sophia laughs at me, and a couple other kids do too, thinking I’m frozen because of Fear. But for once, he’s far from here.

“
I’ll
take it from you.” Joshua moves so quickly that Sophia doesn’t realize that the paper has slipped from her fingers until it’s too late. She glares up at Joshua.

“N-nobody asked you to get involved,” she says to him, her narrow face pinched with fury. She wants him to like her so badly, but she can’t bring herself to be kind to me.

Joshua grins, a lazy, insolent curve of the lips. “’Course nobody asked. That’s what makes it fun.” He gives me the assignment, his eyes saying more than his words ever could. Joy and Courage stand by him, both touching his shoulders. Joshua’s face is a mask of mischief, but the presence of the Emotions shows me the truth.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Sophia has turned around in her seat, but her stiff shoulders and Anger beside her are hints of future pain I can look forward to. Anger ignores my presence—he’s never liked me, for some reason.

Mrs. Farmer has begun to talk again, so I pretend to pay attention to her.

“You’re welcome,” I hear Joshua say, which pulls my eyes back to him. Playing the part of the casual troublemaker, he grins at me, touches his temple as if to tip an invisible hat, and goes back to his desk. Joy has gone, but I know she’s still with him from the spring in his step. Courage stays by me—one of the few Emotions I haven’t met. I don’t know how I recognize him, but I do.

The bell rings and suddenly the classroom is alive. Kids shoot to their feet and speed-walk to the door like their lives depend on it. Joshua gives me a last, lingering look as he leaves. “Make sure to pick your partners by tomorrow!” Mrs. Farmer raises her voice to be heard. She’s following the throng into the hallway. Pretty soon I’m alone with Courage, who remains even though everyone is gone.

I stand and gather my books. “You’re not as beautiful as your opposite,” I inform him. “But you’re not so restless.”

Courage—brother and eternal enemy of Fear—looks down at me. He has a long nose, noble-looking, and his hair lodges against the back of his neck in tight black curls. “Of course not. I’m everything he isn’t.”

It’s true. As dark as his brother is pale, Courage studies me. He’s a formidable presence in the small, insignificant classroom. “You’re an interesting one,” he states, and there is a note of curiosity in his voice. “I had heard the stories of a mortal that we’re unable to touch, but I hadn’t given them much thought. Truly interesting. I can see why Fear is so captivated.”

“He hates what he can’t understand,” I say.

Courage takes this in with a thoughtful expression. “You are very young to know so much. And knowledge in our world is dangerous. Remember that.”

“You would encourage ignorance, then?” My tone is polite. His answer could be beneficial; it may aid in my survival.

The Emotion tilts his head, obviously distracted. Someone in the world is in need of a touch of bravery, no doubt. His body twitches and shimmers just the tiniest bit, an indication that he’s answering the summons by sending another copy of himself to the source. “What is that phrase you humans use?” he murmurs after a moment, focusing on me again. “Ah. Ignorance is bliss. Yes?”

Any second now he’ll vanish. I release him from the discussion by saying, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When Courage doesn’t move, I add, “Was there something else?”

He stands so close to me that I feel his heat, and it’s an unusual sensation because Fear is so cold. Courage’s voice is the slow smolder of lava as he tells me, “You should be kind to the boy who defended you.”

“The other plane doesn’t usually worry about human affairs,” I observe.

Courage walks away. He’s different from others; he’s not flashy and quick to disappear. In the doorway he pauses, but he doesn’t look at me again. “The other plane is changing. We’re learning more about what it means to be mortal. Be kind to him,” the Emotion repeats. “There is more than one among us who watches you; someone believes you will need that boy in the end.”

Before I can ask any of the questions that this new development brings—
the end of what? Who watches? Why would I need Joshua?
—he leaves. I let him go. After all, even if he is different, he’s still an Emotion, and they do love their riddles.