Chapter Two

A Chapter by Lolua Lalise

Illusions

Tristan

This place was strange. He’d never been in such a place before. He couldn’t sleep, not matter how late it got, no matter how many of the other boys fell blissfully into slumber, he still lay awake. He kicked the duvet off himself and sat up. He looked about at the other beds, and noticed one boy who immediately clamped his eyes shut after catching Tristan’s eye. He sighed, but wasn’t surprised, he had always been treated strangely, his entire life. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pulled the duvet around his shoulders and stood up. His feet tensed as the touched down on the cold wooden floor and the little brass bed whined and creaked as he took his weight off it. He flicked his eyes about, to see if he’d woken any of the other boys from their sleeps. Tristan tiptoed across the room and into the little washroom at the end, where the boys washed their faces before going to bed. A large mirror balanced against the back of the wide porcelain sink. Cracks in the corners glittered in the candlelight, flickering away on the edge of the sink, someone had left it burning and the wax was nearly all gone, dribbling down the side, solidifying before it dripped off the bottom. Tristan stroked the soft, smooth cream of the wax, up and up, feeling it get stickier and warmer, he reached the top and left his finger hanging there next to the flame. Attracted to his finger, the flame licked and swayed about it. It wasn’t hot, it didn’t burn him. It was a pointless little flame. Tristan snapped his finger and thumb around it, it hissed against his skin and disappeared. Tristan stood in darkness. He watched the faint string of smoke spiral up into the air and dissolve into nothingness. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. White hair, the whitest you’d ever seen. His skin almost so. His big, haunting red eyes, glaring back at him through the glass. He noticed something, in his eyes, glinting from somewhere within. He brought his face, slowly, towards the mirror, until his nose and forehead rested against his cold, cold reflection. Looking into his own eyes, he was watching this thing, dancing somewhere deep. He was transfixed, it was beautiful, it was nothing, he was looking at nothing yet he could not pull away, he found he was smiling, grinning his face off, he’d never felt such happiness before, his chest tingled with joy as if he’d been laughing for hours. But then it was gone, something else was in its place, it sucked him in, dragged him down, down into icy depths, fathoms and fathoms from light. Twisting him, ripping at him, pulling away at his skin, ripping him to shreds in the endless waters. His mind was filled with his own agonised screams, he could feel his body burning from the inside out, his lungs were clenched and his throat was squeezed, a trickle of thick black blood was falling from his nose and over his lips. He was being pressed against the mirror unable to drag himself off, he pushed as hard as he could, yanked his head back, and flopped weakly onto the floor. His body was quivering uncontrollably and his breath was trembling and wheezy. He wiped the blood from his face and looked at it in horror. His screams were still echoing in his mind and his stomach churned. Tears rolled down his young cheeks, he tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling, his eyes not really focused, and he just sat there. Thinking. Remembering.

Daniel

Daniel, to everyone else, seemed to sleep peacefully that night. His body splayed across the bed, like he had been murdered, and his dreams kept him murmuring in his sleep. Dreams of an enchanted place, a beautiful place, filled with thick trees, their trunks wider than all the trees on the planet tied together with string, they stretched up, up into a sparkling blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, tiny specks fluttered through them in the distance, he flinched as the air suddenly became filled with butterflies, millions of them, dancing and bounding about him. The ménage of colours shocked his eyes, making him squint. Things changed. The butterflies, got faster. Faster and faster until their millions of bodies became one large black, humming cloud. He couldn’t see past them, they were scratching his skin with their sheer speed, millions upon millions of miniscule pinpricks all over his body. But then they stopped. Paused. Their big bright wings turned brown, they crumbled before him, their once luminous bodies were falling to the floor as dust. The trees had blackened, and the sky had turned grey, rain had fallen but had stopped, halfway down so a blanket of water was floating just above Daniel’s head. He reached up and touched the hovering liquid, which released it from its cage and it splashed over him, there seemed to be gallons and gallons of it. It didn’t stop. The area started to fill with water, past his ankles, past his knees. It swelled and swelled, he stretched on to his tiptoes trying to keep his mouth out of the water but it was still getting higher, he took one deep breath just as it passed his face. He tried to swim to the top, but there wasn’t one. He was swimming and swimming but to no avail, he could see beckoning sunlight beaming through, but he never got any closer no matter how hard he swam. He felt his lungs clenching. He needed to breathe. Instinctively he opened his mouth for air and his mouth filled with water, it tumbled into his lungs and he twisted and writhed, constantly trying to breathe, sucking in more and more of the water that choked him. His heart stopped. His body froze in its awkward position then relaxed and floated pointlessly. Blood trickled, from his thousands of tiny cuts, and swirled elegantly towards the surface. His eyes staring blankly into the flooded landscape, the leaves on the trees were swaying casually in the movement of water. He sank, slowly but surely, down and down into the never ending blackness below.

Father John

Father John lay comfortably on his bed, his legs crossed and one arm resting behind his head. His bible propped against his chest. He heard a clunk from beyond his bedroom door. It was far too late for anyone to be out of their rooms. He tutted under his breath as he plopped his bible on the pillow, swung his legs off the bed and walked to the door. Carefully he opened it, his door was a creaker and he didn’t want to wake anyone. But he stepped back. This was a completely different corridor. He stood for a few minutes trying to fathom a reason for this and something clunked again. His eyes flashed to the centre of the corridor, to stare into the blackness beyond. “Who’s there?” He called, his voice was croaky with dread. Music. Faint, but music. Drifted down the corridor, he swallowed and took a step out. Suddenly, the place was filled with light as huge flaming torches sprung into life on each wall, every foot there was another one, ginormous flames slamming against the hard rock walls. The music was louder now, and he could hear laughter. He walked forward, further and further until the corridor opened out into a grand ballroom. Walls littered with carvings of gold, intricate details had been lovingly painted onto the perfectly white wooden panels. People, millions of people, adorned with jewels and with gloriously bright gowns and suits embedded with crystals and diamonds, danced methodically around the room, their faces covered with elaborate masks. They took him by the hand and let him to the centre of the throng, they carried on dancing. He couldn’t get out, every time he tried to move another dancer got in his way. There were so many of them, more every second that passed. The music got louder and louder and louder still, his ears rang and his brain was in agony, he felt blood seeping out of his ears. He clamped his hands over them and screamed as loud as he could. The music stopped. He wobbled on his feet at the shock of the sudden change. The people were staring at him. They started screaming too. Father John’s mouth dropped open as their skin was turning to liquid, their bones, their insides. From the head down they melted, their bloodcurdling screams echoing in Father John’s head. They grabbed at his feet, begging for his help. He kicked them off and started running towards the corridor. All the torches fizzled out and left him in total darkness, his shoes were splashing as he ran, his stomach churned at the thought of what that was. The liquidated people screamed and howled in agony. He ran down the corridor, his arms outstretched into the darkness, they were following him, in their liquid forms. He slammed against the end of the corridor but no longer was his door there. He clawed at the wall, so viciously his nails broke far enough to bleed. He could hear the surge of molten people just behind him. He turned to face the darkness and as it got closer and closer he dropped to the floor. He clasped his hands together, screaming one last prayer as they engulfed him.

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