It Echoes

A Story by Kati Mosteller

A burned solder suffering from PTSD must piece together the events that led him to his current situation. He struggles with facing his demons and coming to terms with his actions

Part 1:

Fire reminds me of you. No matter how much I wash and scrub and wring my hands, I can still smell it on my skin…

I spun around, desperate for a way out. My fingers were clenched so tightly around that small axe I couldn’t feel them anymore. Could barely feel anything. The smoke hit my lungs, thick and chemical. I was coughing. Choking. I saw the flames coming for us through tears muddied by ash. They took everything. Everything, Fire and Brimstone.

The smoke still hangs in my throat, even though they tell me nothing is burning. They tell me I’m fine now. That I’m safe. I don’t believe them. The smoke is still there, the same way these walls are still white and windowless. They tell me they’re helping. Maybe they think they are. I don’t believe them.

Ice tries to roll out the finger-like slits that cling to the ceiling, tauntingly soothing compared to the fire that traces its tendrils over my skin until my body prickles and blisters from the feverish heat that courses through my veins and beats against my heart with such fervor that blood rings in my ears. I feel nothing else. Not the coarse threads I see fluttering over my bared scars, nor the steel bonds that have been wrapped around my ankles. Not even were they have chafed my skin raw and red.

I try to get up, to walk out of this madness, to clear my head by pacing the room and tracing the small circles I should have already worn into the floor. This room is enough to bring out the fire in anybody. White walls. Nothingness. A fall into oblivion. The only thing that I can cling to for hope of release is the hairline crack where the door will appear. No handle, no lock. And not even cracked enough to break. It only every gets wider when the room permits another to enter and that same other leave. Never me though. I am never given such a change. I heard something about a fire.

My feet swing over the side of the bed. The steel links clatter softly in protest. Never given such a chance. As they have done so many times before, my feet brush across the metal bed frame, moving on their own accord. They touch the cold tile floor. It bites back.

When it does, fire shoots up my legs, insulted and indignant at such an intrusion. The bonds tighten their hold, and pan dances in red-white spots across my vision.

Children screamed with the dying men. Fire danced across the fields that had been drowned in iron and mortality. The colors of death and dying and war were more vivid now than they ever could have been in life. You… You were there, lurking in the shadows same as me. Separate from the dying, from the soldiers, from the screams. Not separate enough…

My hands rise to my face. Fingers claw at my hair while I writhe in pain and panic, trying desperately to shake off an enemy I cannot fight. Cannot even face. My feet give in first. Maybe they’ve already been burned away. The cold tile floor slams bitingly into my knees. I melt away. Children scream.

My mind is throbbing, burning through every dark secret and unknown trail. Don’t scream, Fire and Brimstone, don’t scream. When I close my eyes, I can see chemical flames reaching high into an autumn sky, crackling in cruel laughing. Even when I open them the fire remains. Not matter how much I shake my head and claw at my eyes, flames dance across those cold, white walls. No matter how much I was and scrub and wring my hands, I can still smell them on my skin. I has found me even here among ice and solitude. Or even because of it.

Flames slither off the walls. Heat snaps at my heels. Steel bonds cry and sizzle around my ankles. I rip at them, not that it will do any good. My legs are gone, long burned away. Black ash walls crumble before my eyes, but still, somehow, the room constricts around me. Closer… closer… closer. Flames almost have me in their grasp. I wait for the scream that will come when they do. Don’t scream. Don’t. Writhe. Rip. Thrash. Burn. Everything fire and brimstone.

Silence.

Breathe in. Buh-bum. Breathe out. Buh-bum. Breathe in. Hold. Silence.

The blast of air hits me hard as the flames draw back. I open my eyes and everything is white again. Cold.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Buh-bum. Buh-bum.

I blink. Twice. Still white. Still cold. My heart races even as I try to rein it in. Sweat drips down my brow even though the flames have gone. I can still feel them watching me. But nothing is burned away. Here I am, still existing. Still existing. Not living. Alive. Kept alive. Trapped in a living Hell. Kept there.

Sweat drips down my brow. They’re still watching. Closer… closer… Flames rise.

I spun around. My fingers were clenched so tightly around that small axe, I couldn’t feel them anymore. Could barely feel anything. The smoke hit my lungs, thick and chemical. I was coughing. Choking. I saw the flames coming for us through tears muddied by ask. I saw them getting closer. I saw golden curls and smoke. Golden curls and smoke… Dark golden curls that were singed and frizzed by the heat. I was coughing. Choking. You…you were there, Fire and Brimstone. Your gold-red eyes were watering too, and the tears drew scars down your sooty cheeks. You… I clenched the axe harder and swung it into a nearby wall. The smoldering wood melted away. You.

The still of the air is broken. Flames flicker uncertainly. Distracted. Called away. It doesn’t matter. Does it? The hairline crack in the wall widens into a door.

A metal tray pokes its nose through first. It's always the braver one. Metal plates ride on its back, dragging her behind them. Always her. The same girl every morning and every night. She's pretty, in a cold sort of way, and young, but the cold could have given her that too. Frozen. There's no fire in her. Just like everything else in this room. No fire. At least that's what they tell me - that it's gone. Maybe they think it is. I don't believe them.

The crack closes again. Now she's part of the room as well. Acknowledging that makes my head pound more. Footsteps echo on the ice. It's going to crack. Too much movement. She needs to be careful. The ice… It's going to crack.

Our eyes meet. They were green yesterday. Gray today. How strange I must look to her, balled up on the floor, but doesn't she know? It's better to stay still.

She puts the tray down on the bed. Long fingers uncover one of the small, metal bowls. White scars lace their way over her knuckles. I have white scars too. One of her patterns looks like a tree branch. No It's too fine. An olive branch. One I've seen before…

The olive branch hand held the needle that pulled the thread through bloody skin. It worked quickly, so quickly I didn't feel the pricks on my arm. There was blood on the hand. Her hand. Little red flecks on the leaves of the olive branch. She still went about her work, deftly tying knots. Long fingers, gray eyes. The light faded, the sun chafed direction, and her fingers now untied those knots. Green today. The threads were gone, but I could see the line they had hidden. A white scar, straight as the blade that made it.

My scar. It's fainter now. My thumb runs over it. I don't know why. It won't rub off.

"Wait."

The word cuts through the room. I flinch at the sound. Her lips hadn't moved though. My voice? It has to be. I don't remember it sounding so coarse.

Gray eyes dance around my face. Confusion. As well as something that looks like fear. Everyone fears me here. Everyone? That's what I've heard. Even the room. That's why it's white and cold. Careful. It's going to crack.

Long fingers wrapped themselves around the plunger of the syringe. The needle on it pierced a vein. It hurt. I tried to pull away but my arm caught on something. I couldn't move. "It's ok." Her lips had moved. She pushed the plunger down slowly. Fire burned up my veins. I was shaking. So bad. Couldn't stop.

"Alysia."

I don't know where that word came from, but it sounds right. She looks at me strangely this time. The slightest of smiles tugs at the corner of her mouth as she reached into the small metal bowl. She pulls out little blue pills. Little blue ones for the morning. Little red ones at night. Or maybe it's the other way around. Fire is still tingling in my veins.

She holds the pills out to me. Her lips move, but I don't hear the words. Careful. She's careful not to get too close.

"No." It's going to crack.

She steps towards me. No. The muscles in my body tighten. Careful. Another footstep falls. No. No no no no. No more. A third step.

Fire burns up my veins before I can stop it. It rears up and its talons blur my vision, tinting everything with red and black and gold. It breathes its hateful life back into my legs, and with the speed and ferocity that has so long been bred into me, I sweep the tray up off the bed. It turns molten in my hands, burning with rage and blood lust. I slam it into the face of pretty, cold Alysia. The fear registers in her eyes too late. I drink it in. That power. I want it. More of it. No, not me - the fire.

She falls backwards and lands on the cold, white tile. Blood drips down her cheek from the slash below her eye as she inches her way across the floor, trying to find cover behind the hairline crack. The bone underneath is already swelling. The stench of iron and mortality fills the room. I need it. No, not me - the fire. Take this from me. I don't stop.

I throw the tray at her and it strikes her temple with a dull clang. No more inching. She lies on the floor, unmoving. Her chest still rises up and down. Blood still drips. I drink it in.

You can hunt and kill and destroy all you want…

I freeze. Smoke hangs in my throat.

Let me know when you win…

I spin around. Nothing there. The words still echo in my mind. The air hisses behind me as I hear the door appear. I'm too busy frantically searching through the smoke to care. The cold air can wait. You cannot win…

Ice bites into my arm and spreads. I look down to see the dart in my skin. Alysia is no longer at my feet. She must've gotten lost in the smoke. The fire doesn't have time to react before the cold white floor slams into my face. My legs must've been burned away.

You cannot win…

It echoes. Then nothing. Silence. White, cold silence. A puppet in the middle of a cruel game. Not the fire - me.

Part 2:

Lights flicker above me. It takes me a moment to realize its not the lights, but my own eyes. I blink quickly a few more times. White. White tiles with dark pinpoint holes in them, like the night sky inverted. I can hear my lungs fill with air, hear it rush out again. Something mechanical about it. Death is supposed to be easy. They're not supposed to bring you back.

Can't they just let me go? Their blood is on my hands, and still they can't just let me go. Their fire. I burn. Let me go to what I deserve. Because I do deserve it, don't I, Fire and Brimstone? You… Smoke. Choking. White walls, white tiles, cold air. I don't remember those things closing in around me.

My heart beats underneath my jaw. I can feel it jumping. Something beeps with it. I somehow manage to focus my eyes on the little green line beside me. It matches the jumps. Something mechanical about it. Watching it steadies me. Even the ashes that dance like little lost souls in my peripheral seem to find their rhythm. Breathe in. Beep. Breathe out. Beep beep. I want to fall away into it.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Too much movement. My focus finds the bag behind the monitor. Drip. Drip. Something clear drops into the cord. Drip. I shouldn't be able to, but I hear each drop fall. Drip. Drip. Drip. It echoes.

Drops fell. Slowly at first, then sporadically, then slowly again. No rhythm. Drip. I watched it fall and land somewhere between my eyes. Drip. Drip. Drip. The droplets changed from water to the fire than burned in the back of my mind. The screams of mad men still rang in my ears. Water would drop and pause. Breathe in. Wait. Breathe out. Don't scream. Blink, but never look away. Drip. Drip. Drip. Water would fall again. And again. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Deep waves of water ran across my face. The cloth pressed into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. Darkness held me immobile. The sounds of thrashing bodies and breaking bones had flowed out the door until there was only rushing water and a slowing heartbeat. The murmurs in the room had long faded away. Water would flow and pause. Breathe. Wait. Someone would yell. Fall away. Water would flow again…

I follow the droplet into the cord, follow the cord down the monitor to where it meets my arm. A steady flow. I try to pull away from it. I can't.

Whispers drift through the walls. Real whispers that rise in volume.

"Are you sure that she made no sudden movement?" The deep voice broke pitch in the middle of the question. Not at the end. Something familiar.

"He snapped, sir," another male voice answered, this one heavy with hushed conviction, "Another moment and she would have been dead, I have no doubt. He's dangerous. Was it even worth retrieving him?"

"We need him. You know the others didn't take well."

"Sir, he's a liability like this. We should've store enough samples to last and then put him down that night."

"I need him alive." Deep voice. Assertive. Something familiar. "Especially with his sister gone. It's working in him, and I need to isolate why."

"That's what working looks like?"

The murmurs continue even though I barely register them now. Drip. Drip. Drip. I swear I can feel each drop fall now too.

"We can't use that. We can't release him." Hushed conviction. "He can't even remember who he is."

Drip. Drip. The beeping jumps all of a sudden. Out of rhythm.

Blood ran over my unfeeling hands. Pleas I couldn't understand bounced around the room. Even if I had they would've fallen on deaf ears…

"He's in shock. It was working." Something familiar. I try to reach through the smoke. "We can bring his mind back."

They dragged drugged and shackled monsters past us. Their bodies were still convulsing. Don't scream, Fire and Brimstone, don't scream.

"So he can remember why he ran the first time?" The betrayal. Something familiar. Dev. The voice is Dev's.

People scattered before us. Guards shot, the slower ones fell. We made it out. Now I'm back. And you… Go. You. No…

Voices fade away. The screams don't. Bullets still ricochet off the walls. They tell me I'm fine now. I don't believe them. My fingertips tingle, lightly at first and than sharper than needle pricks. My pulse jumps underneath my jaw. The beeps come faster now.

I feel the cord. I feel my fingers wrap around it. Go. Icicles get pulled out of my veins. Fire surfaces. Go. The cord falls away. Drip. Drip. Drip. They fall to the floor as more wires are pulled from my body. The hands don't look like mine. Maybe they are.

She was fire. You were fire… Crumbling in a rain of cinders and ash and golden flames. Skin already smoking… Don't scream… All for you.

I drop to my knees, breathing harder than I should be as beads of sweat trace down my temples. I don't remember falling off the bed. You can't beat them at their own game… Steel links don't clatter softly in protest when I move. You cannot win… They're going to win anyway. I see golden eyes, clearly now, without the smoke. Take care, little brother. Let me know when you win.

I make myself put one foot in front of the other until I can support myself against a white countertop. It's warm underneath my hands.

Part 3:

Alarms scream around me. Blood covers my hand, warm and stinging. Both things happened at the same time. I remember running my hand through the glass in the door. That door had a handle. It was locked on the inside. Not the outside. I ran my hand through the part that was glass. Alarms started screaming. Blood started dripping down my hand.

I can’t run. Not yet. The wall helps me walk though. As long as I keep a hand on it. I’m painting a trail of red down the white wall. From the blood. This hand needs to steady me. The other is holding a scalpel. I found that in the room. I guess. I don’t remember finding it, but I’m holding it. Where else could I have gotten it? I don’t mind the blood. The alarms are following me anyway. The blood can follow too. Go.

Footsteps. Yelling. More footsteps. They echo on the tiles behind me. I hide the thin metal blade in between my fingers. The wall steps away. More footsteps. They echo louder now. I turn around, crouching down. I wait. I can’t run. Not yet.

Smoke hangs in my throat. Something’s burning. She was fire. You were there, Fire and Brimstone. Especially now with his sister gone. You were there. Especially now. Fire and Brimstone… You…

Ophelia.

The smoke hit my lungs, thick and chemical. I coughed, and as I did, saw Ophelia doubled over, doing the same. Her dark golden curls were singed and frizzed by the heat. Her golden-red eyes were watering. The tears drew streaks down her soot-covered cheeks. I clenched the axe harder and swung it into a nearby wall. The smoldering wood melted away as I carved out a gap large enough for us to slip through.

Grabbing Ophelia’s arm, I pushed her through - pushed her through as I had been doing for the past few months. Her eyes were so diluted. So dead. She stumbled through unresistingly. Too unresistingly. Not here. Don’t do this here.

I pushed her into the next room just in time for chunks of burning wood and tile to come crashing down behind us, landing right where we had just stood. On the opposite side, I could just make out a door through the smoke.

“Come on.” I brushed past her. “This way.” Reaching the door, I ripped the blistering metal knob away from the hook of the axe and then used it to pull the door open. “Come on,” I insisted, “We have to go.”

She stared back at me with an eerie calmness that speared ice through my fiery heart. Slowly, she shook her head. “No.”

That one word stopped time for a moment. It stopped the flames from burning, the ash from falling. At least in that moment. “Ophelia?”

“No,” she said, her eyes much clearer than I had seen them in a long time. “No. I’m done with running.” She paused to catch her breath, exasperated from the smoke and raw emotion, before she yelled at me, “I’m done with being stuck on their wheel!”

I tried to reach out for her, to change her mind. As if my touch could do that. “I’m not leaving you here. We can make it out.”

“And then what?” she snapped back at me, lashing out at me for things I had never done to her. “We keep cowering under rocks until we grow old? Keep acting like pawns and prey until we eventually die?” I started to say something - anything to make her see - but she cut me off, “Don’t try to make this better, Jason. You can’t. You can hurt and kill and destroy all you want - and you have! We both have! But it’s never going to change anything. You can’t beat them at their own game. You cannot win!”

“Get out of here with me, and we’ll find a way. We will. We’ll go farther north… Get out of here entirely.” I was talking quickly, desperately. Anything to stop this madness.

“Ha. North.” The laugh was cruel and cold. “We destroyed that. Don’t you remember?” Her eyes became crazed and even crueler. “It’s all ashes and fire just like everything else.” She held her arms out to the room around us and tried to laugh. The ashes choked her before she could.

“Please, Ophelia.” Smoke tightened around my throat. “Please come with me.”

“No. I’m done.” She would no longer care about anything I had to say. Her mind was concrete. Unyielding. Sealed off from the flames that were licking at our heels. “This ends now.”

No. No no no no.

Footsteps. Yelling. More footsteps. They echo on the tiles behind me. Your fault. My fault. I feel the thin metal blade tucked away between my fingers. The balls of my feet roll in anticipation underneath my weight. More footsteps. Three guards round the corner. Their guns are too long, too strangely shaped. These are not for blood. Their bullets hold the nothingness. Their mistake. They should know better. I look at the tiles.

“There’s no way out for you.”

Then there’s not one for them either. They should know better. I don’t move. The metal is warm against my palm. I wait. The speckles on the tile look like ash.

“This ends now.”

No. Everything I had done, did not prepare me for this. “You’re just giving them what they want that way. You’re letting them win!”

“They’re going to win anyway, little brother.”

“Ophelia, no.” I grabbed her arm. I couldn’t let her go. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” she snarled, and with lightening quick force, she struck down on my wrist. My grip broke. She twisted herself and my arms around my back and pushed me out the doorway. I spun back just in time to have wood and embers slam in front of my face. I heard her jam something against the other side.

“Ophelia!” I lashed out at the door with the axe until I made a hole. I saw her staring back at me, eerily calm.

“Take care, Jason.” She smiled both sweetly and sardonically at the same time. “Let me know when you win.”

The guard at the front approaches slowly. Careful. I don’t move. Don’t resist. Breathe in. The metal is warm against palm. Breathe out. The toe of a boot steps on the ashes before me. I let the edge of the scalpel drop out from behind my fingers as I leap up. His useless gun goes off in surprise. The dart goes somewhere useless as well. I drive the blade up underneath his jaw. When his lips part, I can just barely see the glint of metal in the back of his throat. Blood and breath gurgled together. More shots. Useless. They can’t hit me behind him.

I push the body into the other guard. Only the other guard. I thought I saw three. He stumbles sideways. My hands close around the useless gun. Hit his wrist. Twist it away. Slam the butt it into his head. He stumbles down. I’m on top of him, too quickly for me to remember getting there. My fingers wrap around his throat. He writhes underneath m as his thick fingers rip and claw at my own. His lips twist over browned teeth as he gasps for air that won’t come. Writhe. Rip. Thrash. It starts to slow. The whites of his eyes grow red, the gasps more shallow. It stops. My fingers wrap around tighter still. It’s longer than you think.

“Let me know when you win.”

“Ophelia!” I screamed into the flames and continued breaking into the door. Splinters and glowing embers landed on my arms and wrists. I barely noticed.

Through my window, I could only watch as she pulled burning wood from the walls and threw pieces in my direction, igniting the doorway more. She jumped up and grabbed onto the sagging, disintegrating ceiling beam. It happily gave into her weight and crumbled in a rain of ash and golden flames. My path was gone.

“Ophelia!” The axe struck into the glowing wall with frustration. Desperation. “Ophelia!”

She turned and looked at me, firelight caught in golden eyes. Her arms charred; her wrists burned and burning. She was fire. “Go.” I barely heard her voice above the cackling flames. Her lips moved again. “Go.”

She sank to her knees in the middle of the floor and waited.

I pull out the gun from the other guard’s belt without thinking. The real gun. The one for blood. Not nothingness. My fingers wrap around it, a familiar friend. Then it bites into me, the metal burning my palm. My hand shakes. I can’t let go. I smell it, the burning flesh.

My fault. No! You gave up! Your fault. My fault. I did it. All for you. Always.

A bullet hits the wall beside me. Chips of white paint spray out like blood. I jump up. Real gun now. Another shot. Chips spray. There. I find the figure at the end of the hall. I raise the barrel. Instinct. My hand shakes. I can’t aim, not like how I know I should be able to, but I still hear the trigger release. I hear the shot. It lands softly. The figure cries out. No more bullets. I smell it though, the burning flesh. I did it.

Her lips moved again. “Go.”

My back began burning, the skin getting hotter by the second. It stung. Bit into me. My hand jerked behind me and my fingers brushed across a small gun. The small gun that we had picked up from the dead officer a few long hours ago. I pulled it out and stared at it. The metal burned my palm. I didn’t feel it. I smelled it, the burning flesh.

I stared at Ophelia, whose skin was already smoking from the flames that almost had her in their grasp. I smelled it, the burning flesh. She would try not to scream - but she was still human, somewhere deep inside of her - and she would. Don’t scream, Fire and Brimstone, don’t scream. Ophelia…

I pointed the pistol through the hole. I pointed it at the dead center of her head. It was a shot I had taken countless times before. I heard the trigger release, watched her crumple forward into the flames, stiller than the dead of winter. The pistol fell from my unfeeling hands. Ophelia…

My chest heaves itself up and down. The fire rages in my head. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. It wasn’t my fault. I had to! For you. All for you. All for you, Fire and Brimstone. Ophelia. Your fault.

My feet carry me forward. One step. Another. I hear the labored breathing before I see the toe of a worn boot sticking out behind the corner. One step. Another.

A voice cracks in between the breaths. “Please…”

Blood is pooling around the man. I did this. His entire lower abdomen is the same stewed-cherry red as the tiles on which he lies. His bloodied hands have fallen useless at his sides.

“Please…” he says again.

I look at the round, boyish face at my feet. A spattering of freckles is splashed below sandy hair and eyes the color of the soil. I raise the barrel of the gun.

His eyes grow round. “No, please, don’t,” he croaks.

The hallway already reeks of iron and mortality.

“Don’t…”

I pull the trigger. Those last words escape his lips as a hiss, almost drowned out entirely by the shot that cut them short. The pool of blood soon stops growing. Earthy eyes fixate on something beyond. They become milky.

“You were already dead,” I whisper. I don’t know who I’m talking to. You left me no choice. But I did it. I did it. I’m so so sorry. Your fault. My fault. Make it stop.

“You were already dead.” The voice is louder now. My voice. I don’t remember it being so coarse. The metal burns in my hand.

“You were already dead!” It echoes down the corridor now. Make it stop. Make it stop. Flames twist around me. Ashes dance like lost souls. Metal burns. Make it stop.

I raise the barrel of the gun again. Your fault. My fault. Metal burns against my temple. Make it stop. I hear the trigger release. It echoes.