If it was, he could not remember writing this. Then again, he was rapidly slipping into a state where he was having trouble determining what was real and what was imaginary. He pondered this and quickly decided on a course of action.
“Do you have a pen?”
Cyann pulled a pen from seemingly nowhere and handed it to him. Distractedly, he thanked her as he studied the title scribbled at the top of the page. He wrote the same word, “Correction,” right under the title of the poem. The handwriting did not match.
“What does that mean?” he asked aloud, without even realizing it. “How could they not match?”
“What does what mean?’ whispered Cyann. She stepped toward him before he could react and glanced at the word he had written. He pulled the notebook from her view and turned away. This was not something he could share with her. Not with her; not with anyone.
“Nothing, don’t worry - ”
“About it?” Cyann finished his sentence.
Monson squinted at her. “Yeah, it - ”
“Doesn’t concern me?”
He glared at her. “Why are you doing that?”
Her blue eyes met his. “You aren’t the only one who can read people. See how unnerving it is? But never mind that, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Why were you out here? And don’t tell me it’s a long story; that isn’t going to work. I’m not going anywhere until you answer my questions.”
Monson answered wryly, “Read people? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Just answer the question.”
Monson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully chatty today. Why should I answer your questions? What makes you think you have the right to know why I’m out here or what this is all about? Besides, aren’t you contradicting yourself? If you can read me as easily as you say, shouldn’t you already have the answers to your questions?”
“I was being polite and allowing you to tell your story, for your benefit. It’s obvious what’s bothering you. Well, obvious to me, anyway.”
He did not know what to say. This assertive, demanding attitude was totally out of character for Cyann. Who did she think she was? “It’s obvious what’s wrong”…please , he thought to himself.
“Enlighten me, then.” He crossed his arms.
She started to speak. She seemed to be trying very hard to maintain her calm, collected tone. “That poem in the back of Casey’s notebook isn’t just some normal emotional outlet. I can also tell that Casey didn’t write it, despite the fact that it is in his notebook. You, or someone you told it to, wrote it. Since I doubt you would actually tell someone something like that, I’m inclined to believe it was you. Which makes sense, because you are Mr.-I-have-to-handle-everything-on-my-own.”
She glared at him. “That poem is a dream; a dream that has you scared out of your mind.”
He shivered. “How did you know - ”
“That it was a dream?” She again finished his sentence while running a hand through her thick hair. “Because you started to repeat the words as I read them. The perspective just felt like yours. Although, the words didn’t feel like they were coming from you, but being fed through you. But even if I hadn’t heard your mumbling, I still would have known. When you woke up you had the face of someone who had been somewhere else, doing other things. And that - ” here her voice cracked - “is a look I’d recognize anywhere.”
It was one startling event after another. This girl bore witness to the wanderings of his deepest, most private moments, yet spoke to him as if this were completely ordinary, totally normal. How did she know all of this? And what did she want?
He shifted in discomfort. He tried to tell himself that she was wrong or misinformed, that she did not know what she was talking about. But he knew she was telling the truth. He knew it as surely as if he himself had said the words. She continued.
“I don’t know the details of the battle you’re fighting,
“Do you have a pen?”
Cyann pulled a pen from seemingly nowhere and handed it to him. Distractedly, he thanked her as he studied the title scribbled at the top of the page. He wrote the same word, “Correction,” right under the title of the poem. The handwriting did not match.
“What does that mean?” he asked aloud, without even realizing it. “How could they not match?”
“What does what mean?’ whispered Cyann. She stepped toward him before he could react and glanced at the word he had written. He pulled the notebook from her view and turned away. This was not something he could share with her. Not with her; not with anyone.
“Nothing, don’t worry - ”
“About it?” Cyann finished his sentence.
Monson squinted at her. “Yeah, it - ”
“Doesn’t concern me?”
He glared at her. “Why are you doing that?”
Her blue eyes met his. “You aren’t the only one who can read people. See how unnerving it is? But never mind that, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Why were you out here? And don’t tell me it’s a long story; that isn’t going to work. I’m not going anywhere until you answer my questions.”
Monson answered wryly, “Read people? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. Just answer the question.”
Monson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully chatty today. Why should I answer your questions? What makes you think you have the right to know why I’m out here or what this is all about? Besides, aren’t you contradicting yourself? If you can read me as easily as you say, shouldn’t you already have the answers to your questions?”
“I was being polite and allowing you to tell your story, for your benefit. It’s obvious what’s bothering you. Well, obvious to me, anyway.”
He did not know what to say. This assertive, demanding attitude was totally out of character for Cyann. Who did she think she was? “It’s obvious what’s wrong”…please , he thought to himself.
“Enlighten me, then.” He crossed his arms.
She started to speak. She seemed to be trying very hard to maintain her calm, collected tone. “That poem in the back of Casey’s notebook isn’t just some normal emotional outlet. I can also tell that Casey didn’t write it, despite the fact that it is in his notebook. You, or someone you told it to, wrote it. Since I doubt you would actually tell someone something like that, I’m inclined to believe it was you. Which makes sense, because you are Mr.-I-have-to-handle-everything-on-my-own.”
She glared at him. “That poem is a dream; a dream that has you scared out of your mind.”
He shivered. “How did you know - ”
“That it was a dream?” She again finished his sentence while running a hand through her thick hair. “Because you started to repeat the words as I read them. The perspective just felt like yours. Although, the words didn’t feel like they were coming from you, but being fed through you. But even if I hadn’t heard your mumbling, I still would have known. When you woke up you had the face of someone who had been somewhere else, doing other things. And that - ” here her voice cracked - “is a look I’d recognize anywhere.”
It was one startling event after another. This girl bore witness to the wanderings of his deepest, most private moments, yet spoke to him as if this were completely ordinary, totally normal. How did she know all of this? And what did she want?
He shifted in discomfort. He tried to tell himself that she was wrong or misinformed, that she did not know what she was talking about. But he knew she was telling the truth. He knew it as surely as if he himself had said the words. She continued.
“I don’t know the details of the battle you’re fighting,
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