Kate-Mary’s experiment, with its head fake-lovingly bent to hers, mask-wings twined in her mass of colourless hair, trying desperately to whisper in her ear.
To convince her, perhaps:
I am not so bad, after all; mistakes were made, but even so, I deserve to exist, surely. I could change. Lost and lonely, left behind—how can I be blamed? I am . . . just like you.
“Oh, Semblance,” she told it, shaking her head. “But there’s nothing
for
you here, is there? Not now they’re both dead. And you—”
—you need to be gone.
Both hands in the box, sunk deep and shaking, some vile current coursing through her like a
grand mal
seizure; Sy saw Carra fold back and stepped in to catch her, instinctively. Braced himself against any sort of spillage, inadvertent or otherwise. But all he felt was bony flesh muffled under multiple layers, the sadly light weight of a woman whose substance was gnawed at by every passing phantom, someone probably too distracted to eat much even under normal circumstances, unless reminded. One good thing about the Clarke, he supposed; they had an investment in keeping residents alive, even if it meant the occasional bout of tubal feedings.
Skinny little girls with eating disorders, and the invisible friends who love them. . . .
“What can I do?” he asked out loud, no longer worrying about sounding—let alone feeling—stupid. Only to watch Carra shudder on, head jerking slightly, eyes ticcing up-turned beneath their lids in a REM-state frenzy until more words came crawling up past her cuffs: Different font this time, different script. An almost Palmer-method scrawl, thankfully easy to read, that answered—
NOTHING THANK YOU SORRY JUST LET IT PASS.
THANKS FOR ASKING.
A gleam gilding the letters now, all up and down—sticky-slimy, a perspirant flood, gelid as Vaseline. Something sucked in hard then expelled through the pores, broken down to its original components: scrubbed, purified, diffused. Rendered harmless.
His arms starting to go numb, he laid her down by degrees, with as much care as he could. “I, that guy Paul . . . I mean, they’re expecting you back by now, right? Curfew. I should probably call—”
DONT NO POINT SERIOUSLY IM FINE.
BEEN OVER TWENTY MINS ALREADY.
ALWAYS HAPPENS THEYRE USED TO IT W ME.
“Well, then maybe I could—”
JUST WAIT OKAY.
STAY WITH ME OKAY SY THATS ALL I NEED.
JUST STAY.
Another long breath while he thought about it, then nodded. One hand crept into his, long fingers vibrant, bitten nails adrip. He clenched it back, hard, and watched as the fit dulled, frenzy becoming languorous, dormant, dazed. ’Til at last she lay prone and blank on the dusty floor, her ecto-coating gone dry, and he watched the bulk of it peel off like sunburn, flake to glitter and disperse, blown away by some impossible wind.
That long, at least. And at least a half-hour longer.
Two weeks later, he was back to see her again, without Abbott’s blessing (or knowledge).
Carra sat by the TV room window, street clothes replaced with a fetching johnny and terrycloth robe combo, hair hung back down like a living veil. Big brown slippers with little rodent faces, beavers by their buck teeth and trailing black heel-tails. Her pale arms hung nude once more, clean of sutures and messages alike, aside from that tape-anchored meds-jack stuck in the left-hand elbow’s crook.
“Thought you’d like to know,” he said, sitting down, close enough she could touch-test him for solidity if she wanted to. “Abbott wanted to keep the Thanatoscopeon, ’specially once I told him you’d cleaned it out—guy has a serious case of archivist fever, and that’s not gonna change anytime soon. But I don’t have to tell
you
.”
He saw the hair-curtain shift a bit, side to side; a nod, maybe, in its most rudimentary possible form. Or maybe just the breeze kicked up as Orderly Paul went by, tray in hand, scowling at Sy like he held him personally responsible for Carra’s
To convince her, perhaps:
I am not so bad, after all; mistakes were made, but even so, I deserve to exist, surely. I could change. Lost and lonely, left behind—how can I be blamed? I am . . . just like you.
“Oh, Semblance,” she told it, shaking her head. “But there’s nothing
for
you here, is there? Not now they’re both dead. And you—”
—you need to be gone.
Both hands in the box, sunk deep and shaking, some vile current coursing through her like a
grand mal
seizure; Sy saw Carra fold back and stepped in to catch her, instinctively. Braced himself against any sort of spillage, inadvertent or otherwise. But all he felt was bony flesh muffled under multiple layers, the sadly light weight of a woman whose substance was gnawed at by every passing phantom, someone probably too distracted to eat much even under normal circumstances, unless reminded. One good thing about the Clarke, he supposed; they had an investment in keeping residents alive, even if it meant the occasional bout of tubal feedings.
Skinny little girls with eating disorders, and the invisible friends who love them. . . .
“What can I do?” he asked out loud, no longer worrying about sounding—let alone feeling—stupid. Only to watch Carra shudder on, head jerking slightly, eyes ticcing up-turned beneath their lids in a REM-state frenzy until more words came crawling up past her cuffs: Different font this time, different script. An almost Palmer-method scrawl, thankfully easy to read, that answered—
NOTHING THANK YOU SORRY JUST LET IT PASS.
THANKS FOR ASKING.
A gleam gilding the letters now, all up and down—sticky-slimy, a perspirant flood, gelid as Vaseline. Something sucked in hard then expelled through the pores, broken down to its original components: scrubbed, purified, diffused. Rendered harmless.
His arms starting to go numb, he laid her down by degrees, with as much care as he could. “I, that guy Paul . . . I mean, they’re expecting you back by now, right? Curfew. I should probably call—”
DONT NO POINT SERIOUSLY IM FINE.
BEEN OVER TWENTY MINS ALREADY.
ALWAYS HAPPENS THEYRE USED TO IT W ME.
“Well, then maybe I could—”
JUST WAIT OKAY.
STAY WITH ME OKAY SY THATS ALL I NEED.
JUST STAY.
Another long breath while he thought about it, then nodded. One hand crept into his, long fingers vibrant, bitten nails adrip. He clenched it back, hard, and watched as the fit dulled, frenzy becoming languorous, dormant, dazed. ’Til at last she lay prone and blank on the dusty floor, her ecto-coating gone dry, and he watched the bulk of it peel off like sunburn, flake to glitter and disperse, blown away by some impossible wind.
That long, at least. And at least a half-hour longer.
Two weeks later, he was back to see her again, without Abbott’s blessing (or knowledge).
Carra sat by the TV room window, street clothes replaced with a fetching johnny and terrycloth robe combo, hair hung back down like a living veil. Big brown slippers with little rodent faces, beavers by their buck teeth and trailing black heel-tails. Her pale arms hung nude once more, clean of sutures and messages alike, aside from that tape-anchored meds-jack stuck in the left-hand elbow’s crook.
“Thought you’d like to know,” he said, sitting down, close enough she could touch-test him for solidity if she wanted to. “Abbott wanted to keep the Thanatoscopeon, ’specially once I told him you’d cleaned it out—guy has a serious case of archivist fever, and that’s not gonna change anytime soon. But I don’t have to tell
you
.”
He saw the hair-curtain shift a bit, side to side; a nod, maybe, in its most rudimentary possible form. Or maybe just the breeze kicked up as Orderly Paul went by, tray in hand, scowling at Sy like he held him personally responsible for Carra’s
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