Part 1

Jean Davis

In a raging swath of flame mankind—those who turned away from the One Truth—burned. This emptiness took hold from inside them suddenly, and they cried out as one—finally one—and their pain and terror of knowing in their last moments that they were too late to change, that they had thrown away their final chance at salvation, struck me as I watched atop a great hill of black and gold. The Visitor was beside me, scorching me with his radiance. Larger than I could comprehend, but who hovered beside me not much taller than I was. A thousand rings of golden flames churned around him—a light brighter and hotter than the sun circling within it. Then the Visitor laughed.

The Conference—that’s the name we called it, at least—was sterile and made from hard, concrete angles. A government building. My shoes tapped the waxed slab floor as I walked in, florescent tube lights buzzing above me every few yards, and the walls just white enough I was forced to squint. The man slowing his pace to keep in line with mine was going on about where everything was, pointing down this hallway and that, describing in abundant detail the corridor naming system in place to help visitors not get lost.

“Just visitors?” There was a groan in my voice and an even deeper sarcasm.

I didn’t have to look at him to know how he squirmed. The CIA must not teach its lackeys how to process sarcastic teenage girls. I snorted, then glanced down a passing hallway—they all looked the exact same and by this point I had no idea where I was or where exactly I was going. I slowed just enough for Oliver to get half a step in front of me.

“Your room is located in hallway F,” Oliver said, “along with the other women. The men are all located in hallway B.”

“Where do we eat?”

Oliver frowned. “Like I said, it’s down this way, then a right, follow hallway B all the way down, take a left, then another right down hallway C, go all the way to the end before taking another left, then—“

“I’ll find it myself.”

I toyed with my necklace, twisting it in my fingers. The rose quartz stone was confined in a round aluminum cage, bound by a simple black string around my neck. I squeezed it tightly as the buzz of hundreds of voices rattled my bones. We turned the corner and came to the doors of the Chamber. Oliver pushed open the doors and went in first, and I followed, met with a flare of anxiety at the sea of people before me. The Chamber was like a theater, tables and seats lining well over fifty—maybe even more—rows, gradually working itself down to the far end of the room where a stage rose back up, topped with a long table and even more chairs. The floor was that cheap government carpet, and the walls were carved out like a giant ribcage. For all the chairs the room had, no one was seated.

I could tell Oliver was nervous, too, postured a little too straight in his grey suit, as I followed him down the main steps towards the front. All around me I was swallowed by a sea of people—all different races, all speaking different languages, and all very heated.

“Oh my God.” My voice was a whisper and drowned in the raging sea of others. I realized in that moment that this was all actually happening—and what this was for had been real.

The Visitation.

I was halfway down the Chamber when I stopped and actually took a moment to listen. An Indian woman, well dressed, probably in her mid-fifties, stood before a Muslim man whose back was towards me. He yelled and pointed a harsh finger at her, although she took it all with the slightest possible smile, one that could be seen as either confident or arrogant. I was enthralled, before the corners of my vision began to fuzz, and a wave of nausea smacked me like a rock on the coast.

I could understand these people. All of them. And they were speaking languages I had no ability to understand. Some weren’t even ones I recognized, coming from cultures I wouldn’t be able to find on a map if I was given all the time in the world to do so. The Indian woman took note of me stumbling into a chair and brushed the man aside. He stormed off as she approached and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“All a bit of a shock once you realize it, huh?”

I looked up at her. She had a kind face, well-used features, a round nose, and black hair wound in a tight braid reaching over her shoulder and down to her waist.

“Yet another gift from the Visitation.”

As if triggered by the word, fire and death leaped across my vision. I clenched my eyes closed and groaned, hoping that would relay exactly what I thought about the Visitation’s “gifts”.

The woman brushed some of my hair from my face with the care of a mother but with the look of someone who had a lot of pain within herself. Conveniently, a pitcher of water and an empty glass were beside me on the table, like a dozen were on all of the tables. She poured me a glass and handed it to me. “If the nausea persists, come find me later. I’ll give you some medicine.”

By the time I opened my eyes from chugging the water, my head brimming with cool clarity, she was gone, melded back into the throng. My heart leaped as I realized Oliver had abandoned me, too. I stood, feeling predatory eyes on me from a group of four men, all with dark skin and white robes native to the Middle East. One of those men I recognized as the one who had been arguing with the Indian woman. His hair was black and coarse beneath a brimless hat matching his outfit. His brow was angular and bound in the middle, beneath resting the black eyes of a killer. I pushed my way further down the Chamber, away from them.

Oliver’s voice came from the stage, stiff and rehearsed, and the noise died to a low hum. “As I’m sure everyone has discovered the commonality between you, I’ll get right to it. Everyone here has been Visited. One person from every walk of life, culture, and country from around the world. We simply want to know why. Why not Visit world leaders or religious leaders? Why instead choose doctors, teachers, convicts, and children?

“In this completely safe, highly monitored facility, we want you all to compare your stories, your theories, and your pasts to try and find the common links between you. Maybe then we can understand why you were the ones Visited and work to communicate with the Visitors further.”

“He forgets to mention the armed goons waiting for us on the outside.” I perked up at the sound of English and an American accent. Close to me stood a black man not much older than me with cornrows, a hard brow, and a clenched jaw. Tattoos covered almost every inch of his skin. He spoke to anyone who’d listen as Oliver continued to drone on. “Be on point when this shit’s over or we may not be making it back home.”

“You think they’ll kill us?”

“You think when the government’s gotten what they want from us, they won’t? They’ll just let us all waltz outta here and go back home?”

No one said anything else after that, but just turned their focus back to Oliver and listened with distraught expressions—the kind of look that makes men dangerous, like they’re caged animals looking for an escape and will kill to get it. I continued to walk down the steps, listening to Oliver. He was rambling on about the cafeteria schedule and how the Chamber would always be opened as a central place of discourse and how we were highly encouraged to seek each other out and learn things about everyone so we could “solve this puzzle together”, although we were the ones who were stuck here.

“It is a great show of friendship and faith that we have delegates here from all around the world,” he continued. “Please keep that in mind and show each other respect.”

I found myself frowning at his tone and word choice. A glance at those immediately surrounding me revealed that only some had the same reaction, the majority of the delegates taking his words at face value. His subtext gave a whole other message; watch your back, because not all of us are here for the same reason.

It took me forty-five minutes before I found my room. The plaque on my door read “Jean Davis”, so everyone and their brother would know exactly who they’d find inside. That made me uneasy. Hundreds of strangers knew exactly where I slept. “Doctors, teachers, convicts, and children.” I wondered if Oliver was referring to me with that last remark. I hadn’t seen any children since I arrived. Convicts, though…

I thought back to the man with a killer’s eyes and those who surrounded him. How their eyes clawed at my clothes, praying to their god to get me alone. A trembling shudder and the feeling of being watched made me slam the door and lock it behind me, leaving me in a humming white light. It only took me two steps to bump my bed, still staring at the door, clutching my necklace. My knuckles were white as I sat on the bed’s edge and slowly unlaced my high-tops. My room was more of a closet with a bed, nightstand, and a small dresser. The bathroom was communal and located a few doors down.

Easing myself further into bed, I tried to fall asleep but found myself staring at the sliver of light bursting in from underneath the door. Only a few times did shadows move across it, breaking the streak before moving on, opening and closing doors of their own further down the hall.

Fire raged in my vision, and I opened my eyes to find the ceiling, but no Visitor. My grip around my necklace was so tight it hurt. I didn’t want to be Visited again. It was haunting and painful, forcing thoughts into my head that I wanted nothing to do with. I was perfectly fine with how I was and needed no one or nothing else. That was a lie, and it stung as soon as I thought it. I cursed the Visitor. He was the one who made me this way, taking away the freedom of my own thoughts and forcing me to constantly confront the lies I told myself. But again, I knew that was a lie. The Visitor had no control over how I had been made.

Only one did. The One.

I found myself drifting off again into a black sleep, and after a momentary struggle, I let it take me. My dad stood before me, a handsome man in his mid-thirties with thick stubble, short black hair, dripping a puddle of water onto the floor and clutching a towel around his waist. My backpack was on the floor, today’s homework spilled out. I stared at him, trembling as he tried to explain himself, the woman dressing hurriedly behind him. A year later, I could feel my mom’s eyes on me, scolding me with silence, then averting when I looked at her. She hadn’t spoken to me for three days since I had finally told her that her husband was a traitor.

I suddenly found myself alone, sitting on the floor, back to the couch, numbing my mind with the fluttering glow of the TV. She was out somewhere—she never told me where—and I was home. The house was dark. It was the way I liked it when I was alone. I had never been afraid of the dark but found solace in it; I found that I could melt into the darkness and become nothing. Lose the skin of Jean Davis and walk naked and incorporeal. It would help with some of the pain, some of the guilt—both for not telling her sooner and telling her at all. But not all of it would leave with my body as I strode high through the blackness, toes sinking into the carpet. A lot of it would remain clung to me, digging claws into my back and not letting me go.

Tonight was the night that would change.

Tonight was the night that would end.

I sank slowly into the bathtub, cringing as the water burned, but continuing down until I was submerged to my throat. Even that pain was nothing to the tightness in my chest, my constant shame. I thought back to earlier that evening when I found my mom sitting numb, sucking a cigarette and clutching a wine glass, only a thin maroon ring remaining inside.

“Mom?” I was stupid to talk to her when she was like that, but I wanted to tell her the amazing fucking news. Her head tilted my way to let me know she was listening.

“I’m going to be a sister.”

I thought maybe I should’ve left a note, but I didn’t think anyone would care to read it. Mom wouldn’t. She’d probably laugh and go have another drink. Misery was her solace now, and she’d want to keep that comfort. And dad… He had a new family now. There was no need for me. He was married to someone younger and prettier, someone still enchanted by his Sauvé, and would soon have a son—the one he always wanted—and would be happy. He wanted me to be happy, too. Happy for him and his new family. He called me and told me the news and I heard genuine excitement in his voice, the kind that was always foreign to me. In a messed-up kind of way, I did feel happy for him. Maybe he wouldn’t be so disappointed anymore, with me and with mom. Maybe now he had what he had always wanted and wouldn’t ruin this family, too. I pictured this new kid—my little brother—and my dad playing catch and riding bikes and laughing and hoped that he would be a good dad to him. That this kid wouldn’t turn out like me.

A failure.

Tears streaked my cheeks and my pillow was soaked through. It took me twenty minutes to stop hyperventilating enough to get dressed and open my door to the blaring light of the hallway. A dull throb beat above my left eye as I brushed my teeth, and I wondered if that woman from yesterday was around. I didn’t know her name, so I had no idea which door to knock on. I decided to just bite through it and make my way to the cafeteria. I blinked back one last splash of water, watching beads run down my face like tears. I had bags under my eyes and my hair was a mess. I felt out of place, out of my skin, like I shouldn’t be here, like I shouldn’t be anywhere. There was this strong pull to go home, but not my home. It was an eternal place, somewhere I had never been nor dreamed of going.

I wiped off my face, ran my hands through my hair, fluffing it up in a more kempt way, then left the bathroom. Instinctively I glanced down the hall before turning towards the direction of the cafeteria and stopped. I turned back to find a young Asian man coming from one of the bedrooms about five yards away. I frowned, he spotted me, and I got an unnerving urge to turn and run. He stared at me for a moment too long, then turned and walked the other direction, disappearing around a corner. Before I knew what I was doing, my legs took me to the room the man had come from. The plaque read “Naya Ravel”, the door was unlocked, and the room itself was empty. Unlike the movies, it wasn’t ransacked, either. It was pristine, as if nothing had been touched at all, and I wondered what he could’ve been doing here.

I stood in the midst of a cafeteria trembling with voices and motion, my tray light with a couple pieces of toast, a cup of oatmeal, and a coffee. I scanned the room, the tables, and those sitting at them. My throat was dry, and my head was pounding. I’d just go back to my room. Turning towards the exit, I was met by the Indian woman’s eyes on me. She sat at a table by herself, smiled, and waved me over. I approached reluctantly.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” I remained standing at the edge of the table, not committing myself to sitting.

The woman arched a brow at that, then offered me the seat. “I promise I don’t bite. I’m Dr. Naya Ravel.”

The bench was plastic and uncomfortable as I sat across from Naya. Did I tell her about the man I saw coming from her room? Did she know? What would she do? What did she have to hide? Oliver’s hidden message to the delegates played back in my head. “Watch your back because not all of us are here for the same reason.”

A gasp caught in my throat as the Visitor appeared suddenly behind her, churning its rings in a metallic screech, the ball of light upon me like a great eye, seeing my thoughts, my shame, my longing.

I screamed.