The Obsidian Queen

When I tell people, I don’t remember anything before 21, I get a handful of responses.

“Oh, you poor thing,” an older woman would say. Her hand is on my shoulder or my arm and she’s looking at me with sorrowful eyes. In her eyes, I have become her daughter or her granddaughter and she will treat me as if I’m her own.

The former frat boy laughs it off. Says he doesn’t remember anything before 21 either. He lost his memories to parties and underage drinking.

Most people think it’s trauma. My brain is protecting me by making me forget whatever happened. I don’t know for sure, but I know this. When the police found me, I was sitting on the side of the road, hands covered in blood that wasn’t mine. A doctor checked me over. She had the kindest smile and smelled of peppermint and coconut oil. Sweet as she was, she couldn’t help but flinch when she saw the fist-sized puckered scar on my chest right where my heart would be. It was the only noticeable scar on my body.

“Does it hurt,” she asked. “Do you feel any pain?”

I shook my head. “I feel fine,” I said.

They ran test after test to prove that I was in fact fine. They brought in a therapist to check me out and he found nothing that would raise any alarms. The only problem was that no one knew who I was or how I got there. It’s been a couple of years now. I’m 25 and I live above the independent bookstore where I work and so far, no one’s come to claim me.

Once people find out I don’t remember anything before 21, they ask me, “If I could, would I want to remember?” And I tell them what they want to hear, “Of course, I want to remember. I would if I could.”

It’s a lie. I never want to remember who I was or what happened to me. Whatever made the scar on my chest must have tried to kill me. I cheated death before. If I go searching for who I was, I’m tempting fate. Fate’s a cruel mistress and I’m not going to be the one to piss her off.

It’s after closing, but as usual, I have yet to go upstairs. The bookstore where I’m surrounded by stacks and shelves of books feels more like home than the tiny apartment upstairs ever has. I feel less alone among the books, so every night, I lock the front door, turn off the lights and draw the curtains. Then towards the back of the store, I find a hidden alcove where I can tuck myself away and read whatever I’m reading at the moment until my eyes get so heavy that I have no choice but to go upstairs to bed.

I was few pages into the book I was reading and was already sucked in. I was somewhere where magic was real and princesses were saved by dashing knights. I was so taken in by the book that I almost didn’t hear the front door open. Almost. I locked the door, didn’t I? I know I did.

I grabbed the bat that Mr. Paul from the barbershop next door got me. “You’re a girl by yourself and there’s some crazy folks out there,” He said. “If one of them tries to get in here, you better take that bat and swing for the fences.” I didn’t need to know what that meant to know what I needed to do.

The intruder stepped steadily through the store. In seconds, they would find my hiding spot.

“Evangeline.” The intruder called out and I could hear that it was a man’s voice. “Evangeline.” Suddenly, my chest ached at the spot where the scar was. It had never hurt before. My voice hitched and I covered my mouth with my hand.

There was one other thing that happened when I was found. One more reason that I never wanted to find out who I was. When they found me, there was a blank, folded up piece of paper in my jeans pocket. The police thought it was nothing, but still kept it as evidence. They gave it to me when I was discharged.

I unfolded the piece of paper and rushed scribblings written by a frantic hand appeared on the page.

It read: “Your real name is Evangeline. If anyone speaks that name, he most certainly will kill you.”

Then, the note slowly disintegrated in my hands and I questioned if what I saw was real. The warning stayed with me though, so when I heard that name that night, I knew it would be my last.

But I am not a damsel. I am not a princess that waits for dashing knights to come and save me. If I die tonight, I die fighting back.

I choked the bat’s handle and stood up from my hiding spot. He was there, a few feet away, as if he had been waiting for me to emerge. His skin was as dark as mine and his hair was in locks that went past his shoulders. He didn’t move when he saw me. He didn’t even seem surprised to find me hiding there.

“Evangeline,” he bowed slightly. “So happy to see you’re well.”

There was something off about his expression. The way his eyes narrowed menacingly and he clenched his teeth tightly as if he was everything but happy to see him. I crossed the distance between us in three leaping steps. Then, I did exactly what Mr. Paul had directed me to do. I swung for the fences.

I expected a grunt of pain as I made contact with his side. I even thought he might think to grab the bat mid-swing and take it from me. What I didn’t expect was that by the time I finished the swing, I would be swinging empty air. In a matter of seconds, he went from right in front of me to back where he began at the door.

He chuckled lightheartedly, “You still fight first and ask questions later.”

I hate reading a scene where the hero is surprised by an intruder and then starts asking the intruder asinine questions like “Who are you?“ and “What are you doing here?” Clearly, the person is there to harm you. Why does it matter who they are and their purpose for being there? The way I see it, if someone is ever in my place uninvited, they’ve forfeited the right to explain themselves.

“I’m going to say this once, get out of my store.”

A moment later, it registered to me what he had said. You still fight first as if it was something I’d done before. Does he know me? Does he know who I am and where I come from?

No, I shook my head and choked the bat tighter. Who I was no longer matters. There is only right now.

He remained by the door, unmoved.

I said it once and I meant it. I ran at him, bat at the ready. This time, just as I was getting ready to swing, I let go of the bat and threw the heel of my palm up into his nose. His head jerked back and he grunted in pain. The bat had rolled out of my reach, and so I jumped back to put some space between us before he could recover.  

“Evangeline!” he exclaimed, holding his nose. He seemed shocked that I dared to hurt him and even more surprised that I had managed to make contact.  “It’s me, Zaheer, don’t you remember me?”

Zaheer. The name made me wince, but I couldn’t understand why. I watched him warily. Was I supposed to know who he was? His hand was still covering his nose. He took a deep breath in through his mouth and blew the air out his nose. Smoke wafted in the spaces between his fingers and from beneath his hand. He took another breath and dropped his hand from his face. The smoke was gone and there was no blood or bruising. It was as if I didn’t do anything to him at all.

My jaw nearly dropped to the floor, but I wasn’t going to be taken in by this man’s tricks. “I don’t know an Evangeline or Zaheer,” I said. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

He shook his head and held up his left hand, palm facing himself. There was a gold band on his ring finger. “How could I mistake my wife?”

There are moments when I daydream who I might’ve been.  Maybe I was an artist with a gallery full of my work. Maybe I was an author and there was one of my books in the bookstore and I would read it none the wiser. Not in all of those imaginings did I ever expect to be someone’s wife. For a moment, I let myself dream about a life that was no longer mine. Then I remembered myself and where I was. Husband or not, I was face to face with a stranger.

 “I don’t know who you are or who you think I am, but I need you to leave right now.”

“That’s too bad,” His smile was sinister and when he spoke, it gave me chills. Like a fool, I had let down my guard and he took advantage. He held up his hand, palm facing me. Strings of smoke flew from his fingers towards me. The smoke solidified into thick cloudy gray ropes that wrapped tightly around my torso pinning my arms to my side. I was trapped.            

He lowered his hands and the motion compelled the ropes to tighten and pull me down to my knees.

That’s better,” he said, standing over me. “Now tell me where is the Obsidian Core?”

At the sound of those words, pain radiated from the center of chest and made it hard to breathe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

He kneeled down to my level. He looked into each of my eyes. He would find nothing there.

“You sneaky little girl. You really did it.” He stood up and screamed. “How could you? I only married you for the core. But you just had to keep the power for yourself, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t understand a thing he was saying and the pain was becoming unbearable.

He was whispering to himself. “I want the core. I need the core. I didn’t track you across planes to go back empty-handed.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear,” I said.           

“You traded your memories to hide the core and bring you safely here, but where could you have hidden the core between there and here. I must know. The core will be mine.”

Through the fog of pain, I felt him approach me. He put his thumb on my forehead and the pain doubled.

“Please!” I screamed. “I’m begging you. Just leave!”

He mumbled something underneath his breath. Smoke streamed down my face from where his thumb was making my eyes sting and my throat burn. This was it. I was going to die at the hands of this man. In an instant, I lost consciousness and welcomed the abyss.

I don’t know how much time passed before I opened my eyes again. I was no longer in the bookstore. I was in a blue room; the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything was tranquil sky blue. The pain had subsided and I could take in deep breaths again.

The room around me shifted and I was standing face to face with myself. Or rather a younger version of myself.

“I don’t care what you say, Pilar. We are not destroying the core.” She couldn’t be talking to me. I turned around and there was a young woman who was maybe the same age as the younger me, if not a few years older. I stepped out from between them.

“They’ll never stop coming for it,” Pilar said. “As long as you hold onto it, you’re putting us all in danger and for what?”

“I am the Obsidian queen! You will not question me.” The air became thick with a palpable fury. Even I was scared of the younger me and she was me.

Pilar lowered his eyes and said nothing more.

“If they want the core, then let them come. If you cannot stand with me, then I will not ask you to stay.”

Pilar’s lower lip trembled, but she held back the hurt and the tears. “Then I will speak freely. your majesty. Before you were christened the Obsidian Queen, we were sisters. You never treated me like a servant and you never wanted me to leave your side. But now, nothing is more important to you than that core. And now that is all you have left.”

Pilar bowed and left, leaving younger me alone.

I blinked and the scene changed. Pilar was bleeding on the floor with younger me standing over her. Younger me fell down to her knees. “No, no, no,” she cried. “Why?” She put pressure on the wound on PIlar’s side, the blood staining her hands.

“I promised to stay by your side,” Pilar said, and with a last breath, she died.

Someone banged at a door that I couldn’t see. “Evangeline, give us the core!” I recognized the voice immediately as Zaheer’s.

Younger me looked up at me, her eyes blurry with tears. “Zaheer brought you here, didn’t he?”

I stepped back, not realizing that she could see me.

“I should’ve never married that man. Power. What wouldn’t he do for more power?”

“He wants the Obsidian core,” I said, as if she didn’t already know.

“And he’s probably watching us right now to see what I’m going to do with it.”

“He says you traded your memories to hide the core.”

She scoffed, “Hide it?” She glanced down at Pilar, her expression was both hardened and sad. “If he thinks I’m going to hide it, then he has no idea who he’s up against. Come on out, Zaheer. Stop me if you can.”

She placed her right hand over heart. She breathed in and as she breathed out, she stuck the hand into her chest. At the same time, I felt a pressure in the same spot.

She pulled her hand out and in it was a large black stone. Obsidian. She squeezed the obsidian stone, concentrating all of her power on it. “I call on the power that has been bestowed on me by the Goddess. Take whatever you want in return, but give me strength.” The Obsidian stone cracked in her hand and then shattered. She let the fragments fall to the floor.

“I won’t remember this, but let me tell you something that took me much too long to realize. They made me believe I was only strong because of the core. That it was only because of the core that I was powerful. They were wrong.”

She conjured up a sheet of paper, scribbled a note on the page, folded it up and put it into her pocket. One last time, she looked me in the eye. “We are the Obsidian Queen and our power is limitless.

We faded from each other’s view. I knew where she was going to end up. On the side of the road, with bloodstained hands, a scar on her chest and a mysterious note in her pocket.

She won’t remember who she was and she’ll have no inclination to remember. But she will find out whether she wants to or not and she won’t fear what she has learned. She is the Obsidian Queen. She is power incarnate and heaven help anyone that stands in her way.