The Way I Remember It...

This room is bright - almost too bright. The windows are huge, spanning the entirety of two walls, illuminating the white-tiled floor. I sit on a daybed in the corner, staring at a glass of icy orange liquid. I am desperate for a sip, but without arms hanging from one’s shoulders, it’s nearly impossible to drink without a straw. A sigh escapes me - where’s Lyzzie when I need her? 

    Just as I think this, the door opens, filled by the silhouette of someone tall, with broad hips and narrow shoulders, and hair tied in a bun atop her head. 

    “Finally,” I glare at her. She steps in, leaving the door open. It’s stifling, the heat, and I hope there’s a breeze to come through, but I am left disappointed. “Give me a drink, will you?” I jerk my chin at the glass. Lyzzie obliges, and I’m glad for the hydration. I grimace as she withdraws the vessel. 

    “What’s wrong?” Lyzzie frowns. I complain a lot, and it irks her, but this time I have a valid reason. 

    “It’s far too watered down,” I lean in for another sip, though. With this heat, even bland orange juice feels miraculous. 

    Lyzzie laughs. “How are you feeling?” She glances down at my arms - or lack thereof. I shrug, which still feels odd without limbs dangling from my shoulders. I mean to reply, but Lyzzie leans close to me now, tickling my ear with her breath as she speaks, “They’re still there, you know.” 

    I stare at Lyzzie; her eyes convey deathly seriousness. She touches my sides, and I feel something… something like how I remember it felt to hold Lyzzie’s hand. 

    A gust of wind slams the door into the wall. We both look up. A face flickers into existence just inside the room, then disappears again. Lyzzie steps back. 

We kneel at the low table in the guest bedroom, heads bent close over the small, irregular pieces as I watch Lyzzie attempt to complete the puzzle. I’m not sure how long she’s been working on it, but it feels it should be nearly done by now. I emit an “urgh” and sit down hard on my heels. Lyzzie looks up at me, wide-eyed. 

    “Can’t we go outside?” I whine. “I can’t remember the last time we were outside. I want to go play in the leaves.” 

    Lyzzie sets down the piece in her hand. “No,” she sighs after a minute. 

    “Why not?” I demand, wishing I could cross my arms at her, pouting because I can’t. 

    Rolling her eyes at me, Lyzzie replies, “Can you not hear the wind? We’ll blow away.” 

    “I’ll tie a stone to my ankle,” I raise an eyebrow at her; she raises one back. 

    “You’ll get cold,” she tries again. 

    “I’ll wear a jacket.” 

    She hesitates, and I smirk - but she’s not done attempting to change my mind with her weak excuses. “How’ll you get up when you fall?” Even she winces as soon as she’s said it. “Sorry.” 

    I glare at her. “You’ll pick me up,” I say once I’ve shot enough imaginary daggers at her. “Won’t you?” 

    “I would,” she admits. “The truth is, we couldn’t go outside if we both wanted to.” When I cock my head at her, she stands, comes to me to help me up. “I’ll show you.” 

    She walks me out the guest room, down the corridor, to the foyer, right up to the front door. It's of some dark wood, intricately carved with scenes of angels and trees and tiny critters playing in the grass. A gust of wind blows, sending a couple of fiery-colored leaves under the door and tickling my ankles. I shuffle. 

“Well, open it,” Lyzzie prompts. 

    I give her a pointed look, meaning, I have no arms. She jerks her head towards our exit. I step up to the door, brace my shoulder against the rough wood, use it to force the handle down, and push. It doesn't budge. 

Lyzzie steps forward, nudging me out of the way. Using her hand, she pulls the handle down and rattles it roughly. My eyes must falter, because her hand seems to blur, sinking into the wood and popping back out again. She lets it fall to her side and I can see it properly again. 

    “I told you,” she looks at me through her eyebrows. “We can’t go out.” 

I stare at her, silent, willing her to bring it up, say something like that again. She’s speaking - something about cousin Rhoda and a baby - but by the furrow in her brow as she meets my gaze, it’s clear my efforts aren’t going unnoticed. 

    “Oh, what?” she ends her ramble at long last, and I smirk. 

    “Why d’you ask me?” I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees - whoops - I sit back into the porch swing instead and begin to sway. “You seem to know a whole lot more than I do.” 

For a moment, her eyes widen, her jaw bobs up and down, she stares. Then, collecting herself, she readjusts her features, though now she's frowning. “I don't understand.” 

I roll my eyes. I hate when she's like this - all clueless and proper. Every time we're out on the porch... 

“Let's go to another place,” I suggest. Then an idea comes to me - why it never did before makes no sense. “Let's go out there.” I motion with my chin to the mist-drowned yard behind Lyzzie. She looks over shoulder, back at me, squints oddly. 

“You Daft?” she remarks, but her face is soft, pitying. “I know you've had enough of this room, but it's for your own safety. I -” 

Without warning or clear reason, anger boils up inside of me. I stand up, begin to yell. 

“My safety? what on earth does that mean, Lyzzie? I've been here with you for weeks, doing bugger all. Can you say and show me things that hurt my brain when I asked about the thing you know squat! I'm sick of complying!” I glance down at a plant pot on the ground, and without thinking kick at it. It lifts beautifully into the air, flying straight for Lyzzie's face. 

Time slows as both of us lock eyes on the projectile; my anger melts into horror, and I gasp. But the pot doesn't connect with Lyzzie's visage. Instead, it stops just before it can hit her, shatters. Terracotta pieces and dirt shower the floor. Lyzzie, gaping, staggers back - though the porch rail should stop her, it seems to move with her, extending the porch so she doesn't fall. 

I have no time to walk. A bang to my left steals my attention. Then I'm pressed hard against the swing, struggling as mingled voices fill my ears. I look to Lyzzie as something pierces my neck. Her hands are out - it looks as though they're slamming on something invisible - and she's yelling, frantic but inaudible. 

Then everything disappears. 

I haven't left my room in ages – a week or so, I can't be certain. In that time, Lyzzie's kept her distance. How I feel about that, I'm not sure; I can't focus long enough to figure it out. Yet I can organize my mind long enough to realize this: that Lyzzie somehow or other, has a power over me. 

Replaying that moment over and over in my head has been my only pastime. Every waking second, every dream, I'm watching her, screaming inaudibly as an invisible force attacks me, knocks me cold. At first I tried to explain it away - surely Lyzzie could not do such a thing - now I've accepted the facts. The only thing that surpasses my fear of my once best friend is how much I hate her. 

I rise from sitting on my bed, suppress the wish that Lyzzie were here to drape a blanket over my shoulders, and make my way slowly, numbly to the place I've avoided for days. The porch is frigid, plant pots empty, snow covers the scenery beyond the rails. The air is crisp, but somehow it feels fake to me, distant like memory - distant like Lyzzie. I stare into nothingness for so long, at length I begin to make out the lining of a large rectangle where the invisible screen is. It's pale white and shining as the snow on the ground, equally cold. The thought sends a shiver through me. I've had enough of this disgusting place; I turn, leave. 

I make my way to the living room, surprised to find a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. I don't doubt who built it. I drop to my knees at the fireside, tears picking up my eyes. I tense to ward off the emotions, yet still they overpower me, and I crumple. Imagining Lyzzie holding me, singing softly and terribly, replaces the porch scene I've so long held onto. 

More months gone, each one - along with Lyzzie's absence - taking a larger, larger chunk of my heart with it. The winter seems old in hindsight, now that I hear birds singing out every window, smell a myriad of scents from fresh blossoms, feel the air warming up again. I've learnt to cope without my friend, in my mind I don't need her anymore; in reality I will always need her. I miss her even though I won't admit it to myself most days. Today is not one of those days. Today I know I miss her, and this is why, for the first time in so many days, I make my way back to the porch. 

I am not surprised to find it empty. I am, however, astonished at the presence of a solid white door standing upright against the rail. Apart from the fact that it's there, there really isn't anything special about it. It's a boring plank of wood, painted on every visible side, with a shining silver knob. As unattractive as it is, my heart begins to race. Perhaps it's wild, but maybe I can open this door, pass through it. I take a step towards it, two steps. I'm at the door when I realize the flaw in my plan. 

Then I hear the voices. They're unclear at first, as mangled as every other time I've heard them. Except this time they're calmer, and no invisible force overcomes me as they speak. Yet they're getting louder. I freeze, eyes flicking about as I try to locate Lyzzie. I know she's the one who sent them, like all the previous occasions. I hear a click, a creak, and the slow opening of the white door catches my eye. I see a face – only momentarily, before it fades again like the one in the sunroom, such a long time ago. But it remained long enough for me to notice its approach. 

Though the words are still unclear, I can make out two distinct voices now. The first is low, rough, grating on my skin in its unintelligible growl. The second is younger, an irksome drawl accentuated with snorting laughter. Both make me sick, charge my entire being with every negative emotion I am capable of feeling. My muscles tighten like coiled snakes – the door, they left open. 

“Now, don’ go tryin’ any funny business, missy,” I nearly scream when my mind registers the words. They come from the gravelly voice, the one I'm sure belongs to that face. Hearing words not uttered by myself or Lyzzie floods my body with adrenaline. I stop thinking; I simply do. In a burst, my legs fling me towards the door. When I feel several limbs grab at me, I do scream – loud, shrill, carrying all the hate and frustration and despair and boredom and agony of the past months. Perhaps this shocks my bodiless captors, because the arms retract and I stagger through the doorway. 

I should be on the grass, the porch just behind me. I'm not sure what to make of my surroundings. At first, the walls and floor swirl, then slowly solidify into one of the house passages I've become well acquainted with. Wooden floor, hideous green floral wallpaper. The smell, however, is a strong chemical that burns my nasal cavities. I don't have time to consider the fact that, despite the familiarity, I don't know this particular corridor – the voices are close behind me. They sound like a swarm of angry wasps, every now and then emitting a humanly, “Stop!” as I bolt down the passage. I have no aim, but there are no turns to take, so I keep running. 

As I run, I am subtly aware of the changes in the hallway. The wallpaper tears to ribbons that sweep the floorboards, which become more faded and worn as I run, the lights brighten and flicker periodically. Then, a rectangle of light appears at the end of the passage. I want to stop – what if this is death? - but the voices are closing in. With a final surge of energy, I race on and fly out into the sunlight. 

It genuinely surprises me when it is Lyzzie who grabs me. Initially, I fight her, but then I realize she'd come from in front of me, and thus could not have been chasing me. I lean into her, allow her to hold me, until the voices catch up. 

“Come,” Lyzzie yanks me to a vehicle parked nearby, practically tosses me inside, and starts the engine. As we speed away, I turn back. My jaw drops at the sight of the monumental building behind us: a grand three-story structure with a slanted roof dotted with chimneys. It's huge, but the house I've been living in surely didn't encompass all this. My mind grinds to a halt, unable to equate my experiences with what I now see. 

Then two men emerge, cussing and out of breath, from the front doors. I recognize the face of the one. They are both dressed in unflattering white scrubs, with name tags around their necks. My stomach twists as I begin to realize what must’ve been going on – but how? I settle down deep into my seat beside Lyzzie. Neither of us speaks. 

When we finally stop at a gas station several hours later, Lyzzie turns to me. I don’t want her to explain anything to me – not yet – so I avoid eye contact. 

“Get out,” Lyzzie opens her door and leads by example. “We should stretch our legs. I don’t think it’s smart to stay near here for too long.” 

I oblige, and she comes to hug me, fiddling with the back of my shirt. I allow it, my head is still as stable as a tumbler in a circus act. When Lyzzie pulls away, running her hands down my arms and lacing her fingers with mine, I nearly have a heart attack. 

“Wha -?” I blink down at my hands, bend my elbows. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Lyzzie laughs, but she’s crying, too. 

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, stroking her thumbs across my palms. It feels so strange, so perfect. 

“I’ve missed this,” I whisper, and the tears flow freely. We stand there for several minutes, sobbing, laughing. Then Lyzzie says we must go, and I trip over a pile of cloth and shiny silver buckles lying on the ground. Luckily, I can break my fall with my arms. I stand, dust myself off, kick the bundle in disgust. Who would leave such an odd thing lying around? 

The sun is at its last as we leave the station. I sigh, drum my fingers on my knees, rest my head on Lyzzie’s shoulder. Nothing makes any sense right now, but I have her, and the whole world to figure it out in.