Rumor Hasn't

The pattern inside was changing; she could feel the beatings shift. They grew fainter, and fainter, withdrawing into her body. Indigo\'s vision flooded with white. Her mouth opened and new air flooded deprived lungs.

The twittering in her head slowly cleared, and a sense of satisfaction welled up. That was the closest I\'ve ever come to stopping. Her heart was moving slowly, almost sluggishly as though exhausted by the pursuits she had put it though.

I almost stopped. She wasn\'t sure if she was ecstatic or not. Certainly her oxygen-deprived brain was floating still, feeling ever so light. Is that the freedom they deny us? she wondered. The ability to reach into nothingness and come back almost whole… Or is there something more that we\'re missing every day? Something that eludes all of us? Too many questions that Indigo did not have the answers to. Questions Indigo did not want answered, even if she needed them.

Let me try this again…

She would be in trouble if they ever found out about her experiments with counting breaths. Indigo was not supposed to experiment with something that could ultimately be so dangerous. The farthest Indigo was supposed to go was to read the pain of others, and compare it. There were rules against things like this; she could care less sometimes.

Touching pain and creating it were different.

Stopping.

Stopping was different.

Something new.

Something…exciting.

Something dangerous.



In the early morning hours, it\'s easier to stay awake than it is to sleep. When the clock freezes around two am, and the seconds seem to be dragging by, that\'s the magical hour. Not the witching hour from the days of old – never something so unreal. No, but there is a strangeness to the hour. It shimmers like a beacon for those able to fight the compulsion of sleep. Once one passes into the two am hours…one may fall asleep on one\'s own; until then, though, there is the terrible desire to simply lie down and cease consciousness. Fight it.

***

The meeting places were nearly always devoid of inhabitants. There was no need to congregate in the open when suitable places could be found inside much more easily; once upon a time, these places might have been worth something, might have been useful, but no longer. There was no purpose, and that made them so very ignorable. That also made them the perfect spot to meet someone one was not supposed to see.

In her case, it was him. She hadn\'t expected him, of course; anyone could have come, but it was him. She could tell, just by the way he looked. His face was soft, used to smiling. Gentle eyes peered out from under raised brows. She had seen him before, and he was here now.

"I…I guess…"

\'Thank you for coming here\' hardly seemed the sort of thing to say. But what exactly did one say? She couldn\'t form the words, just stared for a moment longer, then reached out without Intention. With no Intent, there could be no reading. Without reading, it was only touch. Only touch… That was safe, wasn\'t it?

"You called for me?" His voice was as she remembered it: soft, slightly rough, but gentle. Then again, gentle was in Vermillion\'s nature. Impossible for him to be otherwise.

She nodded. "Yes." Her outstretched hand brushed against his cheek. He drew away, movements slow.

"Why did you call for me?"

"Do I need a reason to see someone?" she asked, eyes searching. His eyes did not meet hers. "Look at me, please." He did not. "Vermillion…look at me."

Eyes jerked up as if compelled. He looked as though he begrudged her the gaze he bestowed. "What is it you wish of me, Indigo?"

"I just wanted…"

Wanted what? To be kept company. No longer to be alone. She had wanted something she could not have. Indigo understood. "It\'s no matter. You may leave, Vermillion." Her voice was not quite a dismissal, but neither was it an invitation to linger. Resignation had infiltrated her mannerisms, her mind. If she could not have, then what was the purpose?

"Wanted what?" He had not left. "Indigo, what is it that you want?"

She sat, legs curled up to her body, gazing demurely at her hands, folded in her lap. There was nothing Indigo could ask for that Vermillion could give; Indigo was above Vermillion in ranking, in the oddly structured hierarchy of their world. There was nothing Vermillion had that Indigo could possibly want.

"May I touch you?"

"Read me?" He seemed uneasy at the idea.

She shook her head. "No. I won\'t read you; I just want to touch…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked up for a brief moment before looking down once more. "I want to feel."

"You do feel. You read –"

"It\'s not the same!" she cried, daring to meet his eyes again. "I need to touch!"

More hesitation, but then he offered his hand to her. "Please do not read me, Indigo."

"I wouldn\'t dream of it, Vermillion," she said quietly, putting her hands out to take his in hers. His skin was warm and dry, though a bit rough. She kept her senses dampened; she did not want to read him. She kept her Intention curbed. Touch was all she wanted, all she thought she needed. Her fingers traced lines over his palm, over the back of his hand, followed veins up the inside of his arm to the crook of his elbow, and then she stopped, slightly flustered, letting go. "I – I\'m sorry," she stammered.

"What is it you seek, Indigo?" he asked. She noticed that although she had released his arm, he had not drawn it back to himself. "What is it for which you so ardently search?"

"I don\'t know. I just don\'t know." A pregnant pause stretched to fill the void of words. \'Vermillion\' dangled on the tip of her tongue; she clamped her mouth shut, biting her lower lip.

"I must go now, Indigo," Vermillion said finally, this time actually pulling away and standing. "Perhaps we will see one another again. Stranger things have happened."

"Stranger than this?" she asked softly, but when he turned back to her, a question in his eyes, she stood, once again Indigo, and waved him away. Vermillion vanished. Indigo watched, then her eyes shut and she let a slight shudder run its way through her body; the life that was inside was intriguing – to see without reading was enchantment itself.



What does it mean to need someone? Do I need someone? Am I dependent? I am here, wherever \'here\' is, and I am content except for these longings. They keep me awake at night, and during the day, wondering over the hows and whys of the world I inhabit. My world is steadily shrinking, though. Soon I\'ll no longer need hours to contemplate it; the space of a few minutes will do. Maybe in the end, I shall need only seconds. My world is closing in. Every moment passing is a moment lost, and eventually my count shall run thin.

***

Curled up in the center of the white rooms was the child. Goldenrod watched the child. The child was aware of the watching. The child seemed not to care. Goldenrod watched and fretted. The child sometimes fretted back, but mostly just sat there, looking at empty pages. Once Goldenrod had taken the pages the child stared at, and there had been furious words exchanged between the two of them. Now, Goldenrod allowed the child to keep the blank pages. There was no worth to them that she could see, after all, and no harm either. If such a toy kept the child occupied, the better for cleaning duties; keeping a house clean was much easier if the child never made a mess.

The child was watching her, though, so Goldenrod bustled around, making a fuss over every nook and cranny, every speck of dust that did not belong. Slowly she worked her way out of the white rooms back into the black ones. The child\'s eyes seemed to follow her, long after Goldenrod was out of the child\'s gaze. Odd images kept flitting back and forth, though. Goldenrod thought there had been some instrument in the child\'s hand, brushing across the blank pages.

What had the child been doing?

Goldenrod checked, and left. Checked, and left. One final check before the child chased her out of the white rooms for good, for the time being. It seemed the child did not care for added company. Instead of forcing the issue, Goldenrod went to all other corners of the house, cleaning and neatening, washing, wiping and straightening. Only when Goldenrod had scoured the house multiple times did she return to the white rooms where the child still sat, patient with the blank pages, and the strange instrument.

"Are you finished?"

"No, and I do not plan to be anytime soon." The child\'s curt, brief reply stung.

"Will you be finished soon?" Goldenrod inquired, a tad wistful.

A sigh escaped the child. "I\'ll be done now, if you wish it so very much." The child stood. "There! I\'m finished – does that make you happy? Do you even know what happy is?"

Happy.

Goldenrod shook her head. "I\'ll tidy up straight away," she said, the cheer only slightly forced. Dealing with the child was so very difficult at times.

"Don\'t bother," the child muttered, stalking out of the room. "I\'ll go elsewhere."

Goldenrod watched the child leave. There was nothing to be done over it, she supposed, and went back to the white mantelpiece; the white end of the house mirrored the black end. Swipes of the polishing cloth stole the remainder of invisible dust. Goldenrod paused to admire her handiwork, then swiped down the piece once more.

Just to be certain.



What do they want from me? I sit here all day, staring at nothing, looking for no one, asking for nothing. They come to me, and they question me. They change my routines and disrupt my cycles. I ask to stop, and they stare into my eyes, poking and prodding with the oddest creations. I hate this place. It is too close; the walls are closing in on me. There are times when I need that terrible tightness, but for now, I cannot breathe. Let me go! Oh, please, won\'t you let me go?

***