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allthatgoesShe woke up drowning.
Well, okay, maybe not literally – it was possible that drowning wasn't quite the word, but it was a terrible sensation of sinking and being pushed under all at once, and as far as Claire Rafael could tell, it had come from nowhere at all and come on strong. What had she dreamed of? It was empty and unclear; she remembered voices and screams, and none of them were anything she could place, and they could have all been real memories, not from a dream. There was no way to tell.
There was no way to tell much, really, because for all that she was being crushed – by a serial crusher, maybe, wouldn't that be nice, something to make her memorable, maybe Paul Smecker would solve the mystery of her death – she couldn't feel a thing. The realization came in a wave that would be shocking if anything were shocking. Because nothing was – just nothing was, and everything was confusing, and lost, and that was when Claire also realized she had no idea where she was.
If she were able to see, she might've been able to place a sign somewhere – there were signs, but they were in strange twisting scripts that had enough punctuation that she thought might've been Elemental and might've been something else and might have been Elemental in non-Latin characters. Claire wasn't even sure, really, if that was possible, but it didn't matter. She couldn't read it anyway. She could barely see anything at all, and wasn't sure where her contacts were any more than she was sure where she was.How had they fallen out of her eyes? How had she gotten where she was? What day was it? What day was it where? It had to still be November, didn't it? Had she been out walking? Where had the time gone?
Claire screamed – she thought she screamed, anyway, and tried to scream, but it didn't work. Sounds didn't come out the way she wanted them to. The shriek was a raspy, hollow sound, and not at all the cathartic yell she'd been hoping for. It made calling out for help entirely unreasonable, even once the fog cleared (because it would clear, it had to clear, it had always cleared before) because she couldn't make words with a mouth that wasn't working.
She blinked. Once, twice, three times, and nothing happened. She blinked again, and let out a tiny cry, and ran her hand down her leg to at least try to figure out what she was wearing. It took so much effort just to be able to feel the tight denim of her jeans under her hand that Claire wanted to give up and die right there. If the entire world was so far away, how did she know she'd ever get back to it again?
Her hands found lace on her chest, and she blinked again, and tried to push the fog away. Gave it her all. Pushed. Whispered "please," to whatever deity might have heard her. Maybe one did, maybe it was just luck, maybe it was none of the above, but the tunnel vision subsided just a little, enough for her to figure out what she was wearing (a black lace cover over a white T-shirt, dark blue form-fitting jeans and knee-high boots) which gave her a hint of where she had been (rehearsal, probably, if not a tiny performance) and did not tell her where she was, or when it was.
The sky told her absolutely nothing except "not home" and "probably not anywhere else in the Sunlands, either," and thinking like that had her stuck on the definition of home again. Home was with family, but did that make home New York or did that make home Newhaven? Or both? No, she told herself, stop it, you don't have time to think about anything. You've got to find where you are. You need to think.
Why?
Why what?
Why do I need to think? Why does it matter? I'm stuck. I'm lost. I lost some time and I did some things and I went somewhere and now I have no idea what's happening to me. Again. So why, if I can't feel, if I can't see, if I can't think straight, why am I trying?
I don't know, the other side of the argument said. I think I give up, too.
It started to rain.
Figures.
Claire gave up.
Hours later, the fog had cleared, and Claire was walking ... somewhere, doing something. She'd lost herself again, and when she came to it was in such a blur of the world unfolding from nowhere that it almost hurt. Had it hurt, she probably would have fought harder. Had it hurt, it would've been welcome. Wanted. Pain. Physical pain and suffering and agony and it was better than this numbness, this empty mental anguish, and wouldn't that make a nice emo song? Too bad they weren't an emo band. She could do pretty well with the lyrical nothing that were her own thoughts, and Leah wouldn't have to deal with lyrics anymore.
Leah. Lyrics. Tour. What day was it?
Claire didn't know.
She needed answers. She needed to think. She needed to feel, and she wanted something. There was nothing there to hurt her, she didn't have anything to cut with or anything to bang against and she couldn't see or understand what was going on. It was still raining, and the people wore corsets and gowns and suits and tophats and walked with canes when they didn't seem to need to, and the sky was blurred and funny more than most skies were and more than anything else was without her contact lenses.
Her cheeks itched, and so she thought her makeup must have been running down her face. Why? She put a hand to her cheek, and it was wet, not with blood, but with eyeshadow and stage blush and – and those must have been tears, she must have been crying, and she was still crying, and had only just noticed.
How long had that been going on?
She didn't know that, either.
She kept walking. Time kept dragging. Time kept disappearing.
"Are you all right?" A voice pulled her back to the present, and a man was watching her, looking at her, trying to figure something out – it was probably why she glittered around the edges in periphery, Claire thought, and thought, with a mental laugh, that 'glittered around the edges in periphery' would make a good song, or a good lyric, or something like that, and then she realized maybe it was because to this man, she felt like the Lord Governor, and people had a tendency to find that confusing.
But he wasn't looking at her with respect, and he would have, if she had.
Claire didn't answer. Her right fingers went to her left hand, to find no ring at all, and she let out a quiet cry, because somehow she'd done something with it, taken it off somewhere, or someone had stolen it –
"My lady?" the man asked her, again. "Miss?"
"I do speak English," she managed, hollow. "I'm sorry. I'm looking for – where am I –"
He told her Anserdale, a place that she'd never heard of, something that sounded like a combination of Riverdale and Answering and didn't look like either, and asked where she was from, and she tried to answer and failed and said she didn't know, she was sorry, her name was Claire, she thought, and she didn't belong anywhere, and no, he couldn't get her anything but home.
"But you are uncertain of where home is?"
"I was born in – in New York, in Manhattan, in the Sunlands – they're not a myth," he laughed, and so she knew he'd had more education than Cean, and didn't really know anything else, and maybe he would hurt her, too, and what was wrong with her that suddenly strangers made her nervous? "But I don't know where home is. No. I'm sorry. I – do you have a knife?"
Pain might make her head clearer. But he didn't have a knife, and even if he did, what was she going to do, just slice her arm and run? That wouldn't work anymore than saying 'oh, and do you know Geraint? Yes, that Geraint – I'm his fiancée, you know, so if you could take me to him,' because he'd think she was insane (and she was) and she wasn't even sure she wanted to see Geraint. Maybe he was why she was out there, anyway. Maybe they'd gotten into a fight and she'd left for some air and then just went away. Maybe he'd told her to go. Maybe he'd thrown her out because she'd done something stupid, or because she hadn't done something, or too much, or not enough, and she wasn't welcome there anymore.
Claire didn't know, and so she couldn't say anything. Not about Newhaven, not about Geraint, not about her family, either, because maybe they'd thrown her out, too. She didn't know why she'd been in this place, how she'd gotten there, and so she didn't know where she could go. The man didn't mind, and took her to a very strange place that must have been his home, and he kept looking at her, and she wasn't sure if he was checking her out or trying to figure out if she'd steal from him. The answer might have been both. She could fuck and rob if she had to, but because the circumstances were so unclear it was unbearable, she didn't know if she had to, and didn't want to, either. He seemed halfway decent, and had asked her if she was okay, or some formal equivalent, Claire didn't remember, and talked to her even if he did probably think she was completely insane.
The house was warm, though, and it was still pouring out, and Claire couldn't feel embarrassed about the way she was dressed and the gunk she was covered in because Claire couldn't feel anything at all.
Well, okay, maybe not literally – it was possible that drowning wasn't quite the word, but it was a terrible sensation of sinking and being pushed under all at once, and as far as Claire Rafael could tell, it had come from nowhere at all and come on strong. What had she dreamed of? It was empty and unclear; she remembered voices and screams, and none of them were anything she could place, and they could have all been real memories, not from a dream. There was no way to tell.
There was no way to tell much, really, because for all that she was being crushed – by a serial crusher, maybe, wouldn't that be nice, something to make her memorable, maybe Paul Smecker would solve the mystery of her death – she couldn't feel a thing. The realization came in a wave that would be shocking if anything were shocking. Because nothing was – just nothing was, and everything was confusing, and lost, and that was when Claire also realized she had no idea where she was.
If she were able to see, she might've been able to place a sign somewhere – there were signs, but they were in strange twisting scripts that had enough punctuation that she thought might've been Elemental and might've been something else and might have been Elemental in non-Latin characters. Claire wasn't even sure, really, if that was possible, but it didn't matter. She couldn't read it anyway. She could barely see anything at all, and wasn't sure where her contacts were any more than she was sure where she was.How had they fallen out of her eyes? How had she gotten where she was? What day was it? What day was it where? It had to still be November, didn't it? Had she been out walking? Where had the time gone?
Claire screamed – she thought she screamed, anyway, and tried to scream, but it didn't work. Sounds didn't come out the way she wanted them to. The shriek was a raspy, hollow sound, and not at all the cathartic yell she'd been hoping for. It made calling out for help entirely unreasonable, even once the fog cleared (because it would clear, it had to clear, it had always cleared before) because she couldn't make words with a mouth that wasn't working.
She blinked. Once, twice, three times, and nothing happened. She blinked again, and let out a tiny cry, and ran her hand down her leg to at least try to figure out what she was wearing. It took so much effort just to be able to feel the tight denim of her jeans under her hand that Claire wanted to give up and die right there. If the entire world was so far away, how did she know she'd ever get back to it again?
Her hands found lace on her chest, and she blinked again, and tried to push the fog away. Gave it her all. Pushed. Whispered "please," to whatever deity might have heard her. Maybe one did, maybe it was just luck, maybe it was none of the above, but the tunnel vision subsided just a little, enough for her to figure out what she was wearing (a black lace cover over a white T-shirt, dark blue form-fitting jeans and knee-high boots) which gave her a hint of where she had been (rehearsal, probably, if not a tiny performance) and did not tell her where she was, or when it was.
The sky told her absolutely nothing except "not home" and "probably not anywhere else in the Sunlands, either," and thinking like that had her stuck on the definition of home again. Home was with family, but did that make home New York or did that make home Newhaven? Or both? No, she told herself, stop it, you don't have time to think about anything. You've got to find where you are. You need to think.
Why?
Why what?
Why do I need to think? Why does it matter? I'm stuck. I'm lost. I lost some time and I did some things and I went somewhere and now I have no idea what's happening to me. Again. So why, if I can't feel, if I can't see, if I can't think straight, why am I trying?
I don't know, the other side of the argument said. I think I give up, too.
It started to rain.
Figures.
Claire gave up.
Hours later, the fog had cleared, and Claire was walking ... somewhere, doing something. She'd lost herself again, and when she came to it was in such a blur of the world unfolding from nowhere that it almost hurt. Had it hurt, she probably would have fought harder. Had it hurt, it would've been welcome. Wanted. Pain. Physical pain and suffering and agony and it was better than this numbness, this empty mental anguish, and wouldn't that make a nice emo song? Too bad they weren't an emo band. She could do pretty well with the lyrical nothing that were her own thoughts, and Leah wouldn't have to deal with lyrics anymore.
Leah. Lyrics. Tour. What day was it?
Claire didn't know.
She needed answers. She needed to think. She needed to feel, and she wanted something. There was nothing there to hurt her, she didn't have anything to cut with or anything to bang against and she couldn't see or understand what was going on. It was still raining, and the people wore corsets and gowns and suits and tophats and walked with canes when they didn't seem to need to, and the sky was blurred and funny more than most skies were and more than anything else was without her contact lenses.
Her cheeks itched, and so she thought her makeup must have been running down her face. Why? She put a hand to her cheek, and it was wet, not with blood, but with eyeshadow and stage blush and – and those must have been tears, she must have been crying, and she was still crying, and had only just noticed.
How long had that been going on?
She didn't know that, either.
She kept walking. Time kept dragging. Time kept disappearing.
"Are you all right?" A voice pulled her back to the present, and a man was watching her, looking at her, trying to figure something out – it was probably why she glittered around the edges in periphery, Claire thought, and thought, with a mental laugh, that 'glittered around the edges in periphery' would make a good song, or a good lyric, or something like that, and then she realized maybe it was because to this man, she felt like the Lord Governor, and people had a tendency to find that confusing.
But he wasn't looking at her with respect, and he would have, if she had.
Claire didn't answer. Her right fingers went to her left hand, to find no ring at all, and she let out a quiet cry, because somehow she'd done something with it, taken it off somewhere, or someone had stolen it –
"My lady?" the man asked her, again. "Miss?"
"I do speak English," she managed, hollow. "I'm sorry. I'm looking for – where am I –"
He told her Anserdale, a place that she'd never heard of, something that sounded like a combination of Riverdale and Answering and didn't look like either, and asked where she was from, and she tried to answer and failed and said she didn't know, she was sorry, her name was Claire, she thought, and she didn't belong anywhere, and no, he couldn't get her anything but home.
"But you are uncertain of where home is?"
"I was born in – in New York, in Manhattan, in the Sunlands – they're not a myth," he laughed, and so she knew he'd had more education than Cean, and didn't really know anything else, and maybe he would hurt her, too, and what was wrong with her that suddenly strangers made her nervous? "But I don't know where home is. No. I'm sorry. I – do you have a knife?"
Pain might make her head clearer. But he didn't have a knife, and even if he did, what was she going to do, just slice her arm and run? That wouldn't work anymore than saying 'oh, and do you know Geraint? Yes, that Geraint – I'm his fiancée, you know, so if you could take me to him,' because he'd think she was insane (and she was) and she wasn't even sure she wanted to see Geraint. Maybe he was why she was out there, anyway. Maybe they'd gotten into a fight and she'd left for some air and then just went away. Maybe he'd told her to go. Maybe he'd thrown her out because she'd done something stupid, or because she hadn't done something, or too much, or not enough, and she wasn't welcome there anymore.
Claire didn't know, and so she couldn't say anything. Not about Newhaven, not about Geraint, not about her family, either, because maybe they'd thrown her out, too. She didn't know why she'd been in this place, how she'd gotten there, and so she didn't know where she could go. The man didn't mind, and took her to a very strange place that must have been his home, and he kept looking at her, and she wasn't sure if he was checking her out or trying to figure out if she'd steal from him. The answer might have been both. She could fuck and rob if she had to, but because the circumstances were so unclear it was unbearable, she didn't know if she had to, and didn't want to, either. He seemed halfway decent, and had asked her if she was okay, or some formal equivalent, Claire didn't remember, and talked to her even if he did probably think she was completely insane.
The house was warm, though, and it was still pouring out, and Claire couldn't feel embarrassed about the way she was dressed and the gunk she was covered in because Claire couldn't feel anything at all.
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