Chapter 22 #3
None of this does any justice or brings me any closer to escaping this thing’s death grip, so I do the unthinkable—I give in enough to ease the tension, then, lifting my arm to my face, I clamp down on the meatiest part of the hand just below the thumb until it releases me.
Stumbling backward, I do my best to stay mindful that there is a possibility that all of them are like this.
I don’t have time to think, so I let my instincts guide me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shout to the sky.
“I know you are out there, and the pagan Gods have never listened to me, so-” I am overtaken by a strong wave of surrender and sorrow, as tears propel from my eyes. “Please, God, if you can hear me... Help me!”
A crash of lightning responds to me, and rain begins to fall.
I stare up in awe, allowing the two liquids to mix: the rain and my tears.
A moment passes, and a sound interrupts my prayer of thanks, one so subtle but distinct like a snake slithering in the grass, as I open my eyes again, I see the hedges separating and moving further apart, making a clear line to the end.
Still crawling, I rush to be free from this section of the labyrinth, and once at the clearing, my body crumbles to the ground with exhaustion.
My rest is cut short when a familiar sobbing erupts somewhere within the clearing.
Turning to my belly, I find the second memory has descended—it was Evelyn the night of prom, sitting in the ambulance.
I had called Peter because I didn’t know what else to do at the time.
Peter: (sitting next to Evelyn in the back of the ambulance as they check her vitals before they move her to the hospital for testing.) Are you okay?
(Evelyn doesn’t speak. She pulls the blanket the EMTs gave her a little tighter and nods, avoiding eye contact.) I just don’t understand.
(He continues, I lean closer, not remembering this part, I was shaken up just as much that night.) Where is your father?
(Evelyn shrugs) What kind of father would allow this to happen to his daughter?
(She finally looks at him, an obvious look of disgust on her face.)
Suddenly, she opens her mouth to speak, but no sound joins it, then another flash, and back to the garden. I pound the ground with my fist. “I don’t understand.” I yell toward the stars afresh, “What does all this mean?”
I am answered by the sound of a large stone being rolled away, and I am greeted with the opening of a new path.
This one, however, seems straightforward.
It is a short one, and the clearing is one I have become very accustomed to—in the clearing is the stunning rose bush and the intricate bench.
Stepping through, I notice a small glow emanating from the carnation bush behind the bench, drawing my immediate attention.
As I walk over to it, the shadows that once silhouetted it were diminishing, and the gorgeously detailed bird came into view.
.. as did the wording that was once caked with dirt and debris.
As I lean in to read the words, there are no more obstructions—the bench is clear, but the message is not.
I am thrown into a moment of Deja Vu, and the night’s events with Peter and the misted man replay themselves.
Another flash of light, then darkness as the burn and lack of oxygen return, Peter’s words ring crisp and clear in my head.
“He can’t save you. At least I was able to rid the world of a few disgusting. Selby. Peasants.”
Opening my eyes, I see the familiar Canopy curtains that drape down the four-poster bed, the same rose-gold embellishments—I sit up.
How did I get back to my room?
Did I dream that?
I hear the roaring of water come to life in the bathroom, and I lean over trying to get my eyes to see around the corners.
Waiting to see who emerges, I crawl to the edge of the bed, unable to take the suspense any longer.
I make it to the end as Oliver strides through the doorway with his shirt unbuttoned all the way.
I can feel the heat rising, boiling beneath my skin.
Oh, for fucks sake, he is so hot!
My want for him is molding into the strongest need I’ve ever had in my life. “Oliver?” The words finally slip from my mouth.
“Yes, dove?”
Ah, fuck why is he so…
He giggles—not like a girly giggle, or even the typical guy giggle, this giggle was seductive… low… purposeful. I find myself staring at his mask, imagining his face beneath it, wishing he would leave it off, wanting him to feel comfortable around me so that he didn’t have to hide.
“What is it, little bird?” I shake my head. “You are biting your lip… again. Do you see something you like?”
Focus, Emory, this is important.
If it was a dream, then cool, we can embrace this moment.
What if it wasn’t, though?
“No?” I am pulled from my thoughts by his words, their tone laced with dejection, “Do you not like what you see?”
Snapping out of whatever dream state I had drifted to, “What, oh, um, no that’s not what-” I quickly look away from him, “Oliver, when you dropped me off at the garden… I saw something happen.”
His head tilts to the side. “Go on,” I tell him about the misted beings. I elaborate even further in explaining how one of them, I was sure, had to be Peter. The whole scene played out before me once more as I went into every detail—into the things I saw ‘the mist’ do to Peter.
“He... he killed him, Ollie.” The confusion in his eyes did little to help me believe that what I saw wasn’t a dream. “Then there was the stabbing.” I grab my head in memory, and the pain returns with a vengeance as it haunts my mind, “The pain radiated throughout my skull.”
It wasn’t until I clasped my head to my forehead while mentioning the jabbing pain that his expression finally changed.
“Suddenly, the awful sensation of swallowing water took hold of me.” One hand messaging my temples, my other now clutching at my throat, I continue, “It was a massive amount, to the point I felt like I was drowning.”
He stood straight once I informed him of the ‘drowning feeling’.
I could see the anger fume from him as I continued, “But I must have been dreaming because Peter’s spirit spoke to me.
” I tried to reiterate what the Peter-like mist had said to me.
I even thought about mentioning the maze, but his reaction to what I told him already is telling me now is not the time.
His fingers ball up, just before his hand meets the wall—he applies such force that I was surprised it didn’t leave behind a gaping hole.
“Not yet.” He said through gritted teeth, “I need more time. It's too soon.” Punching the wall again, he shouts, “I’m not ready.” Then, he glares back at me, fear and despair leaking from his eyes, and whispers, “She isn’t ready.”