Chapter 4
Alanna
Arriving back at my apartment after several bus transfers, I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I drop them twice.
Everything seems too loud—the jingle of my keys, footsteps from the apartment above, traffic from the street.
When I finally close the door, locking it tightly and throwing the deadbolt against the outside world, I sink to the floor, my face buried in my hands.
I don’t know how long I stay that way, pressing my palms into my sockets until bursts of color explode behind my lids.
Eventually, I open my eyes to see my cozy living room with its overflowing bookshelves and oversized armchair.
It looks absolutely normal—but somehow that very fact is off-putting.
Everything is the same, and yet nothing is.
A disorienting rush of the uncanny hits me, and for a fleeting second, I hear a murmur coming from my books. As if their collective knowledge is whispering just beyond my auditory range.
Blundering to the bathroom, I strip off my clothes with desperate haste, throwing them into a forgotten heap.
The glowing mark on my forearm seems to pulse in the dim light, mocking my attempts to shed the events of the morning.
I turn the shower to scalding, then hotter, wanting to wash it all away.
When I give up and emerge from the shower, the entire bathroom is a haze of steam and my reflection a foggy phantom in the mirror. I breathe deep, thankful that at least the shower seems to have finally washed away the scent of that stranger, which somehow lingered on me the whole way home.
But not the mark. Its translucent colors churn beneath my skin as if it’s part of me. It isn’t fading. It isn’t washing away. It looks alive.
My mind is spinning, searching for categorizations. This is not a rash. This is not a chemical burn. This is not a tattoo. I have to find a way to remove it. If scalding water won’t work, what will?
I assess my various bottles and tubes around the bathroom. Disinfectant? Too harsh. Nail polish remover? Maybe worth a shot. Bleach? I shudder at the thought, but the idea, however briefly, crosses my mind. Then I spot the coarse exfoliating brush I use for dry skin.
With renewed determination, I grab it, squeeze a dollop of my strongest soap onto it, and begin to scrub at the mark with scientific intensity.
I work in small, tight circles, then broader strokes, ignoring the stinging and increasing redness of my skin.
I keep at it until my arm feels raw, until I am panting from the effort.
Finally, I throw the brush away. The mark still swirls serenely, the iridescence indifferent to my plight.
Fine. Clearly more extreme measures are needed. Although it is not a tattoo, it is behaving like one. So I will treat it like one. And tattoos, even if they glow and pulse and defy explanation, can be removed. There are professionals for this.
A flicker of hope, thin but insistent, ignites. Yes. This is a problem with a solution. A human solution. I’ll find the best, most cutting-edge laser tattoo removal technology available in the city, even if it costs me a month’s salary.
My gaze sweeps over the discarded heap of clothes on the floor, then to my jeans, still lying crumpled where I dropped them. My hand goes to the back pocket, before a sudden, cold realization hits me.
My phone.
It’s still lying somewhere on the floor in the library, tossed away by the stranger.
I can’t make an appointment, can’t call anyone, can’t research.
No, wait, I’m being stupid. I still have my ancient laptop from my Master’s degree days—I can use the internet.
But what if Em is texting me? I need my phone.
Despair crashes over me. I have to go back.
Bang bang bang.
I jump, my heart racing like a rabbit caught in a trap. My door. Oh god, is it the stranger? Did he somehow follow me back here? I debate huddling in my shower and pretending I’m not home, which seems like quite possibly the most appealing option.
Then the banging takes on a jaunty rhythm, playful. Tap tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
Surely the stranger wouldn’t knock like that. Gingerly, I creep to my front door and peer through the peephole.
Lizzy and Jen. Coffee. I completely forgot. My Pilates class, too, for that matter. The realization that hours have passed while I’ve been living a nightmare, disconnected from my regular Saturday, is almost as disorienting as the glowing mark on my arm.
“Alanna! Are you in there? Are you okay?!” Lizzy’s voice carries through the thick wood of the door.
Jen adds, “We’re worried! You never miss coffee, and we called like five times!”
A knot of panic coils in my gut. How am I supposed to explain any of this? I am still soaking wet, dressed only in a towel, and branded with an impossible “tattoo.” My friends will never believe this. They’ll think I’ve lost my mind. I think I’ve lost my mind.
But I don’t want them to worry, either.
“Just a minute!” I yell, running to my bedroom, where the morning light fills the room with warm amber hues.
The sudden movement makes me dizzy, the room tilting sickeningly before righting itself.
I grip the doorframe, waiting for my equilibrium to return.
Whatever is happening to me, it’s getting worse, not better.
When I regain my balance, I throw on undergarments, then pull a flowery sundress over my head.
The mark. Right.
I snatch a cardigan too and hastily shove my arms into it, effectively covering up my forearm.
When I open the door, my friends immediately pile in. First Lizzy, her tightly coiled braids swaying as she tugs me into a tight hug. It’s all I can do not to dissolve into sobs at the comfort of the friendly embrace, but I’m determined to pretend like everything is normal.
Jen is right behind her, towering over us both with her Dutch height. Once they’re inside, I poke my head into the hallway, scanning for anything unusual, then close the door behind us and slide the deadbolt back in place.
Jen cocks an eyebrow at my strange behavior but hugs me too. Perhaps I hold on a little too long, because as she releases me, Lizzy says, “Hey, are you alright? You didn’t even text us that you couldn’t make it.”
“Very unlike you,” Jen chimes in.
“Oh. Um. Yeah, I am so, so sorry. It’s been a crazy morning.”
“Did you just get out of the shower?” Jen asks, leading the way into my living room and plopping onto the loveseat.
“Yes, exactly.” I scramble to come up with a good lie.
A good lie always uses as much of the truth as possible.
“I was out late with Em last night. Really late. And I forgot my phone at the library, and then I slept in this morning and missed Pilates, and then I couldn’t text you guys, and so I just figured I’d hop in the shower before going to get my phone. ”
It comes out in a rush, but it’s a solid story. It is unlike me to forget my phone, but I am only human. Totally within the realm of possibility for me to make a mistake.
Lizzy nods sympathetically, while Jen’s look of concern deepens and she says, “You forgot your phone? You? Have you been working late hours again? I thought you said you were going to stop.”
“Yeah, you look exhausted,” Lizzy says. “Oh, I almost forgot, we brought you coffee. Here, maybe this will help.” Rifling through her oversized shoulder bag, which is filled with every possible thing a person might need in almost any situation, Lizzy pulls out a travel mug.
I receive it thankfully, taking a huge sip and letting the taste of my favorite hazelnut latte calm my nerves. “You’re the best, thank you so much. I am really sorry for being a no-show.”
“Ah, it’s no biggie.” Jen waves her hand dismissively. “You’re the most reliable person I know. It makes me feel less terrible, knowing even you forget things sometimes.”
“Happy to be of service, then,” I quip, feeling almost ordinary again for a moment.
“So,” Lizzy claps her hands together, “if you have no other plans, why don’t we just hang out now?”
“We’re inviting ourselves over," says Jen.
I consider sending them away, but . . . well, it is nice to be surrounded by my loving friends. It feels safer, to have them here. A relieved sigh escapes, releasing some of the tension I’ve been holding since last night.
“Obviously,” I reply. “My house is your house, et cetera et cetera.”
They settle in, and I sip my coffee, the hazelnut warmth a small harbor in the storm of my mind. For the first time since the crystal, I feel a fragile sense of peace.
But even as I laugh at one of Lizzy’s anecdotes, I can’t stop thinking about my hidden forearm.
Distracted from the conversation, I mull over my situation.
I have to get my phone back. But I also absolutely do not want to go back to the library—not right now, not until I figure out this perverse mark.
My mind snags on an earlier part of the conversation, and an idea takes shape.
“Hey, are you listening Alanna? Are you sure you’re okay?” Lizzy asks, noticing my faraway stare.
“Actually,” I reply, setting my mug down with a clink that is a little too loud, “you guys were totally right before. I am exhausted. I think I need a break from the library. Just for a little while, just to rest a bit. I’m feeling so run down, I think it would be good for me.
I hate to even say this, but can I ask for a favor? ”
“Anything but my first-born,” Jen says, trying to make me smile.
“I’m going to call in sick for a few days, and just . . . detach.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea! You deserve it,” says Lizzy, full of support that makes me swell with love for her.
“You work too hard,” Jen agrees. “Although I thought you found the library soothing?” Trust Jen to zero in on the inconsistencies in my story.
“I do!” I say, hoping my desperation isn’t showing. “Just, you know, not lately. I’ve been getting thrumming, ah, headaches. Thrumming headaches.”
Jen assesses me shrewdly. “You should go to your doctor, get migraine meds.”
“Yeah. Yeah probably. I will.”
“So what’s the favor you need?” Lizzy asks.
Inwardly, I cringe. I hate lying to them. But right now, the idea of returning to the library is making me feel panicky; it’s worth the lie.
“My phone is still at the library. I’m not really feeling up to going, right now. I was hoping, maybe one of you could swing by and pick it up for me? I’d be eternally grateful.”
“Of course!” says Lizzy.
A sense of foreboding creeps in. “Please just, make sure you go during regular hours, okay?” The last thing I want is to get my friends mixed up in whatever the hell is going on.
But it should be okay during public hours.
All of the strangeness occurred when the library was closed.
Groups of people may be overwhelming at times, but they also mean safety in numbers.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” A hint of confusion furrows Jen’s brow. God, is she seeing right through me?
“You’re seriously lifesavers, thank you again,” I say quickly. Nothing to do but plow onward before she can think about it for too long.
“Grovel later,” Jen says, pulling a fuzzy throw blanket over her lanky legs. She may be dropping the issue, but I can tell that I haven’t quelled her suspicions. “You don’t have a headache now, do you? We can go, if you do.”
“No!” I say, too quickly. I force my tone to calmness. “No. Stay, please. I want to hear about your new boyfriend. Tell me, what’s his biggest beige flag?”
As their comfortable chatter fills my living room, I lean back, allowing myself to sink into the moment. And in that bubble of warmth and laughter, I dare to hope that, maybe, everything will be okay.
But then I shift, and a faint, unmistakable scent hits me. Woodsmoke and pine.
My blood runs cold. I’d thought—I was sure I’d washed it off. I lift the sleeve of my cardigan to my nose and then recoil as if burned. The wool smells like my laundry detergent.
But underneath it, still clinging to my skin, is him.