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I like making weird shapes, like Picasso paintings. I saw a program on him at school a couple of years ago and felt an immediate connection. I think Picasso saw lights too, only he didn’t tell anyone. People wouldn’t have thought he was a great artist if he said he saw lights — they’d have said he was a nutcase, like me.
The shapes I make are nowhere near as fabulous as Pablo Picasso’s paintings. I’m no artist. I just try to create interesting designs. They’re rough, but I like them. They never last. The shapes hold as long as I’m studying them, but once I lose interest or fall asleep, they come undone and the pieces drift apart, returning to their original positions in the air around me.
The one I’m making tonight is particularly jumbled. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Joining the pieces randomly, with no real purpose. It’s a mess. I can’t stop thinking about not having any friends. Feelin
g wretched. Wishing I had at least one true friend, someone who’d care about me and play with me, so I wasn’t completely alone.
As I’m thinking about that, a few of the patches pulse. No big deal. Lights have pulsed before. Usually I ignore them. But tonight, sad and desperate to divert my train of thought, I summon a couple, study them with a frown, then put them together and call for the rest of the flashing patches. As I add those pieces to the first two, more lights pulse, some slowly, some quickly.
I sit up, working with more speed. This new, flashing shape is curious. I’ve never put pulsing patches together before. As I add to the cluster, more lights pulse. I quickly slot them into place, working as if on autopilot. I have no control over myself. I keep watching for a pattern to emerge, but there isn’t one. Just a mass of different, pulsing colors. Still, it’s worked its magic. I’m focused on the cluster of lights now, dark thoughts and fears temporarily forgotten.
The lights build and build. This is a massive structure, much larger than any I’ve previously created. I’m sweating, and my arms are aching. I want to stop and rest, but I can’t. I’m obsessed with the pulsing lights. This must be what addiction is like.
Then, without warning, the patches that I’ve stuck together stop pulsing and all glow a light blue color. I fall back, gasping, as if I’d gotten an electric shock. I’ve never seen this happen. It scares me. A huge, blue, jagged patch of light at the foot of my bed. It’s like a window. Large enough for a person to fit through.
My first thought is to flee, call for Mom and Dad, get out as quick as I can. But part of me holds firm. An inner voice whispers in my ear, telling me to stay. This is your window to a life of wonders, it says. But be careful, it adds, as I move closer to the light. Windows open both ways.
As it says that, a shape presses through, out of the panel of light. A face. I’m too horrified to scream. It’s a monster from my very worst nightmare. Pale red skin. A pair of dark red eyes. No nose. A small mouth. Sharp, grey teeth. As it leans farther forward into my bedroom, I see more of it and the horror intensifies. It doesn’t have a heart! There’s a hole in the left side of its chest, but where the heart should be are dozens of tiny, hissing snakes.
The monster frowns and stretches a hand towards me. I can see more than two arms — at least four or five. I want to pull away. Dive beneath my bed. Scream for help. But the voice that spoke to me a few seconds ago won’t let me. It whispers quickly, words I can’t follow. And I find myself standing firm, taking a step towards the panel of light and its emerging monster. I raise my right hand and watch the fin-gers curl into a fist. I can feel a strange tingling sensation, like pins and needles.
The monster stops. Its eyes narrow. It looks around my bedroom uncertainly. Then, slowly, smoothly, it withdraws, pulling back into the panel of light, vanishing gradually until only its red eyes remain, staring out at me from within the surrounding blueness, twin circles of an unspoken evil. Then they’re gone too and I’m alone again, just me and the light.
I should be wailing for help, running for my life, cowering on the floor. But instead my fingers relax and my fist unclenches. I’m facing the panel of blue light, staring at it like a zombie fixed on a fresh human brain, distantly processing information. Normally the patches of light are transparent, but I can’t see through this one. If I look around it, there’s my bedroom wall, a chest of drawers, toys and socks scattered across the floor. But when I look directly at the light, all I see is blue.
The voice says something crazy to me. I know it’s madness as soon as it speaks. I want to argue, roar at it, tell it to stuff itself. But, as scared and confused as I am, I can’t disobey. I find my legs tensing. I know, with sick certainty, what’s going to happen next. I open my mouth to scream, to try and stop it, but before I can, a force makes me step forward — after the monster, into the light.
FUGITIVES
NEXT thing I know, I’m on the floor of my bedroom, my baby brother Art cradled to my chest. Mom and Dad are shouting at me, crying, poking and clutching me. Dad gently takes Art from my arms. Mom crouches beside me and hugs me hard, weeping over my bald skull. She’s moaning, calling my name over and over, asking where I’ve been, what happened, if I’m all right. Dad’s staring at me like I’ve got two heads, only looking away to check on Art, his expression one of total bewilderment.
There’s no panel of blue light. No monsters. And no memory of what happened when I stepped through after the snake-hearted creature.
I learn that I’ve been missing for several days. Mom and Dad thought I’d been kidnapped, or wandered out and got lost. The police have been searching for me. They put my photo in newspapers and questioned all the people who knew me. Mom and Dad were frantic. Mom keeps weeping, saying she thought I was dead, that she’d lost another of her babies. I don’t like the way she refers to me as a baby, but this isn’t the time to correct her!
I can’t remember what happened. Up to the moment I took that step forward into the blue light — total recall. After that — nothing.
Mom and Dad don’t believe me. They think I’m lying or in shock. They ply me with hot chocolate in our kitchen and quiz me ruthlessly, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly, neither of them in complete control of themselves. They pass Art back and forth, asking me questions about how he ended up with me. I guess he must have gone missing too, after I did.
“Can I hold Art?” I ask, during a brief lull in the questioning.
Mom passes him to me, watching us suspiciously, perhaps afraid we’ll go missing again. I had a younger sister once —Annabella. She died when she was a baby. I can’t remember much about her — I was only four. But I’ll never forget Mom and Dad’s tears, the misery, the loss I sensed in the air around me. I wasn’t much more than a baby myself, but I knew something terrible had happened, and I could see how upset Mom and Dad were. I guess they never really got over that. It’s only natural that they’re more upset and worried now than most parents would be.
I bounce Art up and down on my knee, cooing to him, telling him everything’s OK. “You’re my little brother. I’ll look after you. It’s fine.” He doesn’t take much notice. He looks more sleepy than afraid. Too young to catch the bad vibes.
Mom and Dad stare at each other wordlessly, then leave us alone for a while, going out into the hallway to discuss the situation. They don’t shut the door behind them, and call out to me whenever I stop talking to Art, making sure we’re still here.
They let me go to bed at one in the morning. Their faces are strained and red. Mom tucks me in and lets Art sleep beside me. She rubs his face tenderly as she pulls the blanket up around him. Starts to cry again. Dad tugs her away, kisses me, then takes Mom back to their bedroom, leaving me and Art to sleep.
I wake in the middle of the night. Mom and Dad are arguing. I don’t know about what. Mom’s saying, “Let’s give it a few days. Watch. Wait. If nobody says anything, or looks for him . . .”
Dad shouts, “You’re crazy! We can’t! It’s wrong! What if the police . . . ?”
I drift back to sleep.
Morning. More questions. Mom sits Art on her lap and feeds him, smiling and laughing wildly every time he gurgles at her. It’s a good thing I’m not jealous of my little brother, as she hardly notices I’m here.
Dad’s upset. He keeps glaring at Mom and Art. Throws more questions at me. Tries to help me unlock my memories. Asks me to take him through the night I vanished, step by step. I tell him I was in my bedroom, I was playing, and that’s all I remember. I don’t mention the lights or the monster. The inner voice that spoke to me that night tells me not to. Says I’d only get into more trouble if I told the truth.
