Category: Issue #5

Roah sees in the foggy distance the overgrown ruins of a place he has travelled long and far to find. He sees the nests of glass and metal reaching up into the sky. He sees the grey-black stones beaten into a smooth flat floor. He sees the Toyotas and Mercedes rusting in their masses on the road, with the shrivelled rotting corpses inside. He sees the Petronas twin towers and knows that this must be Kuala Lumpur. By the time he reaches the city the sun is setting and in this humid amber twilight Kuala Lumpur comes alive. Thick roots shatter the road and pavement into black grey shards. Vines strangle the towers. Trees cleave their way through the structures where the floors and walls are weak or rotten. The putrid stench of the Rafflesia blossom is thick in the air. Thick layers of moss and lichen smother every surface and every crevice. But there are no people. Just room after room of husks, with their bleached bones and shrunken brown flesh, each of them begging Roah to hear their stories from the sunken pits of their eye sockets. There are the ones who curled up and waited for the end, racks of empty ration packs still beside them. There are the ones who met the end on their own terms, the guns still locked in the cold grip of rigor mortis. There are the bodies strung up from the overpasses, the red crosses and winged staves peeling off their tattered uniforms. These were the medicine men who either couldn’t or wouldn’t. Roah is overcome by the urge to check everything. The bullets in his rifle, the lighters in his pocket, the food in his pack, even shakes his clothes off for insects. A lifelong fear buried deep within him now rises to the surface. He might be alone after all.

His search can begin tomorrow. In the hollow of a smaller tower, with his fire bright and crackling, Roah flops down onto a nearby couch. Sleep is instant. Colours and sounds come to him and leave just as quickly. Two vague figures linger, their faces blurry through the haze of years, a man and a woman, a room and a storm. His father, Sai-Wen, grilled whole fish on a steel sheet over a makeshift propane fire pit. His mother, Kurang, placed fruit offerings to the biological hazard symbol stencilled in dripping white paint on the wall of the hotel room. Outside their sixth floor room the monsoon rains rolled across the Hong Kong skyline, flooding the gutters with warm stormwater. All three wore surf shorts coloured in bright pinks, blues, and greens, their ox-leather sandals, kneepads, gloves and accessories thrown in a pile to the side. Kurang pulled her tributes from a massive back pack twice her size. Many times Roah would see her appear over the horizon with a full pack of vegetables taller than herself, standing straight like her shoulders weren’t hurting.

‘The trick,’ she would say with pride, ‘Is I tell myself: the longer I spend out there, the less I have to go.’

He was only five years old then. This was their home, the Hong Kong Sorrento Towers, a home they shared with almost a hundred others. Sai-Wen turned the fish and spoke.

‘You should pray more to Contagion. I hear clan Grand Promenade has one man sick.’

Roah felt a grudge in his father’s cold, measured words. Sai-Wen kept an assault rifle by his side at all times, which he now loaded and unloaded and loaded and unloaded. Kurang had finished her rites and was playing with Roah’s hair, who could only think of how sharp and lethal Contagion’s many spikes looked on the wall.

‘Huang is still your brother,’ Kurang reminded, because it disgusted her to see insincerity in her mate. As the years went on Roah would choose to forget who was related to who, who shared a father with who, who was a cousin to who, and all that webbing which humans seemed obsessed with untangling. Sai-Wen spat.

‘If Contagion has got to take someone, better him than us.’

Roah felt his mother’s fingers scratching his scalp, tilting his head left and right. She was choosing her next words carefully.

‘Huang has been marked for Quarantine.’

She kissed the back of Roah’s head. Sai-Wen stopped loading the rifle. Fish began to burn. That same night Roah ran across the rope and plank bridge between towers to the home of Grandma Sorrento. What was Quarantine?

Grandma Sorrento lived in the penthouse and rarely left. She hobbled from a broken shin which had healed into place long ago. By her fire she kept the skull of the last panda, which she wore to the gatherings of the matriarchs and patriarchs of the clans of Hong Kong, or to pull pranks on small children, depending on her mood. Grandma Sorrento was wide awake when Roah came to visit. Her answers to Roah’s questions were too neat. Too clean.

‘Your uncle Huang fell through the floor. He was cut by a needle, and Contagion must’ve been waiting in the needle,’ and Grandma Sorrento paused for effect, ‘Because now he is sick.’

Another pause. Long enough that Roah knew it was his turn to speak.

‘But the cure-’

‘Retrovirus’, she corrected, then repeated to herself in contemplation, ‘Retrovirus . . .’

Clan Sorrento had rules. A child was told they would die one day at three years old. A child was told how babies were born at four years old. A child was told about Quarantine whenever they were ready, that Quarantine happened when there were two in the sick room and only retrovirus for one. In that penthouse Grandma Sorrento gave Roah the whole routine, asked him rhetorical questions and allowed him to invent the right answers, so that Roah knew, felt, and believed: Quarantine is a decision.

Roah wakes slowly. It takes a moment for him to remember who and what and where he is. He spends the day following a cassowary. The bird shows him the fresh water springs where rain has pooled in recesses in the ground, it takes him to nests of crunchy insects and verdant groves of exotic fruit. It doesn’t seem to mind sharing so long as Roah shares when it isn’t looking. As he maps the city in his mind he keeps an eye out for signs of human life, even dares to hope for a clan to appear and welcome him officially into this place.  But all he has are husks, and their company is unrelenting. The medicine men from the overpass are not alone. The world before Contagion came had its own brutal form of Quarantine, and Roah runs from them, runs into the darkest shack he can find and blocks out the windows so he can’t feel their gaze on his back. He escapes into sleep.

In his dreams there is a grove, the overgrown Kowloon train station. Its ceiling was collapsed and sunlight gleamed off the rails. In this grove there was a zone, marked by four large concentric circles in red paint on the floor, warnings of Contagion’s many vectors at each threshold. In these circles, at their centre, in the cool shade where no light reached, was a rusted train car draped in seventeen layers of plastic curtains, reeking of antiseptic. In that train car there were four figures. Three of them wore thick yellow rubber clean suits, their breath dragging thin through the gas masks. The last figure lay naked on the seating. The small one was Roah, six years old, come to watch his father say his goodbyes. The second figure was Sai-Wen, assault rifle at his hip, breath caught in his throat, mortified by the writhing brown mass which was supposed to be his brother. The third man was the Keeper of the sick room, a man with no clan. A tiger skull helmet and the shotgun in his lap reminded others of his authority on neutral ground. They were to have their goodbyes and nothing more. He kept a respectful distance.

The dehydrating body spoke: ‘Long time, brother.’

‘Long time, Huang.’

It felt to Roah like all the heat and humidity in Hong Kong was trapped in that car, the rubber of his suit clammy against his skin.

‘Huang, this is my son.’

‘This is Roah? Come closer.’

Roah felt thick rubber fingers on his shoulder.

‘Roah,’ his father cautioned, ‘Stay where you are.’

In the corner of his eye he saw the Keeper’s fingers wrap just a little tighter around the shotgun. Roah struggled with the situation. There were supposed to be two in the sick room.

‘The other sick man is you. Me. All of us, at any time. Your uncle Huang wasn’t our clan anymore. He did nothing with his life, didn’t hunt, didn’t craft, or cook, or gather, or even breed, and the men can barely claim glory for that. He did nothing,’ and now Grandma Sorrento dripped with venom Roah never knew she had, ‘just grew fat and drank and slept in his own piss and shit.’

Kurang was standing in the doorway. Roah looked to her.

‘You’re old enough to know, boy. Grandma Sorrento is right.’

It didn’t feel right. Not to Roah, who was six again and whose father was leaning over the dying man and straining his ears to hear the words being whispered to him.

‘I was always a burden.’

‘That’s not true. Not always.’

‘Did you think Contagion was right to take me?’

Sai-Wen was silent for a while.

‘Yes.’ Sai-Wen swallowed hard.

‘Huang, I didn’t know they’d-’

‘Ah, brother,’ the vowels rattled in Huang’s throat, ‘Thank you. For the truth. Come closer. I have something I need to tell you.’

Sai-Wen looked to the Keeper.

 ‘Don’t be so coy. You owe me a dying wish, don’t you?’

The Keeper nodded. Sai-Wen brought his face closer. With a hideous wheezing, Huang channelled the last of his strength into his arm and wrenched the gas mask off Sai-Wen’s face. Sai-Wen gasped; inhaled. Huang cackled:

‘We meet it together,’ and continued to cackle as thunder cracked and a shotgun slug splattered red on white. Roah dropped to the floor; body flat, hands on head, waiting for an adult. Sai-Wen froze. The Keeper levelled the weapon at the back of Sai-Wen’s head.

‘Roah,’ Sai-Wen’s voice quivered as he thumbed the safety on his rifle, ‘Are you down?’

‘Don’t do it, Sorrento man,’ warned the Keeper. ‘We can still get your boy out of here.’ He held the shotgun steady.

When the thunderstorm in the sick room was over Sai-Wen was dead, his body slumped over his brother’s and two slugs in his chest. Wisps of gunpowder wafted in the still air. The Keeper clutched a bullet wound in his thigh. Roah lay on the floor, his ears were ringing, his face was hurting, still waiting for an adult.

‘Get up, boy.’ Roah got up.

‘Are you breached?’ Roah didn’t move.

‘It’s okay. It’s okay, I wouldn’t. I’d never. Not to a child.’ He panted the words, tossed his shotgun to the side. Roah turned around slowly with both arms raised. The Keeper laughed.

‘No breaches. Oh, that’s good, that’s really good. I wasn’t ready. I could never.’ he closed his eyes and breathed the words to the ceiling.

‘Go home, boy. Tell Grandma Sorrento the sick room is compromised. And give thanks to Contagion for your good fortune.’

When Roah closed the plastic curtains behind him he heard one last dull, muted thunder crack.

Roah was pulling potatoes from the earth again, sixteen years old and alone with his mother. They found the bodies in the sick room and for the last ten years Kurang and Roah had carried Sai-Wen’s failure, his inability to meet Contagion with grace and dignity. Grandma Sorrento would visit just to lecture them when she was feeling malicious.

‘That wicked man had something to prove. He wanted to show that even the best people, even Sai-Wen, could be wicked too, when faced with Contagion.’

She chewed on a stem of sugar cane for a moment, relishing the gravity of the conversation and her position in it before she finished.

‘And he was absolutely right.’

As Roah shook dirt from carrots on the hillside he sensed his mother had something to say.

‘Roah, let me tell you a secret.’

They watched the ocean lapping at the feet of the harbour.

‘The longer I spend out here, the less I have to be back there.’

She had a fine Swiss army knife and handgun with her, which she now placed in Roah’s open hands. Roah wasn’t at all surprised. Sometimes someone, somewhere, would start running and never stop. They ran and ran until they either fell over dead or they found a place where they belonged, and this is how clans were born. Kurang gave Roah one last push.

‘These aren’t your people anymore.’

So Roah was running, running through the thick jungle, cutting his ankles on thorns and not once looking back because he knew from all the fireside stories that it was harder for her than it was for him. He ran through Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and into Malaysia, he ran for years.

The embers in his fire are cold; he has overslept. As Roah climbs the Petronas towers he finds the story of clan Petronas long finished, a story told in overturned tables and bullet holes and broken, charred husks, some with their arm around a hostage and a bullet hole through both from those who didn’t care. At the top of the tower is the last husk, hiding in its penthouse behind a barricade of furniture, clutching a small metal suitcase to its chest. The suitcase bears the winged staff in red and the words in clean block letters, ‘VIP Only’. All the time he is haunted by his image in the mirrors, thrown back at him with such awful clarity, every wrinkle and pore of every wiry limb, flesh sagging off the bones under the arms, cheeks, and eyes. Even as he wrestles and hacks the suitcase away at the brown wrist joints, even as he opens the case and finds a single, flawless glass capsule resting in grey foam, all he cares to do is to guess on one hand the years remaining.

Kissing sound, kissing sound – that’s what you want to hear. Don’t let the steam wand sound like it’s screaming in pain. The art of frothing milk should never be rushed. I walk past the window where there’s a small group of people standing outside the café. They stare at their phones and wait for their takeaway coffees to be served as I enter. I love coming here to Jabberwocky. The first thing I see when I walk in is the kitchen, right in front of me; it’s not hidden away behind a door that says ‘staff only.’ The table tops are wooden with a weak wash of blue paint that has soaked into the timber. Their legs are recycled from old sewing machines. On top of each of the tables is a tiny brown bottle with a dried sprig of white heath. The chairs are old and industrious, with rusty steel frames and upholstered in fake white leather. Behind the cash register is a mirrored wall with bottles of spirits along a shelf that multiply in a rainbow of colours. There are shelves around the top of the walls that have old books resting on them, along with white rabbit statues. Their table numbers are old books with numbers clear contacted onto the front covers. I like the idea of reading while you wait for your order. But what makes me feel like I’m home is the resident brown cat that has adopted Jabberwocky.My cats are back home in Melbourne. Her name is Arabica and she sits out the front of the café every morning for scraps that the staff give her. The staff; the chef Aaron wears a blue apron and a ginger beard. The barista Louise, clad in black with her tied up brown hair and the waiter Viggo, all greet you with a smile and take in all the strays that come off the street, furry or otherwise.

‘Hi Phoebe, cappuccino, one sugar?’ asks Viggo from behind the counter.

Viggo is your typical ABBA-inspired Scandinavian with blonde hair and a pronounced jawline, surrounded by stubble and just a few too many muscles.

‘Yes please,’ I say with a smile and hand him four dollars.

‘Sure, I’ll bring it out to you. Take a seat.’

I go back outside and sit at a table where Arabica sits on the opposite chair. We’re doused in shade from the awning jotting out from the front of the building. Arabica enjoys her pats from me as much as the breakfast she gets from Jabberwocky.

It’s my treat of the morning, the calm before the storm which is the rest of my day. I work in an office as a photocopier. Multiple floors of cubicles, twelve-by-twelve wide and long. The office has no distinguishing features; it is there to be an office and an office only. I have been reduced to photocopier mule but enjoy the coffee run as I get away from the printers and the grey and harsh fluorescent lights. There is life in the building but nobody living it. Although my colleagues are pleasant they’re porcelain white zombies who haven’t seen the sun in about twenty-five years. My supervisor Judy, who is a lot older than me, has frizzy red hair and massive purple glasses. She loves me and doesn’t want me to go, maybe because we’re the only two that aren’t life-sucking zombies.

Plus the money is great. I can afford to rent a terrace house in quirky old Newtown all to myself and who in their mid-twenties can say that? I can walk down the street to Jabberwocky anytime I want. I love to walk past the charity shop which has high-waist jeans that were cool fifteen years ago on display. I can go to the organic market and the newsagent where I can pick up a copy of ‘Sustainable Living’ magazine. I pass the cat shelter and look at the photos of all the cats for adoption in the window and fall in love with all of their faces. I don’t dare go in because I’ll walk out with the whole shop. But it would be nice to have somebody to come home to as it’s very lonely in Newtown.

I moved here from Melbourne for my Arts degree, taking the photocopier job to pay the rent, plus they asked for ‘creatively wired people’ and I thought that’s me! I graduated a year ago and I’m still here! I’m completely torn. Living out of my parents’ place wasn’t as magical as I thought it would be. I do love Newtown but I have found myself just doing grocery shopping, constantly! I’m always reduced to that last mouldy piece of cheese in the fridge and I don’t even eat cheese! I don’t even have friends to invite over to eat the cheese. I talk casually to the people in Jabberwocky, but I don’t have the courage to invite them over for dinner or something. I think that might be a bit of a stretch. I’ve found that adulthood is just another word for guessing and making it up as you go along.

I used to love bragging to my friends back in Melbourne how successful I was in Sydney. In the beginning, it was great making them jealous, but now…it’s not enough. They’re all doing well back home and I’m feeling a little forgotten up here. Some getting married, some even having babies, some traveling all over the world with their partners and climbing the career ladder…and then there’s me. I’m stagnating.

Judy, with her hair positively sparking with electricity, was so excited after a heads-of-department meeting yesterday,

‘Phoebe, guess what? Upstairs is shuffling people. I’ll put a word in to promote you up next to me in photocopying. Wouldn’t you like that?’

I feel so conflicted because I don’t want to let her down but I think it’s time to leave. I don’t care about a promotion; I didn’t want to be working here as long as I already have been. What I want and love is the idea of owning my own café, and starting that dream by becoming a barista, a good place to learn the ropes and find out if hospitality is for me. I’d like my café to be an oasis for people to escape the daily grind by absorbing another kind of grind that is wonderful fair trade organic coffee. The drink that turns any zombie into a sociable being.

But this dream might mean sacrificing my apartment, my freedom and moving back to Melbourne, living with my parents for a while, but not for long. Mum keeps saying I’m always welcome back home but I think Dad has already turned my room into a music studio and she just wants the peace and quiet back. Maybe a café would do better in Melbourne anyway.

‘Here’s your cap.’ Viggo says as he brings out my coffee and puts it on the table.

‘Thanks!’ I say. A beautiful Rosetta leaf is crafted in the milk foam on top of the cup.

I have my first mouthful of coffee and it is like a warm hug. From what I’ve learned from Louise, the barista, this coffee is the result of an amazing blend that came from Brazil, Honduras and Venezuela. The little green beans travelled across the sea in hessian bags to end up being roasted, grinded and crushed to produce this liquid gold in front of me. Its’ not just me enjoying it. I look up to see the line of people at the window isn’t getting any shorter just yet. It’s amazing how many people go on pilgrimage and ritualise this little seed every morning. It all starts with the farmers who grow the beans, to the roaster preparing the coffee, to the barista lovingly crafting a made-to-order delight. It’s the seed that changed the world and I feel like it can change my little corner of the world too. Viggo comes back out with a small bowl of cream for Arabica and places it on the chair she’s on. She sits up and drinks. Viggo goes back inside with orders up, thick and fast. I pat Rabby on the head and she purrs. She’s friendlier than my own cats.

Just then a mass of white fur comes pelting out of nowhere, barking and growling like a leaf blower. Arabica growls back in fear and before I can grab her she’s off down the street and around the corner with a Maltese right behind her. I abandon my coffee and run after them. There’s a lady in lycra running in front of me, calling out,

‘Rocky! Come back here! Rocky!’

I can hear the dog barking and snapping, the lady shirking at the dog to get it under control. The cat yowls in pain and I run faster so I can see them around the corner. The lady has gotten hold of the lead, dragging the dog away, but the cat…Arabica is cowering in a corner. The fur along her spine is upstanding like a row of pine trees and her pupils are dilated, swallowing the darkness.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask the dog lady.

‘Yes, yes. I’m fine, Thanks. Come on, Rocky, come on. Bad dog, bad dog. We’re going home right now and you can forget your pig ears tonight.’ She pulls the dog away and smacks him with her freshly printed herald. She leaves me with Arabica. I go up close to her and kneel down but she’s growling at me, scared out of her wits. The cat curls up in the corner and is blinking heavily. Before I know it she’s passed out. Crap. ‘Rabby?’ I take my jacket off and wrap her up in a bundle. I don’t know what to do with her. I take her back to the café because maybe they can help me. They’re the closest thing to her home.

‘Viggo? Where’s Viggo?’ I walk in as the crazy cat lady.

Louise is busy frothing milk but she’s able to point to the bathroom. Viggo comes out and sees me there, confused. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘Rabby got attacked by a dog. I don’t know what to do with her.’ I show him Arabica, curled up like a cinnamon scroll.

‘Take her to the cat shelter down the road. My shift ends in twenty minutes, I’ll meet you there.’ he says.

‘Okay…’ I say. How did this become my day? I quickly pace down the street, passing the organic market and the newsagent to get to the cat shelter. I press the buzzer with the finger I can manage to get free.

‘Please, please can you help me? This cat was attacked by a dog.’ I tell the lady at the reception desk, probably wondering why I was carrying my jacket in a bundle.

‘Oh the poor thing,’ she says, taking my bundle. She’s a short, stocky lady who looks like she wrestled with a hair straightener for two hours this morning.

‘I’ll take her through straight away,’ She scoops it up, ‘Is it your cat?’ she asks.

‘No, it’s not, but it hangs out at Jabberwocky. She’s a stray.’ I say and she bustles out the back door.

She comes back in a couple of minutes with my jacket.

‘Here you go. Doesn’t look like there’s blood on it,’ she says.

‘Thanks. How’s the cat?’ I ask, putting my jacket back on, realising it has now been cat-furred.

‘Not sure. Our vet is looking at her now. She’ll do her best. So you think it goes to the café down the street?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I think so. The waiter is coming up to see her.’

‘Okay, if you could just fill in this cat admission form, just your name and number, plus the cat’s name. We’ll do our best.’

I scribbled something of a signature and with that I say thank you and run off to work without seeing Viggo coming up the street.

My day was long and relentless, there were copying orders coming out of my ears. Judy was again so happy with my work on her five-hundred-and-thirty-five page major development proposal and paid me back with a coffee. I can still feel the caffeine sparking in my blood five hours later. I kick off my shoes, put the kettle on for my two-minute noodles and flop down onto the mattress on the floor. Just then my phone rings in my handbag. I really, really hope it’s not the office.

‘Hi Phoebe, Its’ Hannah from the cat shelter. How are you tonight?’ she chirps.

‘Oh hi, I’m good thanks. How’s Arabica?’ I say, the words spilling from my mouth.

‘She’s doing really well. She was really malnourished and dehydrated. The vet couldn’t find a microchip so we’re pretty sure she doesn’t have an owner. We were wondering if you would consider adopting her when she’s recovered?’

‘I uh…I’m not really in a position to have a cat, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh okay. Look, that’s fine. I’m only asking because the waiter down the road did come by after you left this morning and said you seemed keen to take her because the café can’t keep offering food to her. Health and safety, you know.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, of course,’ I say, lost for words.

‘So that’s fine, I’ll put her up for adoption then. Thanks Phoebe!’ she hangs up before I can say anything else. I stare at my phone for a moment and the screen goes dark. Hmm. I think at least Arabica will now have a proper home. I get up to pour hot water onto dehydrated noodles. My life is as exciting as choosing between chicken or oriental flavour.

The next morning I am relishing in just staring at the ceiling because it’s my day off. Not having to go anywhere or adhere to the emotionally sensitive printers and having to deal with their breakdowns and paper jams. Twenty-four hours that are completely mine. I get up eventually and go to the fridge. That mysterious block of mouldy cheese is still there. I throw it out and decide to go down to Jabberwocky for breakfast.

Breakfast at midday! I’m relishing it. I sit at a table outside under the awning. I look down at the chair where Arabica would sit and something doesn’t feel right. Viggo comes out to take my order but surprizes me by asking eagerly,

‘Phoebe! Did you take the cat?’

‘Oh…no,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he says, deflated. ‘Well, can I get you a cap with one sugar then?’

‘Yes please.’ I say. But then more words spill out of my mouth, I hold up my hand to make him pause. ‘No, wait. Can I get the cap to go? I’m on my way to pick her up.’

It was one o’clock in the arvo, and ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ was full. Its plastic chairs and tables accommodated the same group of worn men who trudged fifteen minutes every day along the high perimeter walls of Sector A from the interface factory to the cosy restaurant, for its five dollar lunch special: a mountain of fluffy rice and a moat of caramel-brown Japanese curry with islands of carrot, potato, mushroom, chunky beef and sliced chilli. Only one factory worker, Frank, looked up at the sound of Gabby, the owner, slapping a wet dishcloth onto the front counter as she argued with Mike, the wombat-faced chef. Georgie and the rest of Frank’s co-workers were too busy gulping down curry to notice. Besides, a bit of a barney was nothing out of the ordinary here – Gabby had capsaicin on her voice and was as fiery as the curry she served.

‘Mate, we’re not bloody putting any more chilli in the curry.’

‘But Gab, it needs it. Trust me! Don’t you want the best curry shop in Sydney?’

‘I don’t need the best, Mike, I need to survive. I want my kids fed, mate, not a damn title.’ Gab swung her arm out towards Frank and Georgie’s table.

‘Look. Look at Georgie.’

The iceberg of a man had tears dripping off his chin and a pile of rice and curry waiting on his spoon. He snorted a droplet of snot back into his nostril and filled his mouth. And Georgie wasn’t the only one. Each customer, all well-muscled men from the factory, had teary red eyes and were sniffling like sick children.

‘These are hard times, Gab. Can’t a man cry?’

Gabby tossed the dishcloth into the sink and leaned forward over the register.

‘Aye, Georgie!?’

Georgie looked up and took a deep sniff before replying.

‘Yes, Gab?’

‘Why’re ya’ crying, mate?’

‘It’s your curry, Gab. It’s tasty, but the spice does make ya’ tear up a bit.’

Gabby turned back to Mike, her arms crossed under her bosom.

‘What, Gab? He said it was tasty.’

‘No more chilli, Mike.’

‘Look, I’m the head chef here-’

‘You’re the only bloody chef, you shit-wit.’

‘That makes me the head chef.’

‘It makes you chef. No more chilli, you keep it as it is. For some reason, these idiots like having bushfires in their mouths. But, no more, I don’t want anyone spontaneously combusting in my restaurant.’

 * * *

That night, with the restaurant cleaned and closed, Mike lit up a burner under one of the tall curry pots and stirred the last few servings congealed at the bottom. As the heat freed the scent of the curry sauce, heavy with tangy cumin and robust turmeric, Mike drew it into his nostrils. The day’s leftovers were always the best. The garlic, ginger and chilli all filtered to the bottom, giving each spoonful chunks of spicy sharp flavour. Mike refused to deseed chillies. The seeds and heat had to be present. The bubbling of the stew dispersed the seeds and they would show up in odd places – stuck in some marrow, imbedded in a chunk of carrot and floating elegantly on a glossy patch of oil. The seeds and heat of the chilli tied the entire curry together through a sensation of sensual pain. If Mike could serve his ‘end of day special’ to every customer he would, but only his most important customer would ever taste it.

The kitchen window rattled as leather knuckles rapped on it.

‘Hold on Steven! Almost done!’ Mike danced across the room and shovelled rice into three bowls. He opened the back door of the kitchen which led into a tight alley and placed one of the bowls next to the shaggy pile of man who was sitting outside on the cracked step.

‘That’s for Roger.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

After slopping curry into the remaining bowls Mike sat down on the step next to Steven, who had deep dirty wrinkles, cauliflower ears and a scraggly white beard which touched the crotch of his stained jeans as he sat. Steven’s fingers poked out of his tatty grey coat to accept the bowl that Mike passed him, and he paused for a moment with the bowl cupped in his palms so that the flesh of his hands could embrace the warmth. Mike extended his hand to Roger, the bulldog-cross-something-or-other, who had already finished his bowl and whose snout was freckled with rice.

As the mutt wobbled over Mike said, ‘How’s things, Steven?’

‘No good, Mike. There’s been more licensed hunters about in the sector. They almost saw me the other night. You’re taking a big risk feeding me with them around, mate. You know they’ll kill you too if they find us together?’

‘Don’t worry about it, Steven. I’m a chef – we feed people, homeless or not, right? Serving hot food to anyone who needs it is my hypocritical oath.’

‘Hippocratic, Mike.’

‘Yeah, that. I don’t care if helping a feral is tantamount to being a feral and all that garbage they spew on the streams. I’m not letting you go hungry just because you can’t get a job or afford rent. It ain’t right.’

Steven raised the first spoonful to his mouth and gingerly blew on it before slurping it in. His grey eyes smiled a second after, and he lifted the bowl to start pushing the rest of the meal into his mouth. Mike watched while scratching Roger’s chin. While Steven finished his meal, Mike picked up his own bowl, but the curry was too hot to eat, so Mike blew on it and stirred while waiting for the verdict.

‘Mate, your curry is the best I’ve ever had. You’re still not putting in enough chilli, but you’re getting there now.’

‘Still not enough!’ Mike laughed, ‘The macho factory workers sniffle their hearts out for this stuff! You should see Georgie, real mountainous bloke, tough guy, but we feed him this stuff and he’s crying like a newborn. My curry was already bloody hot before I started taking your suggestions!’

Steven chuckled and said, ‘Well you know how to give a feral a little happiness, mate. Thanks.’

‘Don’t worry ‘bout it, Steven. Just be careful out there, mate. And make sure not to let anyone see you when you come here. Gab is a great lady, but she’ll fire me if she finds out I’m helpin’ ya’. She’d have to; she’s got a husband and kids.’

‘Yeah, you can’t blame ‘er. You’re one of the last places that don’t pull a cricket bat, or knife on me, you know? There just isn’t a place for ferals anymore. Is there, Roger?’

Roger had flopped onto his side while Mike rubbed his belly. He was panting and trying to catch whatever grains of rice were within his tongue’s reach.

 * * *

After hearing a glass smash and the usual bustle of lunchtime become silence Mike stopped chopping vegies and walked out of the kitchen to see what had happened. Nausea strangled his stomach when he saw a tall teenage boy in a hunter’s uniform standing at a table with a face of enraged pink and a mess of broken glass on the floor next to him. Three other boys sat at the same table, all in the same uniform – a thick brown button-down, deep red overcoats, dark olive trousers and shiny black combat boots. The standing boy had the mohawk from that old Robert De Niro movie perched on his head and wore stylish glasses. Two of the others had shaved heads and the last had a greasy mane.

The boy grabbed his plate off the table and held it in front of him towards the front counter where Gabby and Mike stood side by side.

‘The hell’s wrong with this food!? Are you taking the piss? Did you put all that chilli in it to have a laugh at us?’ He raised the plate above him and flung it at the floor. Rice and gravy exploded over the cream tiles. ‘Well, ya’ had your joke.’

‘Gabby, shall I call the police?’

Gabby pulled open the till and yanked a twenty out of it.

‘Mate, do I look like I have police insurance?’

As Gabby stepped around the counter, Mike hissed, ‘Gabby, it’s not worth it; they’re hunters. They’re killers. I’ll call the police, we can split the visit cost. You’d make it back in a few months.’

‘We can’t afford what they charge, Mike. Let me handle this.’

Gabby strode towards the boy in the stylish glasses holding out the twenty dollar note in front of her.

‘Look, lads . . . ’

The boy kicked over his chair and stomped over the brown explosion on the floor towards Gabby with his head cocked.

‘If you don’t like it, you can have a refund and leave.’

The boy slapped Gabby’s hand away and grabbed the belt of her apron, pulling her towards himself.

‘We don’t want to leave, and I don’t want my money back. You Sector C turds need to learn to respect us hunters.’

Georgie stood.

‘Take your hand off me, lad.’

‘What’re you gonna do if I don’t?’

Gabby leant her upper body towards the boy, leaving enough room to swing her right knee into his groin. In the instant of brain-wrenching pain that followed, the boy’s hand loosened, and he saw Georgie’s shoulder speeding towards him. The impact flung him back towards his fellow hunters, whom he saw open their mouths before a black flash of unconsciousness took him when he hit the cream tiles. The long-haired boy shouted ‘Theodore!’ as he watched his friend hit the floor and stood up, reaching for the knife in his coat pocket. The two boys with shaved heads hurried to help Theodore, who was writhing on the floor unable to remember how to stand.

‘Georgie, thank you. That’s enough,’ Gabby said, placing her hand on Georgie’s back.

With the help of the shaved boys Theodore managed to get up and started swaying towards the doorway.

‘Boys. Sorry this happened like this. Here, take your money back; no hard feelings,’ Gabby said, stepping forward and with the twenty in front of her again.

The long-haired boy flicked his knife out, but Frank and the rest of the factory workers stood, so the boy hissed and retreated with the knife in front of him, following his friends out the door.

 * * *

The claxon wailed over the factory floor for the lunch break just as Frank tightened the last screw into the back of the glass charcoal-black interface. He wondered what exactly it would be used for. Light Touch Interfaces had hired the factory to assemble these highest-tech boxes, but no one in the building, from their gas bladder boss down to the warehouse kids knew what they did. When the software was loaded into them they could be anything from a Sector A housewife’s bathroom console to the controller console for a tank.

UNIVERSAL. MODULAR. UNRIVALED.

Frank ran his fingers over Light Touch’s embossed catchphrases at the bottom of the glass front panel. Whatever it was for, he knew he’d never see one running.

‘Hey Frankie. Let’s go get some curry, I’m starved.’

‘Alright, Georgie.’

Frank and Georgie were the first to leave for lunch and walked alone along the outside of the graffiti covered Centre Sector wall, which partitioned Sector A’s south from Sector C, a couple of minutes ahead of the other sixteen men who were the ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ regulars. As they walked, Frank asked Georgie how many interfaces he had got done today.

‘Fourteen. Boss isn’t gonna be happy, but I’ve been getting some splitting headaches this week.’

Frank had worked damn hard today and popped twenty out, which meant he was still in the running to get the fortnight’s high productivity bonus of two hundred dollars. The problem was: Georgie usually got thirty done by lunch. Word must have gotten round about Sally’s hand, Frank’s wife’s hand, getting crushed at the government weapons factory. Georgie and the boys were lagging behind to make sure Frank got the bonus. Even though the doctor and ambulance fees alone were going to put Frank into debt for a couple of years, and how he was going to keep Sally and his daughter, Rebecca, fed and under a roof he didn’t know, but knowing the boys were looking after him, the knot in his chest loosened slightly.

The two men were almost at ‘Gab’s Golden Curry’ when they heard shouting and stamping feet coming around the corner of a sharp intersection in front of them. An old man in a grey coat rushed around the corner and crashed past Frank, stumbling but not stopping.

‘Hey! Ya’ idiot! Watch it!’ Frank shouted after him, before Georgie quieted him with a ‘Frank’ and pointed towards the corner from which the man had come. Frank heard the clattering feet around it and in a second the hunters from the day before burst from the alleyway sprinting after the man.

‘Where’s your papers you feral fuck?’ screamed the fastest one, mohawk flapping as he ran ahead of the pack. When he recognised Frank and Georgie, he stopped in front of them. The boy spat and flicked his fingers towards them as the other boys dashed past, and then he snatched a rock off the ground and sprinted after his comrades. They had almost caught up with the feral who had stumbled as he ran across the empty road. The boy warned his friends before he hurled the rock at the old man with a practised swing. The Cricket ball sized chunk glanced off the side of the feral’s head hard enough to make him finally lose his balance. The boys quickly caught up and began the procedure.

Frank saw Georgie’s muscles tense and grabbed his shirt before he could move to help the feral.

‘Georgie. Phillip needs you. You can’t let him lose his husband to helping a feral.’

Frank and Georgie stood for a few seconds. They were unable to halt the gurgling cries of the man because they were needed. They could not afford to go to prison or get killed for interfering with hunters doing their lawful duty. So they paid their quiet respects.

‘These hunters are animals. They’ll have their day. Let’s go,’ Frank said, tugging again on Georgie’s shirt.

As they left the scene, Georgie looked back. The boy in the stylish glasses made eye contact with him and grinned as his boot heel mashed the spongey flesh of the feral’s right kidney.

 * * *

The two bowls of curry on the tabletop had started congealing. Mike passed his spoon through the middle of his, pulling the skin formed on the top and pushing it down into the sauce. He ate a spoonful of the cold curry and took a bite of one of the oily tempura prawns he had cooked an hour ago. After hearing a whine outside the back door he opened it and found Roger curled up on the top step.

‘Hey buddy. What’s wrong?’

Mike squatted to pet the whining mutt before getting him his food. When he placed the bowl of rice and prawns in front of Roger, the dog didn’t move.

‘That’s odd. I guess you’re a tough customer aye, Roger? If it’s not hot, send it back! Where’s Steven? He’d eat it, cold or not.’

Mike sat down on the step and started to eat the cold prawns and rice himself. Roger whimpered and flopped his head on Mike’s knee.

‘In a bad mood tonight?’ Mike petted the small dog again.

‘What’s that brown stuff you’ve got on your face, boy? Did something happen? Where’s Steven?’ Roger whined against Mike’s leg.

‘I’ve never seen you without him.’

When Mike got up to wash up, Roger followed him, limping more than usual, into the kitchen keeping his head against Mike’s leg whenever Mike stood still. Mike had washed the curry pots earlier, so all that was left were the bowls for him and his most important customer. He sighed as he scooped the curry and rice into the bin.

‘Where’s Steven, Roger? I hate wasting food.’ The dog kept its head against Mike’s ankle.

‘I guess you’re staying for the night then. You can sleep in my room. I’ll make you a nice blanket nest on the floor, alright? Come on, let’s go to bed, mate.’

Ella staggered through the snow, the shackles around her wrists rattling as she pushed against its frozen grasp. Men were yelling somewhere behind her, but their words were lost, scattered on the wind that burned through her torn brown dress. She wiped drops of the gaol warden’s blood from her cheek and recalled the cracking of his head as she crushed it with her chains. She gagged and stumbled, flattening a patch of white icepetal flowers.

A bang like a crack of lightning sounded, and then another and another. Ella stopped. Fresh blood dribbled from her chest, layering the flowers beneath in red. Intense pain hit her, as if her whole body was screaming, and she faltered, clutching at the bloody wound in her chest. The pine-dotted landscape blurred and she fell backwards into the flower patch.

‘Please,’ she begged to the sky. Tears ran from her eyes, freezing against the dirt on her face. ‘Please, Great Goddess, don’t let me die.’

‘Then I will save you.’ A woman in a white dress materialised before Ella. She stood with the posture of a noble woman, unaffected by the whipping of her long fair hair in the wind. Ella tried to focus as she stared into the woman’s bright green eyes; eyes coloured just like her own.

‘Please,’ Ella whispered.

The woman stepped closer and, kneeling down, laid her right hand on Ella’s forehead. ‘When the seed blooms, your time is up.’

A tornado of snow and petals enveloped Ella, shaping a flower bud of blood-laced snow around her body. As the barrier solidified and the world disappeared from view, she thought she saw the woman smile.

 * * *

Ella gasped and dropped the pile of books she was carrying. The snowy landscape was gone, replaced by an enclosed area with wooden furniture along the walls.

Her room. Home. Safe.

Orange sunset shone through the window beside her bed and, straining her hearing, Ella could make out the sounds of the street-side stalls closing for the day as horses clip-clopped on the cobblestones.

She hesitantly touched her chest. No blood, no wound, not even a scar.

The bookshelf in front of her was empty, though she had filled it yesterday before her arrest. Vibrant orange and yellow lilies, her favourites, sat in pots along its top.

Feeling an itch on her shoulder she pulled up the short sleeve of her dress. Curled around her skin was a thin green vine topped by a shrivelled white flower bud. She yanked at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

A knock sounded on the front door downstairs.

Ella slipped out of her brown dress, no longer torn or stained but covered in the memory of her death in the snow, and threw on a green one from her cupboard. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded from the wooden stairs to the front door and opened it.

Three men stood on her doorstep. Two guards wearing metal armour with muskets slung over their shoulders flanked Sir Caleb Horncraft. The young captain wore the official green and brown uniform of the law and stood with shoulders straight. His short brown hair was slicked back and a handful of thin scars lined his cheeks, but there was a kindness in his eyes. A gentleness Ella had fallen for years ago.

‘Ella…’ he said, his face softening.

‘Wait… Caleb? What’s going on? Why are you here again?’

‘Again?’ He pursed his lips. ‘El-Miss Rosebane, you are under arrest on charges of witchcraft. We will take you to a cell while you await trial.’

Gasps and murmurs could be heard from a small crowd of passers-by who had gathered around.

Ella blinked. ‘W-What? I’m not a w-‘ she leaned in closer and whispered, ‘witch.’

‘We have substantial evidence to suggest that you are. For now, you will need to come with us.’

Neighbours and friends began to call out, soft at first, then louder.

‘Witch.’

‘She’s a witch!’

‘Kill her!’

‘Burn her!’

‘N-No, I have done nothing wrong,’ Ella replied, backing into her house.

Caleb quickly stepped forward. ‘Miss Rosebane, if you’re innocent then you have nothing to fear.’ His deep blue eyes smiled softly.

One guard produced chains and cuffs and locked her wrists together. The familiarity of the weight was unsettling. The other reached for a strip of cloth that Ella had seen them use to gag women they feared would cast spells.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Caleb said and waved it away. He turned back to Ella. ‘While you are held, my men will search your house. Follow me.’

The streets filled with people who whispered and pointed as Caleb and Ella walked by. Women on balconies of tightly packed houses clutched their babies to their chest, while young men on the streets scampered backwards, uttering prayers to the Great Goddess.

Caleb opened the door to a small stone building and led Ella down the stairs. Moss and grime covered the walls, and the stench of unwashed prisoners hung in the air. He unlocked one cell door and motioned Ella inside, locking it behind her. Only a tiny window at the top of the wall let in any light or fresh air.

‘They’ll look for evidence this afternoon and have a trial tonight,’ Caleb began. ‘You know women accused as witches aren’t allowed to defend themselves, just in case they curse the judge. But I promise I’ll do whatever I can to get you out of this cell soon, Ella. Try to endure the smell until then.’ The corners of his mouth turned up into an almost-smile.

She nodded and slumped down against the uneven wall, head in her hands as he left.

‘How can this be happening again?’ she whispered, scrunching her eyes shut. Her sleep was restless and filled with nightmares of the cold snow and bullets piercing her body.

Ella jumped, woken by a clanging metal sound that reverberated around the stone basement. An old man was unlocking her cell; the same man she had bashed over the head yesterday in order to escape. Dim light of an overcast morning shone through the window, and she could hear the sound of rushing wind. She shivered. The snowstorm would be moving in soon.

By the time it hit, Ella was led to the stake.

She’d seen women accused of witchcraft before; the whole town would turn out, even children. Witches were tied to a tall wooden pole in the town square, kindling and logs at their feet, and then set alight. The fire was only put out once their bodies were charred and their screeching silenced.

In the burning cold and screaming wind the square was empty. Two guards escorting Ella pushed her towards the stake, tying her to it with a rough hemp rope.

‘Please!’ she begged. ‘I’m not a witch! I haven’t done anything!’

The guards said nothing. Once they had secured her they stepped back and a third man, Captain Caleb, came with torch in hand.

Their eyes met for a moment, and then he looked away. ‘Ella Rosebane. You have been found guilty of witchcraft and are sentenced to death by burning. May the Great Goddess have mercy on your soul.’

‘Caleb! No! You know I’m not a witch!’

He looked at her and his face hardened. ‘My men found a magical circle etched into your bedroom floor. It was splattered with blood and crushed icepetal flowers.’

‘What? I don’t know about any of that! Please Caleb! You have to believe I didn’t do that.’

He shook his head. ‘You are a witch and you will face justice.’ He bent, unable to meet her frightened eyes. ‘Goddess forgive me.’ And then he lit the wood.

Ella struggled against her bonds. ‘Caleb! Caleb, help me!’

He stepped away from the pyre and stared at his boots. Regret? Disappointment? Ella couldn’t read his face.

‘Caleb!’

An intense heat crept slowly upwards. She screamed as the fire consumed her feet, slowly melting the skin away. The fire caught her dress, setting it alight and engulfing her body in a blistering pain. Smoke entered her nose and mouth, choking her.

Over the next hour, Ella slowly burned to death. The wind would put the fire out, only for a guard to come and light it again. Her skin blackened and the stench of burning hair and skin enveloped her senses. The fire and wind competed against each other as Ella drifted in and out of consciousness.

As her eyes shut, she heard a female voice carried on the wind. ‘Return again.’

Unaffected by the fire, a second flower bud on her shoulder shrivelled up, and then the world went dark.

 * * *

Ella screamed when she opened her eyes, brain still overwhelmed by a pain that no longer existed. She was on her bed, alive and unharmed. Orange light filtered through the window and a knock sounded at the door.  Sweat pouring down her face she began to hyperventilate, coughing with the sudden intake of air. Turning on her side she vomited in the floor, gasping through watering eyes.

‘Miss Rosebane?’ she heard Caleb call from outside.

Trying to steady her breathing, Ella saw the reason for her guilt. In front of the bookshelf on the floor was a trail of blood in the shape of a flower. As she stood, she spotted a bud out of the corner of her eye and pulled up the sleeve of her dress. Beneath it, the vine-like flower had grown, wrapping its way down her upper arm. Two shrivelled buds sat on its side, while a third living one adorned its top.

‘Miss Rosebane?’ The knock was louder this time.

Wiping away traces of sick, Ella climbed onto her bed and yanked open the second-storey window. She looked over the edge to the back alley below. Empty. A moment later, she jumped, landing on the hard stone below. Pain exploded in her left leg.

‘Hey! There she is!’ A voice called from the street.

Ella hobbled down the alley, away from the main road. She ducked around the corner and pushed past the crates and barrels that littered the tight passageway. Residents peered out their windows, watching the chase unfold.

‘Stop!’ A guard behind her yelled.

Men and women with surprised faces edged away as Ella stumbled onto a back street. As she glanced back, someone stuck their foot out and she tripped, sprawling face-first onto the rough cobblestones. She rolled onto her back, blood obscuring her vision. Struggling to her feet, she limped down the road. The crowd retreated as the blood-covered woman moved amongst them.

A bang sounded, then screams.

Ella fell forward as the bullet penetrated her back, smashing her face into the ground again. Blood flooded from her forehead and nose, swimming into her eyes and painting the tips of her fair hair.

‘Move aside!’ she heard a familiar voice yell. Caleb.

A woman in a white dress knelt down beside her; the woman from the snow.

‘Don’t give up. Try once more.’

 * * *

Ella sprang to action. She threw open the door to her bedroom and ran down the stairs. Taking a left, she entered her small kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife she owned. A knock sounded.

Caleb. The man who burned her. She approached the door, weapon at the ready.

Ella swung the door open, the faces of two guards and Caleb greeting her again. Without hesitation, she leapt forward, jamming her knife into the captain’s chest.

‘Ella…’ he spluttered, eyes wide.

‘Why didn’t you help me!’

A woman passing by screamed.

For a moment, the two guards were stunned. Ella reached for the sword at Caleb’s side as he fell limp, and swung it at one guard. He side-stepped her clumsy, untrained blow while the second guard drew his own weapon, jamming it into Ella’s back.

Her eyes widened and she fell forward, her blood and Caleb’s trickling together between the cobblestones.

‘Please… just let me die…’ Ella sobbed as her consciousness slipped away.

Ella awoke in bed, staring at her wooden ceiling.

‘Why is this happening to me?’ she whispered.

Her eyes wandered to her right arm. The plant growing there had extended its reach, twirling all the way to her wrist. Four shrivelled buds had sprouted from the central stem, but one that touched the back of her hand had flowered with petals red like blood.

The seed had bloomed. Her chances were over. Finally, she could die.

Eyes heavy, she pulled herself from bed and wandered down the stairs. She returned to the kitchen, grabbing the same knife she had killed Caleb with, then plodded back up to her room.

She heard a knock from downstairs, but closed her bedroom door. She placed her knife on top of the dresser and, with a grunt, shoved it in front of the door. Picking up the knife, she sat down on her bed and felt its weight in her hand. With a deep breath she raised it, pointing its tip at her stomach.

‘You can still escape!’ a soft voice spoke and a familiar woman materialised in front of Ella. ‘The seed has bloomed and my magic is at an end, but you have this final chance.’

Ella’s hand began to shake. ‘Who are you?’

The woman smiled, lips pressed together.

‘Why didn’t you help me? You could have rescued me!’

‘I can’t interfere directly, but I know you can do it. I know you can.’

‘I don’t care. I can’t go on like this.’ Ella raised the knife.

‘Stop!’

Ella hesitated and stared at the hair-breadth distance between the knife and her heart. A moment passed, and she lowered it. The woman released a breath and knelt down in front of Ella.

‘Did you put that there?’ Ella asked, pointing to the bloody flower on the floor.

‘Yes. It was a result of my magic when I first saved you in the snow and bound the flower to your body.’

‘W-Why did you do this to me? Why couldn’t I just die?’

‘I need you alive in the future when your powers awaken. What you’ve been through is unfortunate, but necessary.’

‘Unfortunate?’ Ella trembled. ‘This is all your fault!’

She turned the knife around and stabbed. It entered the woman’s chest and blood bloomed across her white dress. The woman staggered back, clutching the blade. A tear fell from her eye as she pointed to Ella before collapsing to the ground. Ella felt a sudden pang of pain and saw a hole open in her own chest, right where she had struck the woman.

Her head span and she slumped onto the bed. The woman’s eyes went blank and the flower around Ella’s arm crumbled to dust. Ella could see it now, the reason for the woman’s familiarity. The woman looked just like her. Older, but the same. Ella gasped, struggling to pull air into her lungs and instead coughed up blood.

As her eyes closed, Ella wondered if she could turn back time too.

The relationship was still new and shiny when Summer started fading, and when my episodes began to happen more frequently. One evening I rolled over and realised that I could, very faintly, see my bedside lamp shining through Summer’s head. She glanced up from her book – Janet Mock’s biography, because Summer only ever read books of substance – and saw me staring. She whispered, ‘Go to sleep.’

I nodded and rolled back over. It wasn’t a good time to talk about it, and in any case the bed was big and I was sinking into it and sleep was too close to be gotten away from. I did rub my hand over her thigh, but I didn’t say anything. I thought transparency was a topic better left for the morning.

* * *

I woke up at around three and kicked Summer in my frantic scramble away from some dreamed-up monster which I’ve forgotten now. I do remember that the bed was shrinking, either before or after I woke up.

Summer was with me in an instant, all soothing words and touches. I couldn’t stop asking if she was okay.

She laughed in response. ‘Me? Honey, are you okay?’

‘I kicked you, I think. Did I hurt you?’

‘You barely touched me. Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. This happens sometimes.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No, it’s fine, I’m just going to have to, um…’

It’s difficult to explain, but she got the idea once I started: shifting back up the bed I smoothed my fingers over the pillowslip. Left to right, right to left, over and over.

Summer pulled the covers over her and rested on one elbow, watching. I still wonder what she saw; what I looked like, in the light of the street-lamps, falling in sharp lines across the bed, around the edges of the blinds. I’d had episodes while sharing beds with people before, but always without waking them. Having someone watch was different. I needed to swing my head back and forth, tracing an infinity sign with my chin, but after two circuits I forced myself to still and focused on the pillow instead. Some things look too odd. Some things I can’t do with eyes on me, not if I want those eyes to see me the same way in the morning.

It occurred to me that perhaps that distinction only existed for me; that to anyone else evening out the pillowslip looks no different to swishing my head. I looked at Summer and she smiled, and so did I. Then back to the pillow – circles now – until I had touched every inch of it.

‘This could take a while, by the way. You can go to sleep.’

‘Okay. If you’re sure.’ Summer squeezed my hand, then settled herself down in the bed, but kept her eyes open, still watching. I rubbed my palm where she had touched it, round and round, and then a few more swipes over the pillow. I tentatively lay my head down and stroked my hands through my hair. Front to back, curving around my ears. I don’t remember anything past that.

* * *

When I woke up everything was warm and soft: the mattress, the pillows, the sunlight blushing through the blinds. Summer opened her eyes and smiled, and crawled over to me. She was warm and soft as well.

We made it all the way to breakfast before she asked.

‘That thing last night. Does that happen much?’

I squinted at the Blue Willow pattern, just visible through the back of her hand as she held her bowl of cereal. I thought about asking her the same question – does that happen much? – but instead I said, ‘Not very much. Every few months. When I’m stressed.’

She seemed more worried than she should have been, so I added, ‘Last night wasn’t all that bad.’ Because it wasn’t.

After that Summer looked at me seriously, then pulled me into a hug. She was holding me tight but she seemed less substantial than she had the night before. I tried not to spill my coffee.

That morning she was wearing a black pencil skirt with a pink blouse and flats. She’d brought them with her from her place, just in case she ended up staying the night. She was always prepared. When breakfast was done and the dishes were stacked beside the sink she needed to go to work, but first she gave me a mischievous look and pulled me in for a kiss goodbye. Kisses took a long time then. I had been late to class three days earlier because kissing goodbye took longer than anticipated. Like I said: new and shiny.

Summer planned things better though, and she’d allowed five minutes extra before heading off to work – counselling at the local clinic. I thought her hand went clean through the door handle first try, but I couldn’t be sure. By the time I processed it she was already gone, and in any case, what could I have said?

* * *

It felt strange to be alone once Summer had left. I sent her a text, but half a minute later her text-alert sounded next to me and I found her phone beside the bowl of cereal she hadn’t finished.

I was due in class in an hour, but I didn’t want to go, so I knocked on my housemate’s door instead of getting ready. Faye opened the door almost immediately. She was dressed all in green, from head to toe. Green shirt, green jeans, green shoes, and a green ribbon in her hair, and she couldn’t stop crying.

‘Is Summer gone? I didn’t want to disturb you.’ I hugged her the way that Summer had hugged me just ten minutes before, and guided her out to the combined lounge-room/kitchen. Faye sat on the couch and I got her a glass of water while she haltingly explained that she was crying because of a nightmare she’d had two nights ago, and because she would have to catch a bus in the afternoon. Her whole body was taut as she burrowed into the couch cushions and scrunched a fluffy blanket between her fists, saying over and over, ‘I can’t, I can’t.’ The couch was green like her clothes, but the blanket was blue.

I ran my fingers over each other – index fingers down and around my thumbs, and then palms smoothing together, and then fingers lacing and unlacing, and then repeat – and I thought, ‘I know how you feel.’ But I didn’t say anything.

Words and tears kept tumbling down, collecting in her lap – I can’t, I can’t – and then both at once we noticed that she’d begun to float, just a few centimetres above the couch. The words spilled out onto the floor as she kicked her legs, trying to get down. The more she tried, the worse it got, until she was almost to the ceiling. In one hand she was trailing the blanket which she’d dragged up with her off the couch. Her other hand was clutching the light fitting.

A green balloon on a blue string.

She said, ‘I’m stuck.’

I jumped up and took a hold of her leg. It wasn’t hard to pull her down; she was floating so gently. Once I’d gotten her back to the couch I tucked the blanket around her and under the couch cushions and that seemed good enough to hold her for a little while. Then I went to her room and found a heavy pair of boots.

* * *

Once she started floating while we were walking home after grocery shopping. I stood on her foot while I sorted through the bags, then I put the two litres of milk in one of her hands and a bag holding flour and rice in the other. That kept her down until we got inside.

I was good at looking after Faye. Or I was used to it, at least. I was used to the floating and in comparison fading seemed rather small, and maybe that’s why I held back, with Summer. I didn’t want to make a fuss over something that could have turned out to be no big deal. Fading isn’t all that uncommon and often people come right back into focus in their own time.

When I returned to the lounge room Faye had stopped crying. I helped her put the boots on so she wouldn’t drift away when she went to catch her bus. Sometimes I dream that Faye is out alone and no one stops her from floating away into the stratosphere. Sometimes I’m awake and I just can’t get the image out of my head.

She tested the boots, walking around the room. Holding onto the counter she did little jumps to see how high she’d go before the boots pulled her down. ‘So, Summer stayed over last night? How was that?’

I shrugged. ‘It was fine. I mean, it was good. I had an episode but she seemed okay about it.’ I can talk about it with Faye. She floats, so my episodes aren’t a big deal. I don’t know why I thought to mention the episode and not the fading, but then, the fading wasn’t really mine to talk about.

‘Are you going to see anyone about that?’

I shrugged again. Big, whole body shrugging. Mostly I look at the ground so I’ve gotten good at expressing things with my body rather than my face.

After that I decided I’d try to get to my class after all.

* * *

These days Summer fades in and out. It varies, day to day. Some days she fills right back in, until it’s hard to believe she’s ever flirted with transparency. But the change isn’t permanent. Once she got the idea she couldn’t let go of it. Even now things will happen: last week she tripped over and fell through a chair instead of into it. There was something familiar in the way she stumbled forwards, and I thought of Faye, drifting up, as I watched Summer falling down.

Sometimes I don’t picture Faye just floating away. I imagine pushing her. Last week when Summer reached out a hand, asking me to help her up, I saw Faye in front of me, just starting to lift off the ground, reaching out to me. I saw myself taking her hand, then her waist, then flinging her upwards as hard as I could, and watching as she flew up and away. Out of sight. Out of breath. The image comes to me more and more often these days. Sometimes when I’m walking, or in class, and sometimes at night until I can’t close my eyes without seeing her staring helplessly down at me as I shove her into space. Perhaps that’s what I dreamt of, the first night Summer stayed over.

What I’m trying to say is that once I get an idea I can’t let go of it either, and that neither of us do it on purpose. Thoughts take root sometimes. Something took root so firmly in Summer.

* * *

Just the other day she was trying to get into bed – I was sitting up on the other side with my laptop, writing an essay – but she couldn’t quite grasp the edge of the sheet to peel it back. The fabric is too thin for her to hold when she is stretched so thin as well.

I took her hand, very carefully, or it might have gone through me, and I said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

She tugged my hand to her lips and kissed it. ‘Me too.’ And after that her hand found purchase on the sheet, although when she lay down the floral pattern of the pillowslip still shone through her hair.

Sometimes I can help like that, a little, and sometimes I can’t. Sometimes when I try she only gets more translucent. Either way it’s not permanent.

Summer watched me rubbing slow circles over the back of my hand, where she’d kissed it. When I was done I went to type, but I had to run my fingers over the sides of the keys, and then over each other, and then the keys again.

‘Shouldn’t you get help with that?’ Summer was looking at me, hard, so that it was difficult to look back.

I shook my head. ‘It’s fine.’ I said, because it was. I don’t understand that question. Not from Faye. Not from Summer. ‘I’m fine.’

* * *

I am fine. They see things differently, is all. Faye’s perspective has gone all bird’s eye. Always looking down. And Summer, well, who knows how Summer sees things, especially at the times when there’s barely anything of her to be seen.

* * *

Summer was in hospital for it, a little while ago. She checked herself in. She must have seen something that properly scared her, or maybe it was what she didn’t see; maybe she looked right through herself in the mirror because she was barely there, for a while. It got bad. She’s sensible though, and she checked herself in and they got some shape back around her edges then sent her home to fill in between the lines herself.

It got bad, and I saw, but I never said a word.

* * *

The week before she went away she walked in through the front door without opening it first. I’d heard her car and come out from the kitchen to meet her, so I saw. I saw but I pretended not too. I had to get back to the soup I was making for dinner and she was all smiles, if not at full opacity, and it didn’t seem like a good time to bring it up. She looked so happy, so it didn’t seem like a problem.

* * *

In the end it was Summer who brought it up first.

I remember exactly: she said, ‘Honey, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been having some issues lately.’

At the time we were sitting on the couch and the tartan pattern showed through her, from her shoulders down to her feet. Her head looked almost as though it were disembodied, suspended just above the couch.

I said, ‘What kind of issues?’

Gasping, Ged woke up with a start. He had the dream again, the one where everything was green. His body felt constricted, like he was still submerged, but he soon realised that it was just his blankets tangled around his body. Letting out a sigh, Ged sat up in bed and ran a small hand through his messy mop of chestnut curls. A slither of light peeked through the curtains across the room. Getting up, Ged crossed the room and pulled open the curtains. Light flooded in, highlighting the pieces of paper and colouring pencils strewn across the wooden floorboards.

Muffled sounds filtered through, shadows fluttering here and there. A sharp, piercing noise rang out, not muffled like the others. It hurt.

Cringing, Ged covered his ears as the dream flashed through his memory once more. Teary-eyed, Ged hesitantly hugged himself, shivers racking through his small frame. Looking through the window, Ged’s eyes scanned over the lush green lawn and swaying trees. Noticing a dot of red crawling across the window, Ged slowly leaned forward, careful not to startle the little creature before him.

‘Ladybug,’ Ged whispered as he stared at the insect. He wasn’t sure how he knew, it just came to him. He’d never seen a ladybug or even heard the name before.

Smiling, Ged carefully prodded the ladybug onto his hand. Cupping the other carefully over the creature to prevent its escape, Ged quickly scampered out of his room.

Look, it’s a ladybug! Did you know they eat all the bad bugs that try and eat all the pretty flowers? Let’s go bring it to the garden so it can be the flower’s knight.

Stopping, Ged looked around. He thought he heard a woman’s voice, but there was no one in sight. Shaking his head, Ged turned back and without a second thought continued running through the dark corridors of the house, finally arriving at a big oak door. Ged stopped. Shuffling worriedly, Ged’s car patterned pyjamas rustled with his movements. Having seemingly made up his mind, Ged took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

The doors opened into a brightly lit room, the walls covered from floor to ceiling with thick volumes of the most intricate of sciences. In the centre of the study stood a large mahogany desk overflowing with books and papers, the slightest breeze seemed like it could make the whole thing topple over. Sitting behind this desk was a round man, his tan complexion contrasting with his baby blue eyes and white walrus moustache.

‘Dad,’ Ged called out as he walked towards the desk, careful not to run.

‘Ah, Ged m’boy! I just heard from your teachers. Great job! You’ve already mastered computer programming and it’s only your second day! And not only that, you were able to throw a rock so far it was like a bullet!’ Harold praised as he playfully messed up Ged’s curls.

‘I’m so proud of you, boy.’

Smiling up at Harold, Ged enjoyed being praised by his father, revelling in the warmth before sticking out his closed palms.

Opening his hand carefully, Ged said excitedly, ‘Look, look! I found a ladybug in my room.’

‘A ladybug, hmm? And what will you do with it m’boy?’ Harold said as he struggled to get out of his chair, but soon gave up the feat to motion Ged closer to him.

‘Well, I was thinking I’d take her to the greenhouse. Aren’t ladybugs good for plants? It can be the flower’s knight!’ Ged replied, his excitement barely contained. Flesh slammed against wood, causing Ged to flinch. Paper flew around him as Ged looked up at Harold who was leering down at him.

‘Flower’s knight?’ Harold asked as he towered over Ged, ‘Where did you hear that term?’

‘I just thought of it,’ squeaked the trembling Ged.

Letting out a long sigh, Harold swept his meaty hand through his thinning hair. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, how his puppet could not follow the processes he was trying to instil into him. Biting his lip in frustration, Harold glared down at Ged.

‘How many times have I told you? No compassion! No niceties! I want to see you pull that bug apart! Rip it apart like you will those bastards that ignored everything I did for them!’ screeched Harold, spit flying from his mouth as his eyes grew round and wild.

Cowering, Ged looked fearfully up at Harold. He had never understood why his father was so focused on those ‘bastards’, as he called them.

‘I . . . I’m sorry Daddy. B . . . but I don’t like doing those things. It hurts them. They’re always crying and begging me to stop when I do as you say. I don’t like it.’

Harold let out a long sigh as he contemplated what Ged meant when he said that he could hear the creatures crying and begging, but that wasn’t important at the moment. He could always study that at a later point. What was more pressing was Ged’s lack of obedience due to his developing emotions. Everything was so much easier when all the boy would do was nod and do as he was told. It was crucial that Ged obeyed his commands without question. After all, how else would he be able to prove how valuable his research was to the Board of Directors that shunned his studies and practices? They would learn though. They would learn that his research was necessary and they would regret making a fool of him.

Smiling greedily, Harold finally managed to sit himself upright as he leaned over his stomach, his large hands resting on top like it was a pillow. Ged watched carefully, his eyes trained on the movements of Harold’s hands. They reminded him of the hands in his dream. The feelings from the dream returned to him now as his small frame quaked.

‘My dear boy, I do this all for your benefit. I know you don’t like being cooped up at home all the time, even though I go out of my way to make you feel comfortable.’ Pausing, Harold looked down at Ged. He could see his words had sparked guilt, wracking through the boy’s small frame. Emotions were good sometimes. Made things easier.

‘So, m’boy, I am hard on you, and make you do these things, so you’ll be safe when I can finally take you with me on my little trips out of the house. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’ Harold continued, his Cheshire grin hovering over the small figure before him.

‘I . . . I’m sorry father. I never realised it was all for my sake. You do so much for me. Thank you.’

With a small bow, Ged hesitantly began to pull at the ladybug’s legs, wincing slightly as its small squeaks of pain reached his ear.

‘Please! Stop! It hurts!’ the small creature cried out. Ged couldn’t quite explain how he could understand the language the bug was speaking, but he knew that he wished he didn’t. His task would be much easier.

Unbeknownst to Ged, Harold’s eyes gleamed as he watched the boy dismember the bug. This was exactly what he wanted. His research would finally be given the funding and recognition it deserved for he now had the perfect proof of his research sitting at his feet. Creating GED – Genetically Engineered Devices – was possible. Utilising a human child and genetically modifying their DNA while removing their memories would make them the perfect bio-weapons. It was a perfect, indisputable method. Who could go against such effective work?

* * *

‘- subdivision of the peripheral nervous system that controls the body’s involuntary motor responses by connecting,’ droned the tutor standing in front of Ged, a book on the human body propped in the tutor’s right hand as he continued to read out loud.

Ged, however, was elsewhere. He could still feel the numbness in his hands from a couple of days ago when he had been ordered by Harold to dismember the ladybug. Looking down at his hands, Ged clenched his fists as he was submerged in the guilt of killing the little creature.

It’s ok dear, it isn’t your fault. You were just protecting Mummy.

‘Ged, are you listening?’ called out the tutor, snapping the book closed.

Startled by the sudden sound, Ged looked up at his tutor.

‘Um, attractive stimulus is paired with a noxious stimulus in order to elicit a negative reaction to the target stimulus, right?’ Ged answered timidly, knowing full well he wasn’t actually listening.

‘It seems like Ged has already mastered all you have to teach him, professor,’ laughed Harold as he walked into the room wearing a pristine white suit with matching white tie.

Unable to look at Harold, Ged continued to stare at his hands. Noticing this, Harold scowled. He didn’t like that Ged was avoiding him. It made it all the more difficult to control the boy. Waving his hand to dismiss the tutor, Harold dragged a chair over to Ged and sat down with a groan.

‘Look at me,’ Harold commanded, his cold, blue eyes trained on Ged’s every movement.

Shivering slightly, Ged looked up while his hands clutched at his clothes in fear, Harold’s cold eyes piercing into his own. Seeing these actions, Harold couldn’t help but smirk. It was good the boy was afraid, fear made everything obedient, but he needed the boy to be loyal. So Harold plastered a smile on his face.

‘Good job, m’boy! It’s only been a few days and you’re already mastering what others took decades to accomplish! I’m so proud of you Ged!’ Harold exclaimed as he ruffled Ged’s brown locks.

Surprised at Harold’s actions, Ged stared blankly up at him, unsure what to do. Ged remembered the cold way Harold looked at him and the anger the last time they met, but now it seemed like everything was back to normal. Harold had once again gone back to being the caring father Ged remembered. Still cautious, Ged began to relax around Harold.

Seeing Ged lower his guard, Harold had to hold back his laughter as he continued to pat Ged’s hair. It seemed to Harold that everything was aligned perfectly. The Board of Directors meeting was a few days away and Ged was ready to be presented to them. Everything was going according to plan.

‘Hey Dad, can I ask you a question?’ Ged said as he looked up past the hand on top of his head.

Curious to know what Ged wanted to ask him, Harold removed his hand and motioned for the boy to continue.

‘Where’s my Mum?’ Ged asked, unaware of the growing darkness clouding over Harold’s features, ‘Sometimes I remember – well, more like hear – a woman’s voice, and maybe that’s my Mum?’

Looking up expectantly, Ged’s eyes began to quiver in fear. Never had he seen Harold like he was now – a sinister smile with cold, unemotional eyes searing into him. It was all over in a flash as Harold leaned back into his chair, all hints of the intimidating aura gone, causing Ged to question whether what he saw was real or not. Standing up, Harold extended his hand to Ged as he smiled happily down at him.

‘Would you like to go see her?’ he asked as he waited for the boy.

Eyes growing wide in surprise and excitement, Ged eagerly took hold of Harold’s hand as he nodded several times, all thoughts of fear forgotten at the possible opportunity of meeting the voice he had been hearing.

‘She’s by my lab, but before I can take you I need you to promise me that you’ll do exactly as I say and be a good boy, ok?’ Harold said as he began to make his way out of the room.

Eagerly following, Ged looked around. He had never ventured near Harold’s labs. Whenever he did stray too close someone would always find him and turn him the other way, not allowing Ged to ever pass beyond the stairs leading to the basement. But here he was now, standing at the precipice. Taking a deep, excited breath, Ged followed Harold down the wooden stairs.

Seeing how excited Ged was, Harold could barely contain himself. Soon everything would come to an end, and he would be the one to create a new beginning. Standing before a metal door, Harold looked down at Ged.

‘Now, Ged m’boy, remember your promise?’ Harold asked, waiting for Ged’s nod before continuing, ‘I want you to close your eyes tight, ok? Don’t look until I tell you. After all, I want the first thing you see to be your mother.’

Closing his eyes as directed, Ged’s other senses heightened. He could hear the rustling of cloth and feel the soft coolness of silk as Harold tied a bandana around Ged’s eyes. Feeling Harold’s large, sweaty palm encircle his smaller one, Ged obediently followed Harold as he pushed open the metal doors.

The smell of disinfectant stung Ged’s nose as he crinkled it in displeasure. Tightening his grip on Harold’s hand, Ged began to breathe faster. The air around him felt oppressive as his heart squeezed inside his chest. Something felt wrong, but he didn’t know what. His only source of comfort was the warmth of his palm against another, but this too was quickly taken away. Panicked, Ged began to quickly look around despite being unable to see.

‘Now Ged, there’s a step in front of you, ok boy? Be careful now,’ Harold said, placing his hands upon the panicking boy’s shoulders, guiding him.

Feeling relieved at the touch, Ged complied to the command and carefully lifted his leg. Feeling the hands move away from his shoulders once he had gone over the step, Ged turned around, insecurity welling inside of him.

‘Dad?’ he asked as the sound of creaking echoed around him.

Pulling off the blindfold, Ged winced at the blinding light that pierced his eyes. Shielding them with his arm, Ged carefully looked up to find himself in what looked like a giant glass tube. Not understanding what was going on, Ged looked around until his eyes lay upon Harold, his icy eyes piercing into Ged. Shivering from the look, Ged called out.

‘Dad, what’s going on? Weren’t you going to take me to Mum?’

‘Ah, but this is your Mum, Ged. I created you after all,’ Harold said as he walked towards a small computer pad to the side of the tube, ‘I’m the Father that invented the whole idea of using genetically modified people, and this,’ Harold motioned to the contraption Ged was held in, ‘is the mother that held you as I modified your DNA.’

Smiling up at Ged, Harold pressed a button on the computer pad, causing a green liquid to begin filling up the tube. Panicked at how fast the tube was filling up, Ged pounded on the glass as hard as he could, begging to be released before it once again caused him to be submerged, constricted.