[ emptiness, emptiness, emptiness of emptiness, rattling away. spinning 'round and 'round in my empty body, the distorted sounds won't stop. ]
***
I let one more puff of smoke rise from my lips before crushing it under my shoe. Turning to the door, I waited for any sign from Cyria. It'd been a few minutes now, and I wasn't just going to stand around until my mom woke up from her little trip and wailed on me. Softly, I knocked on the door.
"Hey, everything alright?"
She was silent for a moment, before a small whisper, "Yeah. You can come in."
The way she said it made it sound like she still needed time. But at the same time, we both knew that was something we didn't have much of right now. I cleared my throat I twisted the knob. The door creaked open, and I saw her sitting on the bed in her new change of clothes. It was just some old shorts and a worn-out graphic tee from a concert I went to way back then. The vomit wasn't on the ground anymore, and in the trash can was an old rag.
"I figured you wouldn't need it anyways," she spoke softly, gesturing toward the trash can. I nodded, before pulling up a chair and sitting in front of her. I stared at her, trying to see if she was in a state to talk about what just happened. She shifted softly, unable to meet my gaze. Sighing, I stood up, pushing my chair back into the table.
I dug through some old clothes, tossing it into a backpack. Then, I packed another bag with clothes I assumed would fit Cyria. After zipping them both shut, I handed her one bag. "Don't force yourself."
"You don't wanna know?"
"I don't need to know right now," I turned toward the door, freezing as I saw a picture of me and my mom propped up on one of the shelves. My teeth clenched, before I traced the doorframe and opened the door. "C'mon, we gotta leave before she wakes up."
I made my way, hearing her follow shortly behind. As I walked down the stairs, my eyes traced my mother, who was still sound asleep on the couch. Something about her tired and worn-out expression made my chest coil up. But I ignored it, quietly creeping toward the door.
I'd never really spoken to her ever since that day anyways. Not since she started taking the needle and bringing guys home on the regular. The sight became sickening to me— so much so that I couldn't even recognize the person she was becoming as my mother. I didn't want to associate her as my mother. Or so I wanted to think.
"—Mikey!"
The words felt like a vice around my heart. I felt a bead of sweat drip from my forehead, before falling to the ground. I turned around, hesitantly. My breath stuttered as I saw her writing on the couch, curling up as she panted.
"Don't leave, please! I promise, mama'll do better, just— don't…" she winced, hand gripping the couch. "I'm sorry, Mikey… I never wanted to hurt you, I just—"
My lip quivered, furling as my vision blurred. My fists gripped, digging crescent moons into my palm that threatened to break skin. I barred my teeth as they clattered shakily. My hand stretched as I walked over above her. A part of me wanted to grab her. Laugh and wake her up from her bullshit dream, to call her out like I always did before I left for good. But another part of me remembered the nights where I watched her crumble when she thought nobody was around. Another part remembered the reason she became an addict in the first place.
I took a shuddering breath, before grabbing the blanket on the floor and haphazardly tossing it onto her. As I turned around, I felt a hand grab my wrist. My body felt paralyzed, as I turned around. Her hand held onto my wrist, before slipping down to squeeze my hand. The air left my lungs as her hand desperately squeezed around mine. I gulped, kneeling down as I properly fixed the blanket. I squeezed her hand in turn.
"Just dream, Anna. It's better that way," I whispered, squeezing her hand. Her hand loosened, as I placed it back onto her stomach. I stood up, turning towards Cyria. She looked at me with a concerned expression, but I just shook my head and continued walking toward the front door.
She followed behind me for a while. The walk was silent, but there was a strange tension in the air. Like she wanted to ask me a question, but couldn't find the right time to ask.
"We're gonna stay at a motel, if you're wondering where we're headed."
"No, it's not that," she spoke slowly. "It's just… I've been wondering, but what happened? With your mom?"
I chuckled, clearing my throat as I sighed. "Where do I even start?"
The moon was still shining brightly overhead. I stared at the stars as I recalled the memories. "For starters, when my dad died, she took it pretty hard. Well, you know that already. She started playing hooky just to feel something, but at the very least, she still tried supporting me."
"At some point, all the pressure and stress got to her, and she just started shooting needles. At that point, I realized that she was going down a path I didn't wanna be a part of. That's when I ended up moving out."
I couldn't tell her that she started shooting because of her passing. Cyria didn't deserve to know that. Not right now. I took her shoulder, squeezing it assuringly before turning around to continue walking. I assume she took it at face value, since she didn't question it and simply followed beside me. We walked past the streets and toward the motel. The tension in the air was loosened somewhat, but there were definitely still traces.
When we arrived at the motel, I ordered a single room and we made our way. I tossed my stuff onto the couch, falling back onto it.
"Take the bed. You can shower first, too," I said. She stood by the bed, mouth opened like she wanted to say something. I spoke before she could. "It's fine. Really. Don't worry about me and go wash off the vomit."
I chuckled. She smiled wryly, before sighing and grabbing a change of clothes. I heard the shower switch on. My feet kicked up on the arm rests as I laid down. Staring at the ceiling, I thought back to what just happened. My face twisted as something complicated brewed in my stomach. Swallowing it down, I sat up, walking over to the door and stepping outside. I leaned against the rails, digging into my pocket. I groaned, pulling out the empty pack of Camels. I rolled my eyes, eying the trash can below me. Aiming carefully, I tossed the pack in, and it sunk into the trash. I grinned, proud of my excellent aim.
Pulling away from the rails, I turned around to walk back inside.
…My body moved before my mind did, swatting away the barrel I was just staring down. I hadn't even registered what'd happened. In the split second I bought, I watched as the cloaked man sneered. He gripped the gun that I finally realized was just pressed up to my forehead. I stepped to the side, kicking the figure as I drew my pistol from my waistband.
What the hell was going on?! Breathe. Fucking breathe. There's a man in front of you with a gun. Don't waste any time.
"That gun's gonna jam," he grinned, tossing his gun aside.
"Bullshit," I pulled the trigger.
My world froze for a moment. I pulled it again. Then again. I slammed my hand against the bottom of the gun, racked it again, then—
He charged at me, knife drawn as my gun jammed a third time. I growled, tossing it at him. With a swipe, he knocked it out of the air and leaned in, his hand crashing down and slamming into the ground with lethal, superhuman force. He tore the blade out from the metal flooring in a single movement, like cutting through butter. I scanned my surroundings. He lunged again, and before he could connect, I knocked over a waste bin. Stumbling forward, I shuffled under the railings, dropping to the bottom floor in a landing roll.
I watched in terror as he climbed to the top of the railings before simply stepping off and falling down like lightning. He crashed into the ground with a resounding boom, cracking the ground beneath him.
"Gaha! Do you smell it, boy?! The smell of freedom in the air?!"
"What the fuck?!"
My eyes locked onto my gun, the one he'd swiped out of the air earlier. I dashed for it before he could move. In a single moment, he raised his arm, sending the blade toward the gun. It knocked the gun farther away, so I pivoted my focus to the knife. I pulled it from the ground, holding it in my hand. My face contorted as I felt the blade in my hand.
The man laughed, his voice echoing through the night, "Gahahaha! And what exactly are you going to do with that toy?!"
He was right. The damn thing was plastic. It was one of those toy army knives you'd get from the Dollar Tree. I didn't notice until now, but then—
"How the hell?" I gripped it. It was so flimsy that the handle bent from a bit of pressure. Surely, this was a joke. Maybe the blade was real and the plastic was fake? I jammed the knife into the ground… or I tried, but the thing just bent out of shape. The world spun around me as I felt my head go light.
I had no idea what the hell was going on. Tossing the knife to the side, I turned around and made a run for the gun. I could hear his footsteps thumping as he chased me down. Leaning forward as much as I could, I leapt for the gun.
My hands barely grasped onto the gun, before I span around and racked it. The jammed case flew out of the chamber, and my vision narrowed down to the instant I realized. This was going to hit. The gun wouldn't jam. Now fire.
I felt the familiar recoil as I watched the bullet pierce through.
At least, that's what I thought. It was like watching reality rewrite itself in real-time. The world itself melded into a malleable fabric that found us back in the same spot. The bullet dropped to the ground, as a ring on his hand disintegrated into dust.
"Gahaha! Fool! As long as I've the Rings of Titan, I've no physical weakness!" he gripped his fist. I couldn't help but scoff. What kind of cosplay, chuuni bullshit was that?! But at the same time, I couldn't deny it. It pissed me off. My mind trailed back to what the khakis man said.
"Believe me now, kid?"
…How convenient. I pulled away, listening to my gut instinct. I watched as the old man came up from behind him.
It was fluid. Graceful. Almost beautiful, even. Like a calm river shifting into a rapid, I watched as he snaked forward to slice off the hand of the cloaked man. The old man ducked as he swung a left hook. But before the cloaked man could even turn and realize that he missed, the old man had already made his move.
Blood and gore found itself in the air before I could even react. The cloaked man hit the ground, way too light to be natural. My hands instinctively gripped the gun, tugging on the slide to rack another bullet.
"Don't move," I kept the gun on him as I scrambled to stand up. "You clearly know way more than you're letting on, so I want you to explain what in the FUCK just happened. And I don't want any of that cryptic shit!"
The man grinned, "Hey. Is that any way to treat your savior?"
"Shut up," I cut him off. "Tell me what happened, or I'm gonna shoot the hell out of you."
"Fine, fine! Barbarian," he chuckled. "But we should probably—"
"MICHAEL!"
I heard Cyria's voice cut through the mental haze. I turned to the top, her hair and body still wrapped in towels. She ran down the stairs in a mix and match of my shoes and hers. She stopped in front of me, looking at the khakis man, and the dead body behind him. To top it off, I still had my gun pointed at the man.
"I heard a gunshot, so I thought… but what the hell is happening here?!"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to figure out," I jerked my hand toward the man. "This guy owes us some fucking answers, and I'm not leaving until I get them."
"I was going to say that we should probably do this in a more private area?" he gestured to the open area. True. If someone saw me in this situation, there's probably gonna be hell to pay. I hissed, clicking my tongue.
"Go. And don't try anything funny."
He raised his hands up, walking up the stairs and into the room that Cyria walked out of. We trailed behind him, watching his every move. Once I was able to shut the door, I sat down on the couch, crossing my leg as I signaled for him to sit down in the chair. I looked at Cyria.
"Get changed," I looked back at the man. "I'll talk to this guy."
"Okay, wow. First of all, name's not 'this guy', it's Kilo. Like the measurement unit."
"Sure, whatever."
She was silent for a moment, before walking back into the bathroom and locking it.
"Spill. What the hell was that back there? I mean, that cloaked guy was literally tearing metal with plastic knifes. Is that the magic you were talking about?" I bombarded him with questions. "And I know I watched that bullet kill him, so why didn't he die?"
"You'll burn out thinking that hard," he sighed. "Look. Do you know what manifestation is?"
"…What, like 'believe and it shall be' manifestation?"
"Exactly like that. Well, okay. Imagine that being real, but way more complicated and constricted," he explained.
My face scrunched up. I still couldn't get over how this all sounded like some insane conspiracy. What he was implying went against everything I ever knew, and yet, everything that just happened would back it up.
"There once was a philosopher who came up with the idea that the world was constructed from perception. After thoroughly exploring the idea, he found that the claim had more weight behind it than he'd originally expected," he continued. "That theory went on to become something I, and many others, call 'Grave's Theorem'. The idea that reality is a construct formed by perception and belief."
"What, so if you just believe something, it'll come true?"
"Ha! Pretty much!" he laughed. "But it's a lot more complicated than that. There's a lot of restrictions, principles, and clauses that we follow. And beyond that… truly believing in something is a lot harder than you'd expect."
"Explain."
"Well, think of it this way," he gestured. "When you wrap a car, does the original paint change?"
"No…?"
"In the same way, just believing isn't enough when your underlying subconscious thinks otherwise. You can't just have to believe something to be true. You have to know it's true," he stood up. "Beyond that, desire plays a role as well. Think of it as a priority number. The stronger your desire for something, the more you'll be able to overwrite the ambient truths. We call those combined traits delusion. Or willpower, if you wanna sound all prissy about it."
"Wait, wait, so… if that's true, then why'd Cyria come back to life with the full moon rumor stuff you were talking about? I was pretty damn skeptical," I squinted, lowering my gun and crossing my other leg.
"Like I said, surface thoughts don't define the core of your mind. Somewhere in your soul, the desire to bring her back, and the delusion to believe it existed. So the world responded in kind. That's all."
"That doesn't make any sense, though. I mean, wouldn't that make Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy real with how many kids believe in them?"
He simply stared at me, smirking as he raised his eyebrows. My head slumped forward as I raised an eyebrow, "No. You're lying."
"Nope."
I heard the bathroom door click, before it swung open. Cyria stepped out of the bathroom in a loose-fit pair of jeans and a sweater. She sat down on the bed, cutting me off before I could say a word.
"Who the hell was that guy? Why was he trying to kill Michael?"
Kilo turned his head to face her. He stared at her for a little bit before closing the blinds and speaking, "Well, remember the shadow government stuff I was talking about?"
I shook my head, completely taken aback. "Are you saying that guy was from a shadow government?"
"More like a crime syndicate. Literally called the Syndicate, actually. They like to think of themselves as 'liberators', their goal being to spread the power to all of humanity. I haven't a clue why they're after you, though," he shrugged.
"…This is too much to think about," I grumbled, tucking my gun back into my waistband. I laid back on the couch. "So? What's the plan, Cyria?"
She looked at me with a curious expression.
"I mean, we don't have to stay here. I was thinking about it. Even if someone did kill you, we don't necessarily need to find them now, do we?" I sat back up. "You're alive now. We can just leave. I can take you out of this place just like we always talked about."
Kilo looked at her like I had a point, his eyebrows raised and head tilted slightly.
" I guess," she muttered. "But, don't you wanna bring him to justice or something?"
"Are you kidding?" I laughed. "Did you see the shit that happened out there? I mean, this guy's talking about magic and shadow governments and all that, like— c'mon. Even if I wanted to beat the breaks off of this 'killer', there's no guaranteeing he doesn't just imagine me out of existence or some bullshit like that."
"Yeah, but…" she mumbled softly. It looked like she had more that she wanted to say.
"Do you wanna find him?" I asked after a beat of silence. She looked at me, before her eyes pulled away and narrowed.
She took a breath, then softly, "I do. Kinda. It's just that it feels like there's more to this than we know."
"Is that one of your famous 'gut instinct' moments?" I stared at her, unamused.
"Michael."
After a long moment, I let out a bitter exhale, looking away as I looked at Kilo. "Well, you heard her. Any idea who'd go around pushing random 20 year old women off buildings?"
"Don't ask me," he scoffed. He stood up, stretching. He yawned, before shaking his legs. "Well. That's my cue. I only really stopped by on a favor, so don't expect me to come saving your ass again."
"Favor?" I tilted my head back. Great. Another variable. "Who?"
"They'll probably come find you soon," he chuckled. "Well, just know that they don't bite. Usually."
With that, he waved and saw himself out the door. How amazing. My head throbbed as I tried to process everything that he told me. Grave's Theorem? Reality-bending? Delusion? It all made the faintest bit of sense, yet none at all. I clawed at my scalp, before groaning loudly. Realistically, I was supposed to just come here, get a lead, and leave. But now I'm being targeted by a magical crime group that runs on delusions and fantasies, and I can't leave because my childhood friend who died eight years ago suddenly came back to life and wants to investigate it? I'd rather not just leave her alone in a situation like this, either.
"Sorry, Michael," she spoke. Her voice was soft, like it has been for the past half-hour. I took a deep breath.
"It's fine. I'm just… gonna go to bed. Let's talk about this tomorrow, okay?" I smiled at her. It was a weary smile, one worn-out by the fact that I was almost assassinated earlier. Maybe it was the adrenaline? The shock? But it hadn't really settled in. At this point? I just wanted to rest.
"Go to bed, Cyria," I covered my eyes with my arm, yawning. "We'll think about what to do when we wake up."
As I nodded off, the thoughts crossed my mind. Somehow, Cyria came back to life. A strange cryptic man lead me out here, and I found Cyria alive. Then, we went to my old home, where she ended up vomiting on my floor. And to top it all off, some random guy from a crime syndicate tried killing me. Just for me to get saved by said cryptic man. If you told me that all that would happen to my in one night, I'd laugh at you. Call you an idiot.
"Goodnight, Michael."
Well, this is alright, I guess.
"Goodnight, Cyria."
Tomorrow, I'll deal with it.