The Event

Chapter 6

"Binjy?"

The house is too dark, too stubborn to be sought after. After all, Aliyah's family consistently line the walls with their ideas, the ones her brother and parents whisper into thin air so that they don't clog up space for memories. It makes Aliyah believe she can feel the house shudder in the silence, the weight of too many confused identities to bear. 

The house won't tell her anything; she'll have to find her brother herself.

"Binjy?"

She makes her way down the padded hallway, but doesn't turn on a light. If Binjy isn't here, than she needs to leave quickly. Her mother and father will only make things worse.

The sound of keys in a lock makes her jump. To the left is the hallway closet, and she stuffs herself inside before the door can fully open.  

"See, what did I tell you? No one's here."

"What good does that do us?"

"Well, we can talk freely, can't we?"

One voice is Binjy's, that much she's sure of. The other is too low and husky to determine even gender, as if the speaker recently swallowed a cough.

Binjy laughs, his voice on fire. She can imagine his already unproportioned features distorting further, the sound lifting off him in waves with enough power to destroy a small city. She's often wondered if her brother is more than a creator, if there's a destroyer element hidden there. Someone who can create, can also destroy--hadn't she read that somewhere?

"What's free? We have a new word for that, don't you remember?"

"You say freedom doesn't exist, but what are we doing right now, huh? We don't need to be here. We could be anywhere. We chose to be here."

"It's not that simple."

"Why can't it be? We're alive. We have free will."

She wants to believe whoever it is with her brother, the one who seems to be the optimistic link in their strange chain, but Binjy is always right. Except when it comes to her working as a creative.  

"But for how long, my friend? How long until they have your mind connected to some computer database that fries your brains if you don't move the way they tell you to?"

"Who's they?"

"That's the problem, isn't it? The president is a figurehead. We're going after progress for progress sake. Why can't we be content with the technology we already have, with the longer life spans, the higher quality time on earth?"

"You make us sound so special. If we take what's already been given to us, how do we add value?"

"We're not here to see it. Not in a hundred years anyway. We fade, and others take our place. We're not in the position to create new things--we have to save what's at risk. There's our legacy."

"Legacy--that's a bold word, even for you."

"I've already told you, I can't see the future."

"But you can imagine it. You can build it with your ideas. Give me a glimpse. That's all I'm asking."

"I've already paid you. Now you need to leave my family alone."

Aliyah pauses, her hand against the closet door. She hasn't yet managed to position herself to see out of the crack next to the wall, and their sudden silence makes it too difficult to continue. There are too many scarves and coats around her ankles, objects that could crinkle or tear with one wrong move. She forgets how to think about anything but silence, the nothingness as fluid as running water, as heavy as the buttercream icing her mother keeps in a jar by the stove.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

Aliyah opens her eyes, unsure about how much time has passed. It's not Binjy who's spoken; she listens for definitive inflections, range of tone. She already knows Binjy will refuse to tell her anything, but she'll upload this memory and compare the voice to others she's met or overheard. The e-cloud is searchable by sounds; if she's interacted with this person before, she'll get a match.

"I'm sorry."

Binjy doesn't bother hiding his displeasure, but then again, Binjy rarely does. Aliyah wants to believe in something for as hard and long as Binjy's believed in keeping her family's talents a secret, along with his unknown agenda for the world. But she feels her body spreading across too many platforms and people, each taking tiny pieces for themselves and leaving an unmalleable portion alone to stew and wonder. She can't sit still any longer. Binjy has promised her change since she was old enough to care, has begged her to let him lead their family in his own way. Her parents trust him, hold his insights to the light without fully examining them. It's easier, she assumes, than forging a different path. But she has ideas too.

"What's sorry? Is that your new word for us?"

There's no way Binjy will stay quiet and allow himself to be mocked like this; Aliyah waits to hear her brother explode, the familiar rage laced with guilt. He'll calm himself quickly, hate himself for reacting to the provocation, but it won't be enough to entirely stop the outburst; Binjy is too passionate for that.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," the voice chants, and Aliyah imagines dancing legs circling like jack-0-lantern smiles, unnatural and meant to scare.

She bends down carefully, reaching, hoping. The crack to her left is so close now. Why isn't her brother responding?

Her eyes are as close to the ground as she can get while resting on her knees, and she tilts her head to the right. Suddenly the crack is dark, the voices outside muffled. Someone is standing right in front of the closet, someone in dark clothing who's blocking her light. She's as blind as she ever was, and she concentrates on the sound of their movements.

Two grunts and a short wail, both which sound like her brother and yet can't be. Aliyah can't imagine him scuffling alongside this stranger, letting him take control in their own home. Her brother is too strong for this.

"Don't!"

More silence, the absence of everything burning her ears. She feels a current buzzing around her, solitude as tangible as a swarm of flies because she must anticipate it breaking--soon, there must be noise again.

"Don't!"

Has someone really spoken, or is this a sound she's transformed into a warning? She listens again, intently, trying to push out the fear and frustration. How long is she meant to be in here? Why hadn't she confronted them when they first walked in? She'd been looking for Binjy, and here he is--why hasn't she gone out to be with him?

She shifts so that her entire right side is pressed against the closet door and almost slips, the ground beneath her suddenly damp. Her right palm reaches cautiously beneath her knee only to emerge stained and vivid.

Red, sticky.

She flips her hand back and forth, comparing sides and holding her breath. There's not enough light, but she's familiar enough to sense the possibilities.

Blood? So much blood, running towards her like a river slips under a narrow bridge. Whose?

When the front door slams, she holds her knees between her arms and huddles. How long will it be before she forgets how to breathe?

Binjy wouldn't have been the one to walk out and leave his home; Binjy hasn't spoken in minutes, maybe an hour. Binjy may no longer be Binjy. Her Binjy, her Binjy. Oh, Binjy.