The world spins around me like a golden pinwheel, sepia-toned now through the haze of alcohol. The sounds seem to have disappeared, faded into background noise, dim crackling static that only just registers in my ears. Silas’ eyes, glistening over my shoulder, shine gunmetal grey with the faintest tint of green, like a whisper of spring in the dark of winter. Is it the alcohol clouding my eyes or are have they always gleamed like metal? I watch him, wary, as I lean into Francisco, trying to catch the world as it whirls overhead.
“You don’t exist,” I whisper.
“Not to those around you.”
“You’re not real.”
“I’m as real as everything else you see.” He holds out his hand, palm up. I stretch out my fingertips and press them against his. I run my fingertips across his palms, feeling the grooves, the raised lines, the crevasses. But his hands are as cold against mine as the snow on top of the mountain. I shiver. Was he this cold when I took his hand as we found paths to other worlds together? I blink, trying to clear the fog out from my eyes, but it returns, persistent, all bronze, faded colors and soundless motion around me. “Just because the others can’t see me or hear me doesn’t mean I’m not real.”
Francisco wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to him. The heat from his body seems to shimmer a sunset-orange in contrast to Silas’ icicle cold. But he doesn’t seem to notice that I’m talking to thin air. He doesn’t ask me who I’m talking to, or why my fingers are stretched out in front of me, grasping at something only I can see.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Silas.
“I need your help,” he says.
“With what?”
“The shadows. They’re gaining strength. I could feel them in the other worlds when I was traveling. I need you to help me close the portal.”
“The shadows aren’t real, Silas.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear myself. Claire’s red hair flashes in front of me, Kalifa’s golden hijab fades into a dusky brass. The world around me seems to be carrying on as normal, ignoring me, ignoring the conversation I’m having with a boy who exists only in my mind. “You’re not real. Dr. Chase said so.”
“Do the shadows hurt you, Noomi?” Silas’ voice is low and hard. I nod reluctantly. “If they hurt you, if they make you feel pain, or sadness, or emptiness, then they’re real. They’re as real to you as they are to me.”
“Why do you need me?”
“Because you’re the Path.”
“Why here? Why now?”
“There’s energy here. People celebrating. Happiness. Joy. We can use their energy.” His eyes seem to dim into a charcoal grey as he speaks. I turn away from him, but he comes around to face me, refusing to let me ignore him.
“Why are you afraid, Noomi?”
The ground seems to give way beneath my feet. My vision splits and I see two worlds, two paths. One with Claire and Kalifa, a mist of alcohol and Basi playing pool, and Francisco’s hand reaching down to my side to find my own. The other with Silas, all cold hands and cold eyes, reaching out to me, challenging me to courage when I don’t want to be courageous anymore.
“I’m afraid of them. I’m afraid of you.”
“We can help each other, Noomi.” His voice sounds deeper. Darkness starts to creep into me. The emptiness takes hold. I clutch Francisco’s hand more tightly to reassure myself of where I am. Who I am. “I want to help you.” Silas’ voice is almost pleading. “Let me help you.”
YOU ARE READING
Porous
Teen Fiction*Trigger Warning* Depression, suicide, and mental illness are subjects dealt with in this story. I have a history with suicide. When I was three, I attempted the first time. A year later, my second, and not five months after that I tried again. Th...
