A Touch of Song and Salem

What It's Like to Burn

Amelia doesn't remember everything. She doesn't remember every war between countries, every petty squabble between her family. She doesn't remember all the things Jackson said when he was angry, and Roosevelt when he was calm. She doesn't quite remember how she felt when it rained after too-long summers. She doesn't remember the feeling of wildfire, of too-long winters where they had to eat the men after all. Of every man hunt over silly things like color, if we'd like to share everything after all. Not entirely. She doesn't quite remember what it was to have fields, open and untamed.

She doesn't remember Roanoke; she doesn't remember Salem. She tries not to.

She doesn't remember how the sea boiled, the earth choked, and the sky burned when they had to move off world.

She doesn't remember what it felt like to burn.

She doesn't remember everything from the academy. She doesn't remember how school was more like that of fish; that they had to stick together or they'd be picked off one by one and devoured. She doesn't remember how they shoved needles into her brain like toothpicks, and gobbled up the pieces, her thoughts appetizers—(so what was the main course?).

She, smart girl, sane girl, doesn't remember sending letters made of jumbled notions, speaking of monuments and worlds they'd never seen, events to which they'd never been. A fraud in coded verity. She doesn't remember laying, eyes open, knowing tomorrow would not be molded together out of sunshine, and rain, and open air, it would be sewn out of blood and their own brains.

What she does remember...fragments. A flash here. An emotion there. She sees ghosts. Some benign. Some...not so. And she's not always sure what's a ghost and what's a figment, a figment of yesterday, or just today's unlucky daydreams. Though perhaps she's always seen them.

She feels things. Too much.

She doesn't remember everything. All of American history is too much for one girl's head.

But she does remember Matthew.

She remembers how much he risked to save her from the needles. She remembers the feeling of his arms around her for the first time since she left him—(all for the sake of a little knowledge...She hated how she could be so petty sometimes). The way he still, after all this time, smelled like maple, and freshly fallen snow, and cigarette smoke. How he saved her.

(Though some of her got left behind.)

She remembers how Matthew danced with her, long ago—though the occasions bleed together.

They never much liked parties.

She remembers sitting curled up with him, and a good book, by the fire, petting a dog with her toes. Thinking of home. Knowing they were close enough.

So when they take him...she forgets how to smile.

It's a game, surely. Hide and seek. She remembers that, at least. She must be "it".

That thought alone keeps her from breaking. Breaking. Breaking the world down, herself in it.

So she counts to ten, and she runs. Through the forest, each tree—(no sweet sap from them this time of year)—like scarecrows pointing no particular way, just there to scare off the birds, and maybe a sensitive child or two.

She remembers the farms, and the wind over the wheat, scarecrows like sentries.—Why do they say ravens are bad omens?—The farms, the plantations, and the songs gliding over them, songs of a home those working in the fields could never return to.

And she finds him. He wasn't hiding altogether well. In fact, he's with people out in the open, some strangers—Are they friends? Are they playing too?