Chapters The Town With No Name That Once Had One
This Place Will Never Let Me Leave
Eleanor stepped down from the steps of the drab, gray bus, breathing in with a sigh as the acrid smell of exhaust faded from her nose and mouth. Rows and rows of faded white houses stretched out for what seemed to be forever under an unrelentingly gray sky as she took in what was soon to be her new life.
She checked the address slip again. Number four hundred and twenty three. Somewhere along this street was something she might one day call a home. It was a home that she had imagined to be a haven, a sanctuary from the troubles that had plagued her for longer than she could remember. Now that she was here, however, this place looked more like a prison than anything else, the dreary picket fences stretching on like the bars on hundreds of clean, white cells.
This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? She was free now. This was her reward. One of these houses would keep her inside, giving safety and comfort until her dying days. She could sit on the porch, sipping tea and staring for hours at the endless void of concrete and grass. She would sit there, day after day, year after year, with nothing to trouble her and nothing to put her in danger. The house itself would cradle her, keeping her functioning on that porch until one day laying her down into a slow, passive death. Her last breath would be drawn out of her without a single other soul around, pulled out of her body and becoming a part of the eternal curtain of light gray clouds above her.
A panicked rejection of her surroundings entered her mind, but then slid off the gray blanket of clouds that had taken hold of her head, numbing her thoughts to a dull whisper. She scanned her eyes back and forth, trying to gain her bearings and take in her surroundings, but the endless empty houses lulled her into a hypnotic trance. It occurred to her that perhaps there ought to be other people living here, that surly an endless neighborhood like this ought to exist for a reason. Logic, however, was not something she was in the mood for. That would require thinking, and she didn’t feel like doing that right now. In fact, she didn’t feel like doing much of anything.
Her eyes lazily checked the numbers, eventually landing on the number four hundred and twenty three. That was the house that she would belong to. Not that it really seemed to matter. All of the houses were the same anyway.
She tried lifting a foot to make her way over, but it just didn’t seem to want to move. She tried again, putting a little more effort into it this time, and the foot moved forward just a bit. Honestly, she had to agree with her foot: moving forward just seemed more trouble than it was worth right now. She had already been through so much, after all. Surly she deserved a little rest. Just a small, short, never-ending rest.
Her body sat down in the middle of the road. She wasn’t sure how she got on the ground, but she was there now. It was more comfortable than standing anyway. She liked it here. She’d always liked it here. Nothing ever had to change. She never had to do anything. She’d never have to go anywhere, not ever again. Why would she bother?
Her body went limp. That’s not what she wanted to do. She hadn’t told it to do that, it just sort of… happened. She was lying on the cold, hard street now, staring up into the sky of gently frothing gray. The sky seemed to stretch on forever. That was probably because it did. A never-ending gray sky to compliment the never-ending gray street. It seemed fitting, in a way. She stared up, searching the featureless clouds for… something. She wasn’t sure what, and she didn’t really care. The gray of the clouds began to seep into her, turning her senses and her mind into the same dull gray.
Every now and then she’d spot something. A shape, it looked like a face, breaking through the clouds to reveal itself to her for a moment, then disappearing back into featureless gray. “What was that shape?” she wondered. It’s funny, the faces in the clouds had been the first faces she’d seen here so far. Well, not really funny—just interesting. Well, not really interesting either. Just sort of a thing that existed. Just like her. She was also just a thing that existed. She would go on existing for years and decades, stretching on until finally she died and turned to dust, becoming just another face in the clouds. Then again, hadn’t she been here for years already?
No, wait. That couldn’t be right. She’d just gotten off the bus. She’d just been on her way to the house. The house that she would belong to, in the neighborhood that she would belong to, in the city that she would belong to, in the world that she would belong to. She raised a hand, all of the scant energy she could muster lifting it up. Her arm had changed; what was already a bit on the scrawny side had now atrophied to the point of being unrecognizable. Her eyes widened, cracking slightly as they did so from the dust and dirt caked around them. The clouds had darkened, threatening to consume her in their gaping maw, enticing her into the dreamless sleep of death.
She sat up suddenly, more suddenly than she could remember ever doing, and looked down at herself. With a shaking hand she slowly lifted her shirt to reveal a sickly stomach, sunken in and emaciated. She ran her fingers—now bony and dry—along her chest, feeling each individual rib as they wearily jutted out from the dry skin draped over them. The body she saw disgusted her. Was it even right to call it hers? This alien form, gangly and thin, was nothing like what she remembered existing in. If this was how her body looked, then what happened to her mind? She was still the same person, right? How long had it been? How long…
A thought began to take hold in her head. The thought had always been there, hadn’t it? She’d ignored it for so long that she had mostly forgotten, but it really had been there all along. She’d just never really understood it until now. She hadn’t had the capacity to imagine the scope of what it had meant, but now—now she understood. With creeping horror, she realized the situation that she’d willfully lost herself to. The truth of this place.
That this place would never let her leave.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Face Your Fears, You'll Disappear
Eleanor sat up with a start. She was screaming, screaming as she threw her covers off, a flurry of worn cloth sent flying from her bed. She was fine. Fine, right? She panted long, raspy breaths as she patted her hands up and down her body, as if fearing that she might disappear at any moment. She realized with a sigh of relief that her body, once worn and withered, had returned to something approaching normal. She still didn’t like it, but… It was hers. She was whole again.
This was her home, wasn’t it? No, she didn’t recognize it. Glancing back and forth around the room, however, there was an odd sense of familiarity to the decor. Faded posters and dusty trinkets lay about the room, and though they were clearly laid out by someone who shared her interests, the sense of solidarity that might come from finding another like-minded person was absent. Any color that had once adorned the room had been stolen, like all the life had been sucked out. There was something painfully, utterly wrong about the eerie familiarity, like someone had stolen a piece of herself and plastered it all across the room like some sort of ghoulish caricature.
It was with some trepidation that she slid herself off of the bed, instinctively reaching for the nightstand and the thin silver necklace that lay atop it. As she reached to clasp it around her neck, however, she felt the hard, comforting touch of her necklace already around her. She froze for a moment, then slowly unclasped the object around her neck, bringing them both up to her eyes to inspect them.
The designs were indistinguishable. She held in front of her a copy of her most prized possession, the piece of jewelry with a one-of-a-kind design given to her by…
There were clear differences in the two. The one she had been wearing was in far better condition, sparkling in the light from its carefully polished metal. The other, in comparison, had lost its shine and color, worn away by years of neglect. It was rough along the sides, whereas hers was smooth and comforting. It would be irritating to wear this other necklace, since it would surely chafe over the course of a few days. This couldn’t possibly be hers. She would never be so thoughtless as to keep it in such a condition. This… this forgery looked like it hadn’t been worn in years.
She replaced the necklace on the bedside table and carefully clasped her own back to its rightful place around her neck. She approached the door and reached out a hand, turning the knob with a squeak and stepping out into the hall. The barren gray of the hall stretched forward with its small collection of identical doors, ending in a spiraling flight of stairs that disappeared down to the living room. The hall itself was entirely featureless and colorless; nothing was allowed to interrupt the continuous dull gray of the paint.
She walked across to the other side of the hall, closing the door to her room (someone’s room, she corrected) and opened the door to the bathroom. As she pulled back the door, however, she immediately wished that she hadn’t.
Slick, wet red was strewn about the room like some sort of macabre paint bucket had exploded, mixed in with the harder brown of blood that had congealed and dried long ago. Shards of glass lay in disarray all over the floor, sink, and bathtub, reflecting the brilliant reds in a sickening display of prismatic brilliance. The mirror on the wall had been beaten and cracked to the point where only a few shards along the edges remained, holding out against the onslaught they had endured. Another frame identical to the one on the wall lay in the bath, completely stripped of its glass and laying propped up against the side.
Eleanor shut the door as soon as any sense returned to her head. She wanted to cry. She wanted to vomit. Her head spun with conflicting reactions, none of which had much staying power. She never wanted to look into that room again. She wished she could burn the horrific image out of her mind, the same way it had burned itself in. The reds splashed about, reflecting off of the thousands of tiny shards, an inescapable array of twisted color everywhere.
She shakily pushed herself to her feet again. She didn’t remember when she fell, but clearly it had happened. Suddenly her curiosity regarding the other doors in the hall was absent, and she slowly began moving her body towards the stairs. She knew what would be behind them anyway.
Her hand grasped the metal of the railing with some desperation. It was nice to have something to hold on to that could steady her, and though the white polish had faded away long ago, the railing would have to do. The stairs creaked as one by one she stepped down, the living room coming into view as she did so.
The same gray and featureless color scheme held here as well. The same gray walls. The same gray ceiling. There was a faded gray couch near the window, a window that looked out at the same gray sky to which she’d become accustomed. The softly roiling clouds were all at once comforting and terrifying in their uniformity. She decided to look away, back to the safe, gray interior of the house.
A soft clink of silverware made her snap her attention to the entrance to the kitchen. There wasn’t anybody here. There wasn’t ever anybody here. She was always alone, she always had been. Or, wait, hadn’t there been people before, before she...
She softly made her way forward, her body unsure of what posture to take as she crept closer and closer to the corner. She chided herself for not bringing a weapon, maybe a piece of glass from the bathroom, but quickly shut down that line of thinking. She would never go back in there. She touched a hand to the dividing wall, moving her head forward to peer at the intruder that had found their way into the house. As she turned the corner, however, any thoughts she might have had were shattered when she saw the messy, gray figure hunched over the table, a spoonful of cereal halfway to its mouth. The two of them stared in shock at one another, unable to form words as Eleanor stared back at a twisted version of her own reflection.
The Eleanor that sat before her was worn and withered, a mangled body that had been destroyed by neglect and hardship. There was a gray pallor to the face to match the gray of the rest of the house, a gray that had been meticulously painted on day after day, year after year, until the old color had been all but forgotten by the outside world. A gray coat sat crooked around her frame, as if it had to make an effort not to slide off of the body it lay on, and she wore a pair of jeans that had faded to gray over the years. The spoon dropped to the table with a thud, falling out of the bony hands it had been barely held in.
Eleanor stared at herself for minutes, hours, not a single word passing between them. Words tried to take hold on her mind, but all died before they could make it to her lips. She had nothing to say, nothing she could say, nothing that was possibly worth saying. After what seemed like a lifetime, or at least something approaching one, the Eleanor in front of her slowly stood up with a strength that belied her gaunt body. A single hand reached down to the bottom of her shirt, pulling up to reveal an emaciated, sunken stomach that Eleanor had seen before. But this was different. Thousands of scars, cuts, and slashes cut across the skin mercilessly, the reds and browns a stark contrast to the gray that had covered them moments before. Little flecks of glass dotted several of the wounds, still dripping a bright red that had begun to run down her body.
“It’s all like that,” said the Eleanor in a raspy imitation of her own voice. “It’s gotten harder to hide over the years, but I make do.” Eleanor nodded. She already knew.
Slowly, her mind began to slog through the reality in front of her. Finally, though, the words came to her, shaky and forceless.
“I’m not going to be like you,” she whispered to herself.
The person in front of her nodded. “I know.” She paused. “I wouldn’t want you to,” she added after some consideration.
“I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to find somewhere better.”
The person in front of her laughed, a dry, humorless laugh that morphed into a cough as it dragged itself along.
“I know you’ll try. If anyone could, it’s you. There’s no point though. You’ll be wasting your time.”
Eleanor nodded. She walked to the door, opening it with only a moment of hesitation.
“I don’t care,” she whispered softly, and left.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
As Eleanor stepped out from the door of the house, she was immediately hit by a wave of cold, moist air that sent a shiver through her. The clouds had grown darker since she first arrived, turning from a dull, light gray to a more threatening shade. She looked up, immediately regretting it as her mind imagined hundreds upon thousands of eyes staring at her, constantly changing so as to make it impossible to pin down a single one, like an optical illusion that she felt was impossible to ignore. She tried anyway, of course, keeping her eyes to the ground as best she could. That cold, damp ground. The cold air forced her to clutch her hands around herself, pressing her scarred hands tightly against her body as she made her way across the withered lawn.
The front gate stubbornly remained closed as she tried to press her thigh against it. With some annoyance, she brought her hands out from the relative warmth of her arms and planted them firmly against the gate. With a grunt, she pushed on the gate with as much strength as she could muster. It let out a grinding squeal in protest, finally giving up and swinging open. Eleanor didn’t even bother closing it behind her again as she stepped into the street.
Her confidence, holding on by a thread as it was, withered away like the grass as she looked around, trying and failing to gain a sense of direction. The layout of the town was actively working against her, with nothing of note as far as she could determine, not even a sign to mark the bus stop from which she’d arrived. Every house looked identical, and had she not been standing in front of it, she wouldn’t have even been able to point to her own house without seeing the number in front of it.
No, she corrected. It wasn’t hers.
She started walking. Slowly, at first, but as the wind began to remind her of its presence she walked firmer, more confidently. She stared down at the ground, hiding her scarred hands underneath her arms, refusing to let the wind have its way. She would make it out of here. Even if the world was against her, she would just keep on walking until she found her way out. It seemed like a monumental task, but she had to trust that she could do it. She’d seen the alternative.
Unfortunately, she still had a long way to go, and the drab, unchanging scenery around her was starting to get to her even now. No landmarks had been forthcoming after several houses, and that wasn’t something that seemed about to change any time soon. She paused in her walking, the wind slowing down to a gentler but still uncomfortable breeze, and leaned over a fence to peer at the number on the house closest to her.
Number four hundred and twenty three.
That couldn’t be right. She checked her pocket for the address slip she’d placed there. Nothing. She checked the other pocket. Nothing but her unmarked house key. Maybe she misremembered? She had been sure of the number; she’d certainly checked it enough times on the bus.
With some hesitation, she continued walking. She squinted as she did so, trying to see an end to the street, an intersection even, but the gray road and faded houses seemed to stretch on forever. It wasn’t surprising anymore. After some time she slowed again, starting to shiver as an uncomfortable moisture seeped into her clothes and her skin, compounding the cold of the air around her. She chided herself for not having the sense to grab a blanket while she was still inside. Determined to find some sense of her location, she stopped again, leaning over an identical fence to look at the house number.
Number four hundred and twenty three.
She stared at the number. It was wrong. The wind seemed to laugh at her, getting colder for a moment and throwing a droplet of water onto her face. The number was wrong. This whole place was wrong. She’d seen other numbers before, when she first arrived. There was a four hundred and twenty two, a four hundred and twenty four, and in the middle was four hundred and twenty three, her house. No, someone’s house, not hers!
She’d been able to put a number on the problem before. If she kept walking, she could have gotten to house number two, then house number one, and then she’d be out. As long as she kept walking, kept putting one foot in front of the other, she would be free. The other her had just been too lazy, too lost in despair to do anything, but she wouldn’t be like that. She could find a way, there was a finite number of houses. There had been hope.
Now that she was outside, she understood. The fixed number of houses had been nothing more than an illusion, a mirage designed to keep her from realizing the scope of her fate. The other Eleanor had probably tried already. This is what they had meant. She cursed the other Eleanor for not telling her, for not being more clear about what she meant. Her anger didn’t last, though. It’s not like that knowledge would have done her any good. It was the town she should be upset at. Still, it was comforting to have someone she could blame.
She clenched her fists. This place wouldn’t get the best of her. She couldn’t let it win. It wanted her to stop, to give up and go back inside to spend the rest of her days wasting away with no end in sight but her own. She would keep walking. Even if it was pointless, she would keep walking. She’d gotten out of seemingly hopeless situations before, after all. It was all just an illusion, a trick designed to keep her complacent and miserable. Even if she never escaped, it would at least be a spit in the eye of whatever forces had contrived to trap her here. The only problem was, she’d need supplies to keep walking. And there was only one place she’d seen any.
She turned towards the gate, fearing what she was about to do. She just needed a few things. A blanket, some food, some water. She would come back out and keep walking. But as hard as she tried to deny it, tried to justify away her reasoning, she knew it wouldn’t be that easy. She knew how easy it would be to become trapped, just like the other version of herself had been. But she was already trapped, wasn’t she? She was trapped in a world that hated her, in a town that would never let her leave, and in a mind that betrayed her at every turn. It would be easy to give up, to become nothing and eventually fade into the clouds. It wouldn’t happen to her.
Not again.
She brought her hands out and placed them on the gate, bracing herself and letting loose a mighty shove. The gate shot forward and slammed against its hinges, offering nothing in the way of resistance. She was taken aback at the gate’s willingness to let her in, but still walked through nonetheless. She made her way across the lawn, slowly at first—until a particularly biting gust of cold wind sent her scurrying to the door, opening it and stepping in with a single motion.
The inside of the house was warm, just as she remembered it. It was better than the cold of the outside streets, but the warmth was hardly comforting. She wanted a home. A real home. It seemed as if the life was slowly draining out of her just by being here, and from what she’d seen that fear wasn’t entirely unjustified.
The version of herself that had been here before was merecifully gone, the kitchen table cleared and the chair haphazardly put away. Cereal would keep well for a long trip, so that would be a good place to start, she reasoned. She hoped that the version living here wouldn’t mind. Was it really stealing if she was taking it from herself? Who knew. Certainly not her.
As she grabbed the knob to the pantry where the cereal would be kept, a thick layer of dirt and crud came off on her fingers, and as she pulled open the door she had to hold back a sneeze as a cloud of dust came wafting right at her face. It stank of rotting wood and dead cobwebs, like even the spiders had given up on this place long ago. There was nothing inside.
Eleanor was sure she’d put away the cereal here. Or, wait—she thought this was where she’d put it. Or where it ought to go. Whatever, it didn’t matter. The problem was that it wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and she would need it.
She opened the other cabinet. This one was empty too. Where else would she keep food? It made no sense. She opened the refrigerator too for good measure, but still there was nothing. There hadn’t even been a reason to go back inside in the first place. She could have just kept walking.
She took a deep breath. In, then out. Water. She could still get water. Water and a blanket. She needed those more anyway. It was fine. She was fine. She cupped her hands underneath the sink and turned it on. She suddenly didn’t feel thirsty when a thick, gray sludge slowly oozed its way out of the faucet. She held back the urge to vomit at the rancid smell it gave off, quickly shutting the faucet off again and stepping away.
Deep breaths. She could still get a blanket. Anything warm. She moved through the living room and toward the stairs, quickly making her way up to the gray and featureless hallway above. She averted her gaze away from the bathroom as she made her way to her goal: the bedroom.
The floorboards creaked as she made her way to the door. She slowed, running her hands along the peeling paint on the walls. It was an odd thing, really; she could only half remember seeing it here before. It felt right, like it was how it had always been, but at the same time there was something deeply wrong about it. She could almost remember fixing it at one point, but she hadn’t been here long enough to…
How long had she been here, anyway? It must have been just a day or so, right? That couldn’t be right, though. It felt like a lie, constructed by herself to keep her from seeing something. From seeing the truth. It made sense though. She hadn’t been here all that long. The dark clouds that kept her from keeping track of the days certainly didn’t help. Then again, wouldn’t it still be obvious when day turned to night? Obviously it had been less than a day then. That explanation didn’t sit right. There was something wrong with it, but no matter how hard she tried, she could find no error in her logic. It just didn’t make sense for-
A dry, hacking cough snapped her out of her whirling thoughts, reminding her that she wasn’t alone in this house. She still had to somehow get a blanket from the other version of herself. While she was using it, it sounded like.
She was starting to think this wasn’t a good plan.
She slid her hand to the door, gently pushing it open. The smell of stale air hit her subtley, like it had gotten just a little bit harder to breathe. As she slowly moved to enter, she got a look at the figure lying on the bed.
It was her, naturally. She had been expecting as much. She didn’t look quite the same as before, though, in a way that Eleanor found difficult to pin down. She had the same withered, sallow body, shriveled and weak in a way that was hard to look at. Her muscles seemed even more atrophied than before, shriveled up to the point that the bone was the only thing that defined her shape. That must have been it.
The other version of her was splayed out over the bed covers, her arms and legs jutting out at random as if she’d been thrown onto the bed like a doll and never bothered to move afterwards. Her hair, long and greasy, was spread in every direction around her, and her breaths were shallow and weak, like even that effort was too much for her.
“Hello,” offered Eleanor weakly as she crept inside.
“Hey.” Eleanor glanced around the room, waiting for more, but realized that was all.
“Do you know why I’m back?” she continued.
“Mhm.” The other version of herself hadn’t moved at all, even her mouth barely putting in any effort to speak.
“So can I have your blanket? It would be very useful. I’d be able to keep warm while walking.” With a twinge of sarcasm, she added, “You know, the thing you said was pointless.”
The other version seemed to try to shrug her shoulders, but it only amounted to a small twitch.
“Don’t care.”
Eleanor nodded, then hesitantly moved to grasp the edge of the covers. She gave a small tug.
“Um, would you mind moving a bit? I don’t want to take the covers while you’re on them.”
The other version twitched her head as if trying to shake it.
“Can’t anymore. Pull.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
The other version didn’t answer, just lying there limply. After waiting for an answer and getting none, Eleanor slowly began to pull out the covers.
It was much easier than she expected. The version of herself in front of her hardly seemed to weigh anything, offering no resistance to being jostled and rolled. As she grabbed the side edge to keep pulling, however, she accidentally pulled a bit too hard, and the other version of her went tumbling over the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a sickening crack.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!” Eleanor yelped, dropping down in an instant to check for injuries.
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not!” she cried. To her horror she saw a reflection of her own arm twisted back unnaturally, a puddle of blood beginning to form underneath what she realized, with a gag, was the stained white of bone. “I can help you, just stay calm!”
“It’s pointless. Leave me alone.”
“No, I need to help you! Look, I don’t know how, but-”
“GO.”
The version of her had growled deeply, putting more force into her words than seemed possible from her shriveled form. Eleanor stumbled backwards into a shelf that wobbled with dull trinkets caked in dust, a soft cloud of which floated towards her to invade her lungs. A snowglobe fell to the ground with a soft thud, the snow inside whirling in confusion at its disturbance.
She whimpered. It wasn’t right. She couldn’t do this. But the version of her lay there glowering at her, a seething hatred that was a far cry from what she had seen just moments earlier. The eyes gave her no choice. She swallowed and slowly nodded, backing away towards the door while clutching the blanket in her hands.
She closed the door behind her, then made her way back downstairs as her alarm turned to irritation. If she didn’t want her own help, then fine. That version of herself was broken anyway. If she didn’t even trust herself to help, then who would she? The answer was obvious, of course. No one. There was a reason that Eleanor was stuck in her own tiny room, drowning in fading memories that even she had little connection to anymore.
There was no point in wasting compassion on the hopeless.
She shut the door, pulling the blanket tightly around herself as she stepped into the frigid air. The wind was biting now, angrily whipping at her for daring to defy it. She held her head down to combat the now-constant mist that seemed to be thrown at her face in waves and waves. This place wouldn’t get the best of her. She had to be stronger.
She came to the gate, throwing herself at it without hesitation. She bounced off, and the gate stayed firm. It was even more immovable this time. She took a few steps to the side instead, getting a running start before jumping over. Her leg scraped against the wood painfully, but she made it over, her makeshift cloak flapping behind her. The wind grew stronger still, but she defiantly pulled the blanket back around herself, daring it to try to take it from her. She had a plan now, and something as small as the wind wouldn’t stop her. Every house was different, right? Then she’d find what she needed in the next one over.
She fought against the wind, but she didn’t have to go far. Just one house over. She passed through the gate, which now squeaked on its hinges, and made her way towards the familiar door. As she turned the handle the wind threw open the door and slammed it against the side of the house with a bang, sending her scrambling to grab onto it again. As the door rebounded towards her she grabbed the handle and pulled backwards, slowly but steadily leaning her way into the house. With one last pull the latch clicked into place, and she simply stood, catching her breath against the tightly shut door, rattling against the indignant gusts of wind outside.
As her breath returned, she straightened and turned around to see her kitchen. It was in far, far better condition than she’d last seen it. The dull grays of the room had been meticulously scrubbed and polished to a much more presentably clean gray. The table and the chair seated at it were both shined to perfection. As she approached the sink, she found a single plate and fork propped onto a dish rack with a still-wet sponge beside them, and silently thanked the universe for giving her the occasional good fortune. She just needed to find a bottle, and she’d have both water and food for the trip.
Opening up the cup cupboard, standing on her toes to reach the high shelf where the bottles were kept, she managed to just barely grab the tip of a metal water bottle. She stretched even further, moving it a bit more, then a bit farther still, then yelped as she slipped on the polished floor, sending both her and the bottle crashing to the ground. She cursed at herself, grabbing the bottle before standing back up.
“Don’t, don’t move.”
The shaky voice came from above her as she stood on one knee, bottle still clutched in her hand.
“Drop the bottle. Please?”
Eleanor did as she was told, and the bottle fell to the floor with a clang.
“Okay, um… Stand up, and then turn around.”
Eleanor did so, and was unsurprised and unimpressed to find another version of herself brandishing a kitchen knife as a weapon. The grip was shaky and weak, her face terrified and nervous, as if a stern glare could destroy her last shred of confidence and cause her to drop the knife and run.
“At least you seem more motivated than the last,” muttered Eleanor. The other version of her gasped.
“You-You’ve been outside? Why would you do something like that! You’re going to get us killed!”
Eleanor scoffed.
“At best, I’m going to find a way out of here. At worst, I’m going to get myself killed and be free of this place. Just me. Not you. Understand?”
The other Eleanor cocked her head in confusion, lowering her knife.
“But aren’t we-”
“No. No we aren’t! We aren’t the same!”
The other Eleanor squeaked, backing herself into a corner as Eleanor advanced forward.
“We aren’t the same person, and I’m not going to be like you either! If you’re not spending every waking moment trying to escape, then you aren’t doing enough! Guess what? I’m not okay with just sitting down and rotting here like the rest of you! I’m going to make it out of here. I’m going to be free again...”
A sniffle came from the other version of her. Tears began to form at the edges of the other Eleanor’s eyes as she slowly sank to the floor in a ball of choked sobs. Eleanor’s face softened from contempt to pity, and she squatted down to meet her own form. She held out her hands, and the Eleanor gladly accepted the gesture, rising up to meet herself in a hug. Eleanor tightened her grip as the tears now flowed freely and noisily, her shoulder becoming wet as she struggled to keep herself from falling backwards as the other her leaned in, pressing all of her weight against herself.
There was a solidarity to the action, one that she hadn’t felt since before even coming here. This other version of her was letting out all the emotions that she herself wanted to feel, but now she was here to give comfort. Eleanor hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of breaking down, of lamenting her situation since getting trapped here. If she did, if she stopped for a moment to consider the hopelessness of her condition, she’d never have a chance of escaping, trapping herself in the exact self-doubt she saw displayed before her.
And yet, even though she knew it would be poison to empathize with this Eleanor, she still found some comfort of her own in helping. Here she could make a positive difference, however small. Someone’s life, even this deformed version of her own, was made a little bit better because she was there to help. She smiled. When was the last time she did that?
Eleanor sat, holding the version of herself as the racking sobs slowly decreased to a low shudder, hugging herself tighter as the shudders too came to an end. The two of them sat there, holding each other in silent acknowledgement of their shared understanding. It was enough for Eleanor, just sitting there with someone she could recognize, but eventually the other Eleanor spoke with shaky breaths.
“How did you do it? How did you keep going? How are you still going? It all just seems so pointless, but… Here you are. You didn’t stay put.”
Eleanor didn’t really have an answer for herself. She hadn’t really thought about it, and she really, really didn’t want to. After all, if she couldn’t find an answer, then… What? Well, she knew what. It was right in front of her, clutching her arms tightly and begging for the answer she never found. No, it was best not to think about such things.
“You don’t know, do you?” Eleanor nodded. The version of herself wiped a hand across her face. “I think I get it now. It’s just your own way of coping, isn’t it? You don’t want to accept what’s right in front of you, so you go on anyway like it’s not there. It’s all just false hope and painted dreams.” The other Eleanor in front of her tilted her head up, staring into her eyes, wet lines still shimmering down her face. “I wish I could be like you.”
Eleanor pulled herself in for another embrace.
“Me too,” she whispered. “Me too.”
The other Eleanor hugged back. This time it wasn’t just Eleanor comforting this other version of herself. They were both comforting each other. They were stronger together, it was true, but Eleanor knew it couldn’t last. She couldn’t stay here forever, or she’d be just as trapped as the other her. Maybe this Eleanor would find her own strength eventually as well. Maybe they would meet up after escaping, two copies of the same person. What would that even be like? Would they just be constantly interrupting each other with the same thought? She giggled. They both did.
“You know I’m already a part of you, right?” said Eleanor’s reflection, her voice taking on some confidence. “In some way, at least. If I understood this whole thing, I wouldn’t be here. It’s just, well… I feel like you’re a part of me. A part I ignored. And if that’s true, then I know I’m a part of you somewhere, somehow.” She huffed. “Look, just get out there, okay? I’ll be fine. That’s my point. I’ll be fine. It’s hard to explain.”
Eleanor laughed.
“Trust me, I know.”
“Well then, there’s nothing left to talk about. Get out there and escape, fulfill your dreams, do whatever you set your mind to.” Her reflection began busying herself with the preparation of the supplies Eleanor had been searching for. She filled the bottle and packed several sandwiches into a pouch, like a mother fussing over her daughter before the first day of school, and placed the pouch around Eleanor’s shoulder. “There. You’re all ready. Well, you were ready before, but now… now I feel like I’m helping. You didn’t need any of this stuff in the first place, but it makes me feel better.”
“I know,” Eleanor replied. “One last hug? I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time.”
“Yes, I know,” the other Eleanor said, giving one last, brief hug. “We have.”
Eleanor approached the door, then turned to look back at herself before opening it.
“Thank you.”
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
As soon as Eleanor stepped outside she was forced to brace herself against the wall as a gust of wet wind smacked her head-on. The wind held nothing back now, drenching her within moments and forcing her to fight back with all her strength just to make her first step forward. She planted her foot forward in defiance, slamming it down so unnecessarily hard that a spray of mud erupted from the ground, covering the blanket she wore as a shield in a dark brown that surely wouldn't last long in this much rain.
She gripped the strap on her pouch with a newfound determination. She'd made peace with herself. She couldn't be stopped now. She was as prepared as she'd ever been, and she wasn't about to throw it all away now.
The wind grew harsher.
It was difficult, almost impossible it seemed, but she drew another foot out and stepped forward again, leaning into the wind as far as she could without falling over. The wind whipped at her, harder and harder, trying to force her back as rain rushed at her in waves and waves, battering against her over and over and over but she kept going. She gritted her teeth and pushed forward through all of it, gaining ground against an impossibly powerful enemy that seemed to hate her personally. She was barely holding onto her blanket now but it didn't matter. Up ahead the gate was getting closer and closer. What would the rain do then, when she was out of the yard? Once she shut the door behind her, the only person that could get her back in was her. And there was no way she'd be doing that, come hell and high water.
She was almost there now. It was just a few steps ahead. She could almost reach out and touch it, even if the wind was trying as hard as it could to stop her. She extended an arm, defiantly grabbing onto the wet wood, pushing forward...
Her progress was stopped by the rattle of a thick, metal chain on the other side.
She pushed again. The chain remained, the wind and rain swirling in unbearable mockery. They were laughing at her, laughing at her powerlessness, laughing at the idea that she ever had a chance in the first place. None of her preparation had mattered, none of it. There never was any chance, was there? This was the truth, wasn’t it?
No, that couldn’t be right! There was always a chance!
“There’s always hope!” She screamed into the sky. “I don’t care what you do, you can’t take that away from me! You won’t break me, I won’t let you!”
She clawed at the gate, trying to climb her way up despite the unrelenting gale shoving her back down, but she tried anyway. Her blanket, the blanket that was dear to her just a few minutes ago, went flying off into endless nothingness with barely a notice from Eleanor. With all her strength she tried to force herself over the fence, again and again, dozens of times until her arms were too weak to continue, and even then she kept pushing until finally, after one last gargantuan effort, she managed to get one leg over the fence, gritting her teeth as she strained to keep her balance.
Until a sudden stinging of her hand caused her to momentarily lose balance, which, combined with the sheer force of the wind, sent her sprawling onto the ground in a spray of clammy, muddy water. As she struggled to pull herself back up, her eyes settled on the fence as it began to grow several meters by the second, as if mocking her for even trying in the first place. It must have been mocking her.
“Is this all this is? You just want to see me broken? You just want to see me give up? Because I won’t! I won’t because I can’t! I won’t stop fighting! I won’t stop, ever! I’m stronger than you!”
As if right on cue Eleanor was sent hurtling into the air by an exceedingly strong updraft, limbs flailing uselessly before landing back on the ground with a thud that knocked the air out of her lungs before they were immediately filled again by the rush of the wind into her mouth despite any other intentions she might have. She began rolling towards the door of the house, now open wide as if beckoning her forward.
“No!” She screamed. “No no no! I won’t let you!”
Her screams disappeared into the wind, heard by no one, as she was pushed ever closer to the door. The door wouldn’t listen. The gate wouldn’t listen. Most importantly, the wind wouldn’t listen, dragging her forward as she clawed at the ground, grabbing fistfuls of grass and mud as she pointlessly grasped at any control at all over her destiny.
The door didn’t care. The gate didn’t care. And most of all, the wind didn’t care. No matter how much she kicked and screamed, it had determined that she was going through that door. Hadn’t she compromised on that before? It’s not like she hadn’t walked through that door willingly before. What was the difference now? That it was easier? That something wanted her to go through?
That brief mental pause was all it took to send her shooting through the door, back into the house she had come to dread. She kicked and screamed as she went, trying to grab on to the door frame, but to no avail. The door slammed shut in front of her, and with a crack her head hit the table, the world snapped to darkness.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Eleanor was silent, silent as she gently moved her covers away and off the bed with a gentle flutter of cloth. Everything was fine, it would seem.
She recognized her home, of course. The faded posters and dusty memories scattered about her room gave her a warm pang of nostalgia as she slowly sat up with a smile. It was the nostalgia of a remembered solidarity with her friends, and the gray tint of the room gave the suggestion of an old black-and-white photograph, capturing the good memories of a time long passed. Every item told a story, and she knew the stories well.
As she clasped her silver necklace around her neck, she decided to indulge in her memories for a bit before getting ready. After all, she didn’t have much to do today anyway, so why not indulge?
Like this snowglobe, for instance. She smiled fondly as she picked it off the shelf, giving a little shake to make the snow swirl around pleasantly. In the middle was a tiny wood cabin surrounded by pine trees, a little plume of fake smoke rising from the chimney. It brought back oh-so-nice memories, of better times when she was still together with her friends. What had happened to those times, and those friends? It almost seemed like it was yesterday.
Well, almost. The long passage of time had left her a bit fuzzy on the details. She wasn’t quite sure where the cabin had been, or where she’d gotten the snow globe. A nearby gift shop maybe? But hadn’t it been her own private cabin, secreted away from the rest of the world? Then again, where would she get one of those? Whatever, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the feelings conjured, not the specifics.
She wiped the dust from the snowglobe before lovingly replacing it to its place on the shelf. She moved on to the small wooden duck beside it. It was a souvenir she picked up after a hunting trip with her father. Or at least, she was pretty sure it was her father she had been with. It was one of the last ones she ever took before moving to…
Wait, had she moved? It was odd. With all of these happy memories out in the country it would seem insane to want to move anywhere else, but for some reason she thought she had done so. Wouldn’t she have to say goodbye to all of her friends? Why would she do that to herself? It didn’t make sense.
A loud crack snapped her out of that thought process. She rolled her eyes, putting the duck back and moving to her nightstand, where what had previously been a large roll of duct tape was now looking a bit bare. She climbed up onto the bed and taped over the new gash that had appeared across the window, layering it over several other strips that were already slicing their way across what had once been a pleasant view. At least, it would have been, if the rain ever let up. It was something with the air pressure, she determined. Nothing to worry about, but she’d have to get the window replaced at some point. Nothing to worry about.
Leaving the memories for now, she made her way out the door and into the hallway, painted in the same relaxing gray as the rest of the house. As much as she would like to reminice all day, unfortunately she had work to do. On the weekend perhaps she’d have the time to do so, but there was just so much to do, and even on those days it seemed like work had a way of creeping its little tendrils into her thoughts, grabbing her and dragging her back into the study to continue its onslaught on her very soul.
Oh well. What was one to do? And besides, she should be grateful for the opportunity to work from the comfort of her home.
She made her way to the office, yawning a bit as she prepared for work, a preparation that consisted solely of putting on a shirt as she walked clumsily. She sat down, rubbing some of the sleep out of her eyes, and began her first task of the day. Picking up the thick stack of paperwork she’d completed yesterday, she scooted her chair over to begin feeding them one by one into a large paper shredder by the desk. It was a relaxing task, cathartic even, as unlike the others it didn’t even pretend to require her attention, leaving her mind free to wander through her other goals for the day besides work.
There weren’t that many, truth be told. She hoped to get outside for a bit, mow the lawn maybe, but that was more of a formality than anything. The grass never seemed to grow on its own, so it was more of a fun chore to get her out of the house. She also had to remember to eat today. The last few days she’d forgotten entirely, leaving her tired and sluggish, though she barely noticed the difference.
In fact, now that she was thinking about it, she should probably go now so she didn’t forget, before she got caught up in her work. She finished up the paper in her hand, some inconsequential application she’d filled out, and made her way to the stairs, holding onto the railing for balance. She’d gotten dizzy and fallen a few times before, and it was an experience she’d decided to learn from. Making her way past the dusty couch in the living room, she ended up in the kitchen, where she poured a bowl of cereal that would likely be all she ate for the next few days. It was an unfortunate reality, as it just got so hard to remember to eat sometimes.
Curiously, as she placed the bowl down, the table seemed to be shifted back a few centimeters from the last time she was here. She cocked her head to the side, moving around to the other side of the table instead of sitting down. Along the edge of the table, interrupting the continuous gray pattern, was a spot of brown caked along the side. She considered the spot for a moment before looking down, jumping back with a start as she saw the much larger pool of brown, with the shine of red speckled into deeper pools on the surface of the dried puddle.
It looked an awful lot like blood, but its origins remained a mystery. Had she gotten a bloody nose yesterday and simply forgotten about it? That did often happen during thunderstorn season. It was something to do with the air pressure, the doctor had told her. No matter the cause, it was a huge inconvenience, as this puddle had clearly proven.
She went to the closet by the door to grab a mop, cursing the foul weather as she did so. If it wasn’t for those annoying clouds she’d be able to just enjoy her breakfast and get back to work. It was a minor inconvenience, to be sure, but such things had a way of getting under her skin in the mornings, despite the fact that the blood itself proved easier to clean than she expected. All except for one spot that simply refused to be cleaned, a particularly annoying spot just next to the table leg. After scrubbing back and forth a few times, she let out a grunt of frustration and decided that it would have to wait for some other time. It was the morning, and she couldn’t be bothered. Replacing the mop to the closet, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and made her way back to the table to finish her “meal”.
As she did so, however, she noticed her hands, covered in a deep red. This red was wet, very wet, in fact. Was she bleeding? She ran her hands along her forehead again and through her hair, and lo and behold, there was even more blood on her hands this time.
She began to panic. It was just an air pressure thing, right? No, that didn’t make any sense. She had to call a doctor, go to the emergency room. She had a medical kit somewhere, right? She couldn’t remember where she put it, which only made her panic even more. Maybe she could just wait for the bleeding to stop? No, that was a terrible idea. This was probably some sort of emergency. She’d have to call in and let the office know why she wasn’t getting as much work done today, or work late into the night to get everything done. That would certainly be a pain.
Speaking of pain, Eleanor suddenly realized she was feeling a distinct lack of pain. If she was injured, surely it would hurt at least a little bit. Was that a bad sign? She wasn’t really sure. She took a deep breath. In, then out. First, she should check to see how bad things were. That was probably a good first step. She began to walk back upstairs to the bathroom mirror, but her face was beginning to feel wet now. That was a bad sign for sure. How exactly did this happen? This sort of thing didn’t just happen on its own. She wondered all of this as she opened the door to the bathroom. She stopped wondering a moment later.
The body in the bathtub was hers, undoubtedly. Even in such a mangled and unrecognizable state, there was no mistaking it. The pallor of the face was terrifying as it stared lifelessly at the ceiling, lips pursed slightly as if an unspoken word had died on her lips just as she did. The unnatural pale of her skin contrasted in a grotesque beauty with the dark crimson of blood splashed about the tub, like an abstract painting of gore and death. There was a perverse tranquility to the scene; the look on the Eleanor’s face was peaceful in contrast to the messy reality of her death, and the room was eerily quiet, like time had frozen to let her savor this very moment.
Maybe it had.
And in that frozen moment, Eleanor remembered. She remembered everything. How she really got here in the town. How she tried and failed to escape. All the other versions of herself, all stuck living out a twisted mockery of a life, stuck here forever, whose only purpose seemed to be her own mental degeneration. All her worst fears had been made manifest by this horrible little town, laying bare all of her insecurities.
But this? This was too much. This was what she had been running from all along, yet here it was, laid out before her in all its glory. She had refused to accept it, but it had always been a possibility.
She was on the floor now, tears mixing with the blood on her face to flow down freely and mix with the red there already. Her own blood was already there on the floor, all over the tub, and in the sink, and all she was doing was adding to the whole mess. Yet hers were the first tears to be added to the mix. The other her didn’t seem to have felt anything, emotionally or physically, simply resigned to her fate, having given up on changing it long ago. Was it really an inevitability? Was this her true destiny? The town had already proven escape impossible, even mocking her for ever thinking it could be any other way, and here it was again, proving once again that she had no power over it. It was a cruel fate indeed that had been chosen for her.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Eleanor was no stranger to pain.
She considered herself a survivor, based entirely on the fact that while the world itself seemed to constantly bend its will to cause the most pain it could possibly bring to her tiny, insignificant little life, she had always kept going. Through it all, she had always kept fighting, proving to the world and everyone in it that while the blissful release of death might chase her down for the rest of eternity with its promises of rest and sweet, intoxicating nothingness, she would keep running until the end of time itself if that’s what it took to survive.
Now though? Now, as she stood in a pool of her blood and tears as she herself lay face-up in the tub, enjoying that blissful feeling of nothing at all that was surely better than this?
Yet she was frozen. Frozen by her own fear of what may lie beyond for her. Frozen by the fear of her own mortality, brazenly taunting her from the bathtub. She tried to think of something else. How far she’d come. How all of her fighting would mean nothing if she gave up now. But she couldn’t think about that; in fact, when she tried to think, everything just came up in a bubbly, frothing mess, and as one idea came to the surface it was just as quickly lost to the swirling mass from which it came. So instead she did the one thing that seemed natural to her, and she emptied her tears onto the floor in a seemingly endless cascade.
She was allowed this at least, right? Surely the world could allow her this? It didn’t matter what the world thought, the tears became a river, streaming down and pooling around the clogged drain in the center of the room, mixing and diluting the blood on the ground until it was reduced to tiny rivulets on the ground, little streaks of red running through the pool of salty tears growing, growing quickly now on the ground, overflowing the floor and dripping into the hall nearby.
There was no blood now, only tears. The wound on her forehead had coagulated, the blood forming onto a dried crust on her face that she could feel every time she moved. Everywhere, that is, but her cheeks, where the blood never found its chance to take root and simply rolled off of her and was lost within the pool below.
The dripping had grown to a steady stream now, flowing gently like a miniature creek as Eleanor violently sobbed in the center of the room. All strength had left her long ago, somewhere in these endless houses of broken dreams, and now all she could do was cry until everything was better.
She imagined she would be crying for a very, very long time.
She fell over, the salty water spraying her in the face and filling her mouth with a bitter taste she barely even noticed. The tears flowed through the hall and down the stairs, filling the prison she had once foolishly called a home with the results of its labor of destruction of her psyche. The building would fill, fill to the brim with her broken tears, washing away the whole thing in a final act of vengeance against the town and all it stood for.
But then, bit by bit, her wish began to come true. The tears had nowhere to go anymore as they filled the bottom floor. The dusty cupboards were filled, the dust itself washing away and cleansing them, however briefly, in a water that would surely dirty them more than they had begun. The gray, moldy couch was submerged and waterlogged, ruining what had seemed like a nice view when described to her but which had never known a good day in its bleak, depressing life. With nowhere to go, the water began to creep its way into the bathroom, soaking Eleanor’s clothes and seeping into her body.
It wasn’t until she found herself gulping at rancid, bitter saltwater that Eleanor thought to even look up from her task. She tried to gasp in astonishment at what she had done, but she only filled her mouth more, and instead she let out a terrible hacking cough that sprayed tears from her face and scattered them across the room, tiny droplets of water flecking the few remaining shards of glass that still in the frame of the mirror.
The water was rising rapidly now, and soon it would overtake her. It wouldn’t be hard; simply let the waters overtake her and be consumed by her own grief. She would become just another cautionary tale, her body left to warn others of the idiocy of thinking she might ever have had a chance of escaping. It would be easy indeed to become just another lifeless body, drained of all hope and broken to her core.
But she wasn’t broken. She began to swim, moving on instinct as she abdicated control to her body and let it carry her through the bathroom door. She paddled her way into the hallway, then to the door that she’d never seen fit to use until now. Then again, she’d never needed it before. With substantial difficulty, she braced herself and kicked as hard as she could to open the door to the attic. The door resisted her efforts; it was not used to being opened, not by her or any other version of herself. She forced it to open anyway.
The room was blue, a deep, hostile blue, the wretched blue of an ocean that hated her very soul, but it was something. It was the first color she had seen since coming here, and the room wanted to make it clear that it despised her for making it this far. That was fine. She despised everything about this place too. A rusted ladder lay propped against the side of the wall, but as she made her way to move it into place, a hideous creaking sound shook the house to its very foundations, a bellowing war cry of wind and debris that not even the walls could dampen. The house began shaking, rocking on its supports, and Eleanor frantically tried to grab the ladder as it was flung to the side. She gripped a rung tightly, ancient screws jabbing into her hand as she refused to let go.
The whole house lifted itself up, then brought its weight back down again trying to crush Eleanor, powered on by some twisted force of nature born of wind and fury. The house lifted again, and she did her best to brace herself as it was brought back down again in a hideous crunch of wood and water. As the tears continued to rise, she realized there was no need for the ladder, and she let it disappear into the blackened waters, never to be seen again. She simply reached up and pulled herself into the attic instead, now that the rising waters allowed her to do so.
There was nothing here that would have interested her previous self. Nothing but cobwebs and dust, shaken loose and filling the air during the house’s assault. This wouldn’t have interested her before, but now she saw the room for what it was, for what it had. In the middle of the ceiling there sat a small, cracked window, caked with decades of weather damage. She walked over to the window and quietly popped it open, exiting into the outside world.
Violent winds swirled around her, filling her nostrils with sulfur and threatening to tear her from the roof, but she held firm. A dark mass of clouds around her, spinning in angry slashes against the sky, tried to tear her apart, ripping away at her body and scattering it to the winds and feeding into the mass of gray clouds that made up the eternal curtain of this dismal place. She stood there, still.
The clouds grew angry. Thunder clapped around her, setting fire to the house and getting inches from her face and unleashing a tremendous roar brought forth by the earth itself, screaming into her face and daring her to flinch. She brought it no satisfaction as she stared blankly into the sky.
The wind came to a mighty crescendo around her, swirling into a full hurricane, crashing into her sides and whipping at her endlessly again and again. Instead, she responded by simply walking forward to the edge of the roof. The clouds angrily thrashed at her, screaming at her to stop, threatening her to go back inside and accept her fate, but she ignored it.
There were no other houses anymore. There was nothing left of the town she once knew, endless roofs and gray walls reduced to only one, and now there was nothing left but her, the clouds, and the roof. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed, as she stepped off the side and into the water below.
The water was more peaceful than she had expected, she contemplated as she began to sink. What had appeared to be a violent, churning mass on the surface gladly accepted her into its embrace as she began falling, down and down, falling endlessly into the never ending inky blackness. It was a strange thing indeed, she considered, as her vision began to fade slowly from her. Nothing remained but her and the silent waters around her. No clouds. No town. Nothing. She silently faded into nothingness, and as that nothingness consumed her finally, the last thing she felt were two small wings sprouting from her back as she disappeared.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Warm.
That was the first thing Eleanor felt as she slowly came to consciousness. It was a stark contrast to the consuming cold of the water she remembered herself in. She moved a hand, feeling the ethereal softness of her surroundings. Her arm passed right through the ground as she tried to get a grasp on it. It was a far cry from even the grass in front of the house she had spent so much time in that anything different would have taken some time to adjust to, let alone this. The fact that she could hardly see anything past the wispy gray around her certainly didn’t help subdue her panic.
And the smell. She couldn’t quite place it, but it reminded her of fresh dew, yet untainted by the depressingly sickly smell that it tended to bring out in the grass. It smelled wet, getting in her nostrils and latching on. She was sure the smell would follow her for days, maybe weeks, but she couldn’t see herself minding even then. It was such a departure from the usual bleak nothing smell that had paradoxically dominated her house for so long that she breathed deeper, letting the moist scent work its way into her and take root. This was a smell she wouldn’t mind remembering.
In that wispy haze of gray and moisture, she realized there was one thing pointedly absent from her surroundings: sound. There was nothing at all to reach her ears but the low thud of her heartbeat and the raspy, yet steady, breaths that came from her mouth. Even these noises, part of her own body, were swallowed up by her surroundings, forcing her to strain to hear even that much. She tried to press her hands to the ground to stand herself up, panicking for a moment when they passed right through. It wasn’t until she looked behind her, however, that the real shock hit.
A pair of feathery wings sprouted just below her shoulder blades that spanned a length greater than her entire body, their light grays almost blending into the haze around her. She realized, after a start, that she could feel them in their entirety, and that they had in fact been there all along, as if she had fallen asleep against her hand for some time and only now began to stretch the fingers once again. She reached a hand around her back to find that the stalk leading into the rest of her body was hard as bone, with a texture like that of a sapling, firm in its position after taking root.
She cautiously tested the left wing, letting out a yelp as the powerful appendage pushed far harder than she was expecting and spun her onto her side. As she instinctively let out her other wing, she found she could easily stabilize herself, growing more comfortable with her new wings as she realized how much control she had. She spread her wings to their full span and stretched, feeling a wave of relief as she straightened out sores she hadn’t even realized were there.
As the initial shock began to wear off, her wings began to feel less alien and more like a natural extension of her body. The wings were her own, and the potential to gain them had always been there waiting for her in that dismal house. But as the memories of the house and the town came to the forefront of her mind, she no longer felt the oppressive weight of the place crushing down on her soul. No, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she realized she was no longer tied down, no longer burdened by the angry clouds that followed her every move. For the first time in forever, she was free!
Eleanor laughed, letting loose a weight she had grown so accustomed to she had forgotten it hadn’t always been there, all the anxious tension and dark thoughts flowing out from her mind. She could go anywhere now, not even the ground could tell her what to do! Her enthusiasm was somewhat tempered, however, when she realized that even with her newfound freedom, she was still surrounded by gray haze with no clear direction whatsoever. As nice as the freedom to go anywhere was, it wasn’t particularly useful in a blank void, and that instinct to keep moving hadn’t left her.
So she began to flap, slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed as she relished the feeling of having her very own wings. When was the last time she’d felt this was? Happy, truly happy? Far too long ago, that was for sure. Was this what it felt like? Was this… all?
No, that wasn’t right. She was still stuck, after all. She’d made progress, but it wasn’t over yet. There was still this haze everywhere, this overwhelming haze…
She started to fly. She went forward, whatever forward even meant in this place. Forward, ever forward, yet she found nothing but gray. A sinking feeling began to invade her, slowing her wings from their wild abandon of before to a more hesitant speed. Had she simply traded one purgatory for another? Was her escape even real, or was this just another sick joke played on her by the town, by these same clouds she was surely flying through right now? Those familiar feelings of doubt were making home in her mind once again.
She couldn’t fly back down to the ground now, not anymore. She’d come too far to give it up now and go back to the destructive grip of that little gray house. Besides, there was a good chance it wasn’t even there anymore. She was safer up here in the fog and haze.
Her wings grew tired as she pressed on. Her entire body was now uncomfortably moist, flecked with tiny specks of water that hadn’t even had the chance to become rain. The clouds were growing darker around her, the storm she had escaped threatening to follow her to its source. Because she shielded her face to keep her eyes from constantly blinking at the cold, wet air, it wasn’t until she was up close that she noticed the object in front of her.
It was a massive construction, a cathedral stretching up far higher than seemed possible or necessary into the sky, higher than she could see and surely higher than she could ever think to fly. The structure itself was made of an impossible combination of cloud and stone, the stone seemingly just as weightless as the clouds as it stood supported in full by frothing black pillars of air. It seemed to stretch on forever, disappearing into the clouds above, that mass of gray that stubbornly impeded any attempt to comprehend it. She tried to find a distinction between the cathedral and the sky as she gazed upward, but no matter how hard she looked she found herself unable to draw a line between the two, the whirling mass of the cathedral wall fading into infinity as it mixed itself with the stagnant gray that defined the world as it went higher and higher.
And directly in front of her lay a massive door of cedar, reaching five times her height at least, with an ornate silver handle on the left side that, despite the importance its decoration would seem to imply, looked comically small when compared to the door as a whole. Aesthetics, it seemed, were still forced to bow to practicality at times. She reached out a hand to open the door, and as she grasped the handle found the grooves on it were perfectly designed to fit her hand, as if they had belonged there all along. Despite its imposing size, the door itself gave little resistance as she pushed it open.
While it was certainly large, the room she found herself in was nothing like the endless towering walls she had seen from the outside. In fact, the room itself was hardly any larger than the door she’d come in from, as if the building was overcompensating, trying to put on the air of something that it patently wasn’t. She chuckled, a little disappointed at the building. The outside had been impressive, but in the dark and deserted lobby she found herself in, decorated with plain wooden panels for the floor and stagnant gray air for the walls, she was decidedly less impressed. The room was also oddly dark; while there had always been a constant light filtering down through the clouds outside, the walls here proved to be a bit more opaque, giving the room a more sinister feel than she had become accustomed to even in the town.
The lobby was uncomfortably sparse as well. The only contents seemed to be a small metal table tucked away in the corner, a lamp placed on top of it providing the majority of the light in the room. The table was completely devoid of papers, decorations, or anything else that would indicate a real person might have worked there; just a small lamp, illuminating a small book and pen. The room was dead silent, and Eleanor was suddenly acutely aware of every single step that she took as she walked forward to that tiny desk because each one would echo through the massively oversized entry. She brought herself to a light hover above the ground, and though she could still hear the soft flaps of her wings echoing across the walls, she did feel a bit more confident as she moved much quieter. Even setting aside the questions of self-consciousness, it seemed unwise to call attention to herself in a place such as this.
She approached the table, curiosity winning out over nervousness as she finally got a good look at the book sitting there, the pages well-worn and open to a middle section. There, repeated over and over again on every line, written in her own handwriting, were those same words covering the entirety of the page: “Eleanor, 6/20, guest”. It was like a mantra, a joke even. She flipped back a page, finding the exact same thing there. Another page back, however, and one entry immediately stood out among the sea of identical names and dates: “Ellie, 6/20, family”.
Was she expected to sign in? It hardly mattered. There was no way she’d be adding herself to that list, even if her name had technically been added hundreds of times over already. Just because it was her name didn’t mean it was her. She flew over the table to explore the rest of its contents, but was a bit taken aback to find that there were no drawers of cabinets that might make up a desk such as this. In fact, there wasn’t even a chair to sit at. It was like the whole thing had been wiped clean of context just like the rest of the room; the aesthetics of a function that had long since been forgotten.
Just past the table was a relatively tiny set of double doors that led further into the cathedral. Now that she was inside, it seemed there was no need for the building to pretend anymore. A small stream of light pierced its way across the floor from the crack between the doors, as if pointing her in the direction she needed to go.
She was instantly drawn to it, the purest light she’d seen since coming to the town. She had been so conditioned to accept the dull sunlight that filtered its way down from the clouds that now, seeing a bright white untainted by the unrelenting gray that wormed its way into every inch of this place, she was almost blinded. She had no choice but to approach it. After all, there certainly wasn’t anything for her outside.
A soft glide brought her to the front of the doors, entranced by the glimpse of normalcy they offered her. She’d forgotten what sunlight looked like after so long without. Was this it? She pressed a hand against the door, feeling the coarse wood against her hand, and pushed forward, slowly, so as to savor the moment, and she covered her eyes in anticipation.
As she stepped through the light was, in fact, not blinding, but it was omnipresent. It became clear that the source of the light was the rows and rows of candles arranged in every tiny crevice around the room. The room itself was low, confining even, the ceiling crossed by a series of wooden cross beams that seemed more for decoration than any structural purpose, covered in candles just like everywhere else. And on the floor were pews, dozens of rows that stretched forward to the front of the room where there sat an ornately polished black coffin, lid closed.
Atop the pews sat hundreds of versions of herself; haggard, worn, and broken bodies filled the room, pitiful and wretched in their silent, shifting forms. The room was eerily quiet as she surveyed the gathered mourners, being sure not to linger on any particular form for too long. She didn’t want to know. Her eyes drew further and further to the center of the room, where she came to notice the large printed photograph propped up next to the coffin: an image of her own face, just as tired as the rest, with the feathers of a pair of light gray wings just barely visible in the upper corners of the image. Another version of herself stood at the front, head bowed reverently behind a podium.
Eleanor folded her own wings behind her back self consciously.
She nervously tried to find an empty seat in the back, but as she began to settle herself into one of the corners, her voice came from the podium at the center of the room.
“We’re so happy you could join us, Eleanor. Please, come take your place. It certainly isn’t mine, and I’d hate to take it from you.”
All the eyes in the room turned to face her. She saw a sea of bedraggled faces, all different states of health yet none content, look back at her with expectant eyes. They said nothing, yet they didn’t need to, as the expectation made it clear what she was to do. Eleanor reluctantly shuffled over to the center of the aisle, the weight of the eyes crushing her instinct to run away. She stepped, the whole room holding its breath, the only sound her soft footsteps against the stone floor. She did her best to make her wings as small and inconspicuous as she could against her back, but she could feel the tension in the room go up as she walked by and more and more people saw them, almost as if they hadn’t believed the photo at the front of the room until it was right in front of them, living, breathing, and undeniably real.
She stood awkwardly at the podium, every eye in the room set upon her expectantly. Someone let out a cough, a cough which turned into a painful hacking, then stopped just as abruptly as it started. She turned her gaze away from the crowd before her and instead to the photo propped up against the coffin. It was her, uncomfortably honest in her depiction; even with her wings she looked like she’d walked for ages, every bit of her body sagging as if the mere effort of standing was rapidly proving to be too much to ask. Within that image, however, she saw something else, something that maybe she wasn’t supposed to see. She was still standing in the image. Despite everything she had obviously gone through, she never did lay down and quit. The world hadn’t been able to throw anything at her that she couldn’t handle, and it had certainly done its best. Here she was, dead and being mourned, yet even this reflection of herself had never quit. Was she supposed to be scared? She wasn’t. Not of this town, not anymore.
“I’m not like any of you,” she breathed to herself, the words beginning as a sigh of relief before a smile grew on her lips and turned the words to a laugh. “I’m not like any of you!” She looked out across the sea of wretched faces, desperate pretenders that could only hope to ever hope to be like the real thing. None of them were Eleanor but herself, nor would they ever be her. “Were you expecting me to give up here? Just lie down and accept the cycle of hell you’ve laid out for me? This is desperate! You’ve got nothing left, and yet here I am! You couldn’t break me, because I’m the real Eleanor! I am Eleanor! I, am, Eleanor!”
She shouted these three words, repeating them again and again, turning them to a mantra and spreading her wings wide as she did so. She had no regard for the figures crammed into pews before her anymore; her only audience was herself and none other. She laughed, the weight of the town sliding off as she kicked over the empty coffin behind her, sending shocked gasps through the crowd in front of her.
She was to the ceiling in an instant, effortlessly shooting upwards and breaking through the cloud ceiling into the mist above, leaving the hideous bastardizations of her own self image a mere memory that would surly fade away with time.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Clouds shot by as Eleanor’s wings let out powerful beat after beat, bringing her higher and higher through the atmosphere of dull gray clouds. The sky grew darker as she flew higher, the clouds angrier as she persisted, turning a roiling black that thundered threateningly at her from far off. She paid it no mind, flying ever higher even as rain began to spatter her face. She closed her eyes; she’d seen rainclouds before, there was nothing new to see.
As she broke into the stratosphere, the storm around her acquiesced slowly, timidly falling away to reveal, for the first time in ages, a bright, blue sky stretching out before her into true infinity. The air here was so calm, so clean, that at first she worried something was wrong; but as she looked down at the swirling clouds that had tormented her for so long, above all of it and free from their grasp on her life, it became clear that for the first time in a very long time, nothing was wrong at all.
She laughed. Laughed! How long had it been since she’d done that? The sound seemed almost alien coming from her, but at the same time it was the natural thing to do. She laughed again, giggling as she spun in the air, sending little tufts of cloud flying around her. She felt the moisture against her wings, tingling the tips of her feathers and sending a shiver through her. She could taste the water droplets in the air, the purity of the water unlike anything she’d experienced before.
The gray clouds below spiraled slowly, centered around some point far in the distance. She had to look, didn’t she? She had to know what was at the center of it all. It had all seemed endless from the ground, but from up here it seemed entirely reachable.
She took off towards the center, her flying feeling effortless and even lazy as she gracefully pushed herself through the air. As she got closer she noticed at the center was a hole in the clouds, a deep circular pit that all the clouds revolved around. She flew closer still, the clouds below her growing faster until she sat at the very edge of her former prison, peering down into the only hole in the cloud cover she’d ever seen since arriving.
In the center, a dozen meters down and encased in a wall of swirling cloud yet itself perfectly calm and still, sat a garden. Real trees sat smattered haphazardly along the ground seemingly at random. Flower bushes sat in neat formations circling the center, interrupting their pattern every now and then to highlight one of what seemed like a collection of sculptures. A small stone path lazily snaked its way through the garden, hastily aligning itself once it reached the carefully organized flowers and abruptly cutting off along with everything else upon reaching the circling wall of cloud.
She bolted down to reach the strange garden, reaching out to stop herself and grasping the grass in her hands. It was so green and lush, and there was even a bit of dew along the soft blades of grass, and her hands got a little wet as she grabbed it. She breathed deeply, the air seemingly fresher here than she’d ever breathed before. It was disorienting at first, but she quickly adjusted. She smelled the dew on the grass, wet and fresh, mixing with the smell of flowers wafting over, the sweet smell of roses and a myriad of flowers she couldn’t quite place. It all mixed together into a beautifully sweet symphony of the nose, begging for her to just lie down and appreciate it for a moment.
Her eyes wandered the garden around her, still adjusting to seeing real colors again. Life burst from every corner, filled with a vivid energy that she had forgotten was possible down in the town. The garden invited her to enjoy it at her own pace, the breeze gently blowing through her hair to remind her that there wasn't any rush to explore; the garden would be here no matter how long she took. It was an inviting invitation, one she couldn't just pass up. She sat down in the grass and breathed deeply, letting the clear, pure scent fill her body. Even trying to sit up seemed silly. Why was she putting in all that effort to stay upright? It did seem very silly indeed. She lay down, the grass reaching up to tickle her back and her wings, and the dew softly blanketing her back to cool down all the tension she'd been building up since—well, since longer than she could remember. The temperature was just cool enough to keep her from sweating, but just warm enough that the sun against her felt like a blanket draped across her body.
The sun! How long had it been since she'd seen the sun? After such a long time deep below the clouds, living off the scant light that made it through the thick, roiling fog, it was a bit odd that the sun didn't feel strange at all. She'd barely even noticed the light against her, but it was clear that its presence had made itself known ever since she'd broken through the clouds. The sun had been protecting her all along, and she closed her eyes to bask in its shining glory.
The sunlight wrapped around her, the grass against her back, and the soothing scent of lavender filling her nose unthreaded her thoughts bit by bit from the chaotic mess that had tangled her consciousness. She considered just staying here with the garden forever, fading into tranquility. She certainly wasn't ruling it out, softly humming as she let everything but the smell of grass and flowers fall away, her hardships now just a distant memory.
Eleanor opened her eyes slowly, letting herself wake at her own pace. The grass beneath her was still soft and inviting, but the dew was gone, dried up in the sun that had sent her to sleep in the first place. It almost seemed criminal to leave a place so inviting, but she sat up anyway, stretching her arms and her wings to meet the day. As she breathed in, it took her a few moments to realize that something was off.
For the first time, maybe ever, none of her muscles were sore. Nothing hurt. There weren’t any nagging kinks in her joints that she’d have to resolve to just deal with. There was no pain to ignore. It was exactly as she imagined a massage might feel like; her body was completely functional, instead of a burden on her mind. And her mind! Her mind was refreshed, completely clear, like all this time, all her life, she’d been wading through muddy water in a thick fog. Her thoughts were free to just exist now, without all the baggage that came with existing in her head specifically.
She stood up, breathing deeply and savoring the unforgettable blend of floral scents that made up the garden. She was starting to pick out certain scents she recognized; there was the classic rose smell, the sweet vanilla of heliotropes, and the deep smell of gardenias coming from the entrance to the path. There were many layers mixed in with the ones she recognized, adding to the exotic pleasure of the place.
If there was one thing Eleanor deserved, it was a walk in a park. She made her way to the stone path, savoring the soft breeze and sunshine as she did. The stone was smooth and uncomplicated against her shoe, lazily doing its job as she walked along. She came to be flanked on both sides by walls of neatly manicured flowers that blocked her view and made it much easier to ignore the much larger wall of clouds around the entire area. She ran a hand along the hedge, letting soft flower petals linger on her fingers each time she came to one.
The faint buzz of a bee flloated along the other side of the path, the creature diligently doing its part to keep the garden in order. A place like this was surely a haven for them, surrounded by flowers and high above earthly concerns. The breeze picked up a little, and she heard the soft shiver of leaves shifting as she passed under the shade of a tree, a lone branch reaching out to cover a little portion of the path.
She came to a gap in the hedge across from her, leaving the path to find herself in a tiny circular clearing. The flowers around the clearing were distinct from the noisy, random collection of colors she found along the path, and were instead made up exclusively of light blue flowers of all shapes and sizes, coming together to blanket the walls in a mirror of the sky above. In the center of the clearing sat a circular pillar made of stone, reaching just above her waist and topped with a collection of tiny grass and plants.
As she moved closer to examine the pillar, she quickly recognized it as a tiny model of a park. There was a stone path winding through, much like the one she’d followed; there were tiny wooden benches placed along the path; there was even a little wooden gazebo, the structure held up with beams the size of matchsticks that had been carefully painted a pristine white. Even the trees in the model seemed to be alive, with miniscule leaves that swayed in the breeze made by her breath. She couldn’t help but stare at the meticulously crafted model; something about it made her linger, taking in the detailed work that had gone into every centimeter. It even seemed a bit familiar, but not in a way she could meaningfully place.
She took her time getting up from the model, stretching as she stood up once again. She left the little blue clearing, a bit regretfully, and returned to the lazy stone path she’d come from. It curved gently as she walked, eventually leading to another clearing as she trailed a wing along the gentle leaves of the hedge, letting them tickle her feathers softly.
In contrast to the cool blue of the last clearing, this one was surrounded by a pattern of blazing reds, all fighting for her attention. It was a bit disorienting at first, but she soon got used to it and moved her attention to the pillar in the center of the clearing. This pillar held a little model building made out of miniature bricks, topped by a slanted roof with gray shingles. Windows jutted out from the roof, inviting her to take a look into the interior.
There was a collection of several plush armchairs facing back out through the window, surely arranged to give a view of the garden outside. The floor had a pristine blue carpet laid out, leading to a circular brown table surrounded by prim wooden chairs. Leaning in closer, Eleanor saw that the sides of the room were filled with rows and rows of bookshelves, with tiny, unreadable writing neatly labeling each shelf. It was then that she stepped back, letting out a gasp as a wave of recognition washed over her.
She reached into her pocket to pull out the old, crumpled brochure that still sat there. The corner where the name would have been written had fallen off entirely, not that it had been of much use to begin with. She unfolded it with a loud crinkle, trying to make out the image on the paper that had clearly been soaked and dried multiple times. It was faded and crusty, but the picture was clear enough to confirm that the building was the same: the same roof, the same chairs, the same everything. Below it, a large stain covering one side, was the park she’d just seen, set at an angle that made it look like more than a tiny model. Or maybe the pictures were taken at a real version, somewhere in the town. It hardly mattered, and it hardly seemed likely that the town she’d been to held anything so… nice.
There were two more pictures in the brochure: a larger, more colorful version of the endless gray prison cells she’d found herself in, and a crumbled dark splotch that she remembered to be a picture of a school, with windows and sleek metal walls that had reminded her of the skyscrapers she’d seen earlier at the time. For some reason the school had made her more comfortable moving into the town, even though she had no real use for it. If she wanted to see it again, she was sure she could just keep walking along the garden path until she found the model.
She continued along the path, but as she came to the next gap in the hedge, instead of a small clearing she found herself looking into a much larger clearing surrounding an imposing metal doorway set into a concrete box no bigger than a closet. It was jarring to see such an industrial structure in a setting that had clearly been curated to give a very natural air. The doorway’s presence seemed to interrupt the garden, placed awkwardly between two trees that, without the doorway, would have made for a nicely shaded place to rest. The door and the concrete around it were gray, but not quite the gray of the town; it was pristine, dominating the soft greens around it, and held no hint of wear upon it.
Eleanor reached out a hand cautiously, as if the door might lash out at her if she approached it carelessly. She grabbed the handle, finding it a bit slippery even though it wasn’t particularly wet. The door let out no noise as she opened it, revealing a metal staircase leading a few meters down painted with a dark blue, a shade that seemed thoroughly unimpressive compared to the dazzling array of colors she’d just seen. She took a look back at the garden, with its inviting colors and soothing scents, breathed deeply, and stepped down onto the stairs.
Her footsteps came as soft, metallic clangs as she made her way down. The smell of pollen made its way down here, but as the door closed behind her it was quickly overpowered by the smell of floor polish and metal. The stairs weren’t particularly long, and as she reached the bottom she found herself at the entrance to a softly humming room, filled with lights and gauges presenting themselves in a circle to a black chair in the center of it all. The chair was set upon several wheels, and as Eleanor reached out a hand she found that it spun easily.
She sat down, surprised at how comfortable and soft the leather felt against her back, not putting too much pressure on her wings. She gave an experimental push with her feet, spinning gently to the side and having a brief moment of panic before figuring out how to stop (it turned out to also involve her feet). Having figured out the basic function of the chair, she turned her attention to the overwhelming array of flashing lights, dials, and gauges before her.
The labels were hardly any help. Everything seemed to be written in some sort of code. A grid of switches helpfully clarified themselves as “LCPWR1”, “LCPWR2”, “LCPWR3”, and so on until eventually ending on “LCPWR423”. A gauge with blocky red letters announced itself as “MS Air”. A large dial set above her reach showed a scale of 2.2 to 9.5, with the dial set somewhere around 3. And a thin tube labeled “Rain Gauge” was entirely filled with water. How the rain got here, in the middle of a distinct gap in the clouds, was a mystery.
Eleanor scanned the panels in front of her, looking for anything she could even begin to understand. Her eyes lingered over a set of bright red buttons, lights blinking angrily at her from within, before moving on. The buttons weren’t labeled, and it didn’t seem wise to mess with them. There was a set of gauges labeled as a thermometer, barometer, hygrometer, transmissometer, disdrometer, until eventually she just stopped reading. Finally, in the corner of the console, she found an unassuming gray lever simply labelled “Emergency Escape”.
It was certainly intriguing. Definitely important. And besides, it was the only thing in this entire room she could understand. Even the chair was still a bit confusing. Her eyes darted to the sides, trying to find anything else to press. She could almost smell the flowers she’d left behind, calling her back. Really, was that the only thing she could make out?
She reached out a hand to a random switch in the center of the console, finding it labeled “MNLT”. As she switched it on, the entire room began to shake, slowly at first but becoming violent, rattling the wheels under her chair until she quickly switched it off again. She waved her hand around, landing a finger on a button labeled “CTLLGHT”. As she pressed it, the overhead lights above her turned off, leaving only the blinking lights on the panels to light the room. She pressed it again and the lights came back on.
Her focus returned to the escape lever. She couldn’t stay here forever, after all. There was still more of the garden to explore. Then again, she wasn’t quite sure she’d ever leave if she went back. Plus, she already knew what would be in the other two clearings.
She hesitantly reached out a hand towards the lever. It was surprisingly rough in her palm, and she noticed a few scratches in the paint on the handle. She could always fly back up if she wanted. It could be her own little secret, known only to her. Well, besides whoever maintained the garden. She suddenly realized how odd the garden really was, perfectly maintained without any sign of other people. Then again, it wasn’t the strangest thing she’d seen. She had to know. Wherever it sent her might give some answers.
She slowly pulled back the lever.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Flight in a Grounded World
The quiet hum of hidden devices exploded into an angry chorus of alarms, lights flashing around her in an incomprehensible pattern that seemed to be trying to tell her something, yet failed utterly to do so. A metal bar secured itself around her waist, and she panicked, flaring out her wings to try to escape the chair. Her panic was not at all lessened as a strip of the floor began to open up, revealing an enormous rail with metal hooks that clamped onto her chair. She flapped uselessly, like a fly caught in a web, as the rail began to angle down to reveal the misty clouds below.
She gritted her teeth, flailing about and attacking the chair itself in a last-ditch effort to escape. A high-pitched whine started to grow, piercing the air until letting itself out in one deep pulse, shooting the chair forward into the clouds.
Wind blasted her face with a deafening roar as she tried to slow her decent with her wings. Her cry of pain was lost as the sheer force behind the air contorted her wings back behind her the moment she exposed them. She could see the ground now, approaching all too rapidly, and forced her wings out from behind the chair as far as they would go, letting out a yelp as she felt a sickening crack resonate through her body before a wave of pain followed. Her wings were forced behind her lopsidedly, sending her spiraling through the air as she rapidly approached the ground. Her decent was slowed, but it wasn't easy to tell as she blinked back tears that forced their way out.
She did her best to angle her legs towards the ground, but her wings were long past the point of co-operation, the uncontrolled pirouetting making her dizzy on top of the pain. The ground was growing dangerously close, and she kicked feebly at one of the wheels on the bottom of the chair. It was, somewhat amusingly, still spinning furiously from the initial launch, grinding to a disappointed hault as she pressed against it with her shoe. She made one last effort to get her wings under control, but only succeeded in facing herself up towards the sky, not even able to see the ground coming anymore but knowing its arrival was imminent. She cursed, and closed her eyes.
She hit the ground with a wet snap that rippled along her body, her breaths coming short as she found herself unable to breathe properly. Her side grew wet as she lay in a growing pool of what she could only assume was her own blood, eyes still screwed shut. In what was surely meant to be a sick joke, the restraint against her waist finally released, landing her onto the remains of what had once been her right wing.
It was surely a miracle that she had survived the fall at all, though as a sharp bone stabbed into her side, she briefly considered how much of a relief the alternative might have been. She moved an arm, pushing herself weakly off the ground to take the pressure off the worst injuries only to find there was no position that didn’t leave her in excruciating pain. She tested her legs, covered in bruises but mercifully intact, and suppressed a scream as she managed to prop herself up on one arm, leaving her to inspect the gruesome damage.
The scene in front of her made her sick, close to throwing up, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the carnage that had once been a source of freedom and pride. The feathers were thoroughly stained with a dark, wet red that stuck to the ground, blending the two into a singular pool with a coagulating film along the top that gave it a revoltingly thick texture. The bones to which the feathers were still mostly attached had been shattered beyond recognition, with white knives jutting out into the air horrifically.
She forced herself to look away. Anything to keep her attention away from the nauseating scene attached to her own body, anything that would keep her mind away from the pain that threatened to overwhelm her. Her eyes settled on a road sign in front of her, an all too familiar road sign. The sign welcomed her into a gray, crushingly drab suburb, picket fences and crushing hopelessness stretching on into infinity. The sign's name had been scratched off long ago, whether by time or human it was impossible to say. Yet she sat on the other side of the sign now. There was nothing to take her back inside but her own masochism.
She'd done it. The town had given her an impossible problem, and she'd solved it anyway. She was free once again! She tried to force out a laugh, but a stabbing pain in her side reminded her that she was still trapped by the confines of her own body.
As the shock wore off, she found that her legs were still able to support her, though reluctantly and with much complaint. She hobbled upright, swaying precariously to the side as her head spun in protest. It was then that she looked back, a new wave of nausea washing over her.
The bases of her wings had entirely snapped, leaving them both dangling pitifully to the ground. Her right wing, having taken the brunt of the fall, had fared worst of all; the bone had detached entirely, leaving only a flap of skin and muscle still connected. Her left wing had fared slightly better, the bone making an effort to stay upright but ultimately failing, leaving the wing to drag along the ground uselessly just like the other. It was a miracle in and of itself that she’d lost feeling in all but the base of her wings; judging by the state they were in, she imagined she’d be be a screaming heap on the ground instead of trying and failing to hold back tears if she could feel it all.
She limped forward, away from the entrance to the town. Surely any pain was worth leaving it behind forever, but her body still ached all over. It was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other, but by now she’d grown well experienced in managing to move forward anyway. Her broken wings dragged through the dried grass beneath her, collecting dirt and refuse in the bloodied feathers. The fence around the town, once infinite and insurmountable, now had a clearly defined edge. Beyond that, it was hard to say. The clouds, however, thinned out far in the distance, revealing an unbroken blue sky that made her yearn to be back in the sky. She tried not to dwell on it too much. It was clear that these wings would never fly again.
The remains of a hand mirror lay discarded along the fence, a final petty revenge thrown at her by the clouds, the last shred of power they held outside of the town. It was a good attempt to shake her, but ultimately an ineffective one. Looking at the mirror, through its webbed cracks, she felt no anger, nor fear. She’d more than proven herself to the world, and more importantly, to herself. She knew who she was now: a survivor.
Perhaps the mirror could still serve some use. She dragged herself over, picking up the cracked handle. Without warning she snapped the back of the mirror in half against her knee, leaving just a jagged edge holding onto the handle. Gritting her teeth, she drew the makeshift blade behind her, unable to suppress a scream as she sliced off the last bit of flesh holding her right wing to her body. The wing fell to the ground with a thud, sending up a puff of dust that stuck to the blood clinging to the feathers that hadn’t yet managed to dry.
She steeled herself as she passed the blade to her other hand, squeezing her eyes shut as she drew it close once again. She didn’t even try to hold back this time, letting out all her pain, and suffering, and anger in one long scream that echoed up into the clouds above. They heard her for sure, but she screamed anyway. Let the clouds have their satisfaction; she was beyond caring anymore. She fell to her knees, looking back at the wings one last time. Maybe their promise of freedom and peace had been true, but it hardly mattered anymore. She looked forward past the clouds, to the blue sky beyond, before falling into a dreamless sleep.
The Town With No Name That Once Had One
Epilogue - On the Other Side of the City
To my dearest friend,
It is with great regret that I must inform you I will not be returning the boat you so graciously lent me. Hopefully you can find it in your heart to write it off as a business expense, as I suspect you’ve long since done.
It is with a much more heavy heart that I must inform you that I myself will also not be returning to the city, ever. I am no longer the woman you remember, and in all candor, I must tell you that I’m very, very glad for that. Having gained far more perspective over my journey, I have come to the conclusion that my purpose does not fall within the city I left, nor any of those I visited.
Perhaps there is no place for me within this world. I would be lying if I told you the question doesn’t plague me constantly, every waking day. If there is a place where I belong, however, I have resolved to find it, and that means I have to move forward rather than dwell in the past. My past in particular I believe is best left banished to history. However, worry not: I am ready to provide my report on the mystery signal in the east sea, as you requested so long ago.
Don’t send anyone else. Their mind and soul will be tested, and they might not come out of it for the better, and they certainly won’t come out of it the same. I certainly didn’t. I know these words will in all likelihood fall on deaf ears, but trust me when I say that it’s not worth investigating further. Since I know you’ll do so anyway, here are some tips for the next poor soul you send:
The keepers of The Tower will offer you supplies to entice you inside. Take them, but do not enter. You don’t owe them anything, and thinking you do will end badly.
If you continue straight east, you will encounter a city far more advanced than anything you will likely have ever seen before. The city is abandoned, and there are more treasures than you could imagine free for the taking. Unless you have some sort of strange aversion to shameless looting, take all that you can carry, but DON’T STAY AFTER DARK. Loot quickly, and you will stay safe.
DO NOT GO ANY FARTHER EAST.
Assuming you’ve ignored my third tip, do not believe the promises of the sightless, and whatever you do, do not give up your eyes.
Stay strong. You’ll probably die, but there’s a chance you won’t.
Unfortunately, I have very little faith that this letter will ever reach you. Writing it is simply an exercise for my own benefit, to tie up the few loose ends I left behind in my old life, and in all honestly, I have little interest in that which I left behind. If, by some divine intervention, this letter does arrive intact, while I hold no ill will to you, please do not try to contact me ever again.
Warmest regards,
Eleanor
