Foreverland Is Dead

creeps in.
    She is the last of the girls, and she goes to sleep in death’s eternal grip.
    Let us go, Cyn asks again.
    I’m sorry. Patricia’s voice tearfully echoes. She answers, No.
    Cyn experiences the warmness, once again. The lovely embrace of eternity. Feels the old woman take her to her breast, their souls merging.
    Loving.
    And night falls on the world.
    But she will live to see the sun rise again.

62

    The rising sun on us, day beginning.
    The sky collapses.
    And consumes us all.

    The rooster is crowing.
    He pulls her from a deep sleep. She struggles to open her eyes, the trace of the terrible dream still glowing.
    The sky collapsing on a gray world.
    Something vibrates in her throat, a moan escapes her lips. She doesn’t recognize it as her own. Her eyes flutter open, her heart matching the alarm. Wake up!
    It’s dark. She can’t see. But she feels the bed, feels the pillow cradling her head. She stares ahead, wondering where she is and how she got there.
    There are rafters. There are beds with smooth blankets and empty pillows.
    The rooster beckons.
    She pulls her sheets back, slowly sits up. Eyes fully open, searching. The scuffed floor is gritty and cold. She stands up, wearing a long t-shirt that reaches to mid-thigh and reeks of hard labor.
    There’s a small table beneath a window, an empty bed on the other side of it. Her reflection in the glass looks like an apparition. It must be very early morning; a hint of light illuminates massive white posts with churning blades. Horse hooves thunder in the distance.
    She stubs her toe on a pair of worn boots, the tongues pulled out. Her feet fit snugly, the creases stiff and biting. They clop on the wood floor—
    “Who’s there?” someone says.
    The girl freezes.
    Something bangs the table. “Ow.”
    The girl stares into the back corner, sees a small figure bend over to rub her knee. She reaches out. The tip of a match flares, tossing shadows into the rafters. A candle holds the flame.
    “Who are you?” the girl in back asks.
    The girl in boots doesn’t answer. The candlelight is reflecting inside a tin shield, directing it away from the girl holding it. The girl in boots lights a candle on the table in front of her.
    The cabin glows warmly.
    The girl in the back steps back. Her hair is black and shaved; her t-shirt down to her knees and smudged with dirt. Her skin is dark.
    “Who are you?” the girl asks again.
    “I don’t know,” the girl in boots answers.
    She swings the candle around. There are boxes under the bed and slashes carved into the wall. She steps closer, leans over the bed. The marks are gouged into the wood, bundled in fives. The last several marks are thin and weak, like they were scratched with a fingernail or a butter knife.
    There are voices outside.
    “Dammit,” someone says. “Hold still before I box you one in the ear.” Long pause. “You said this ain’t real.”
    The girl in back blows out her candle and shrinks into the dark. The girl in boots holds her ground, pointing the light at the door. She looks around for a club or something sharp. She can throw the candle at them if she has to, charge them.
    The door flies open.
    She steps back, crouches. Ready to defend herself.
    Two girls look inside. They’re wearing designer clothes that were dragged through the mud and tattered from long days. The white girl’s hair is matted and knotty.
    “Cyn?”
    The girl in boots doesn’t know what that means. Sin?
    The smaller one steps inside, her skin black. She smiles and points at the back of the bunkhouse.
    “Jen,” she says.
    Jen cowers, slightly. The strangers approach her slowly, gently. They wrap their arms around her. She doesn’t try to stop them.
    The smaller one begins weeping. “We’re so sorry, Jen,” she says. “We couldn’t stop him…”
    The girl lets them hug her, lets them weep and apologize. Not that she can do anything about it; they’ve got her locked between them and aren’t letting go.
    “What the hell is going on?” the girl in boots says.
    They wipe their eyes, laughing and crying, putting their arms around Jen and guiding her around the stove.
    “We’d hug you,” one of the girls says, “but you dangerous when you don’t know what’s going on.”
    “Then tell me.” She holds the candle up.
    They shield their eyes.
    “I’m Kat and this is Mad. We came to get you out.”
    “Where am I?”
    “Later.” Kat reaches out, squeezes her arm. “I’m so glad to see you,