Some Quiet Place

matter. None of it is real. He’s in my head.
    When he doesn’t get a response, Nightmare finally faces me, and it’s difficult to look him in the eyes. They’re round black jewels. Snake eyes. “It’s time for a short intermission,” he informs me. His hair reminds me of Fear’s in the way it rests against his skin like silk.
    His words register. “Is this a game or a play?” I ask, taunting him for some reason. Foolish. I can’t take it back, though.
    His gaze narrows. “Perhaps you’d rather continue now, then.”
    Again I don’t answer, but my heart stumbles. He sighs, waving a hand. “Go, little one. You’ll see me soon. I do hope you regain some of that charming emotion I saw so briefly.”
    I open my mouth to speak, maybe ask the questions I’m unable to ask Rebecca, but an invisible hand pushes me right in the center of my chest. My arms flail, but it’s too late. I fall into the white oblivion. Down, down, the air rushing from my lungs.
    I land in my bed.
    As soon as the sun rises in the sky I know the house has turned into the fiery, cackling depths of hell. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Tim has woken with a vengeance, still drunk from the night before; I can hear him muttering through the walls. He needs someone to blame for Sarah leaving him.
    Too bad I’m the only one left.
    I consider running for just a moment. But I can’t seem to bring myself to move. Thoughts of Fear, memories, dreams fill my head and I lie there, listening to the heavy thump of Tim’s feet against the floor. He’s still muttering to himself. I think of Landon. So much death in this story. How did he end? Was Rebecca with him during his last breath? I think of Fear, of Fear and Rebecca clasped in a passionate embrace. She had been the girl he’d spoken of in the loft, the one he’d loved. The one who I’d once thought was dead. And now they’re together, after all this time. Is she explaining why she stayed away so long? Is he telling her how much he missed her?
    “Elizabeth!” Tim slurs, banging on my door. He can’t seem to figure out how to work the doorknob. It keeps slipping in his grip.
    Please, please come back.
    How painful it must have been, to hold someone she cared about so much in her arms and watch his blood run into the ground. How strange. Other than Maggie’s misplaced dedication to me, I’ve never witnessed any kind of real love.
    “Open this door, you little bitch!”
    Which is worse, Tim or Nightmare? They seem the same in my mind. What’s the point? Even if I leave here, I’ll walk into a trap just like this one the moment I fall asleep. There’s nothing to fight for, now; not survival, not love of my own. And this is no longer my home—I have to face that; nothing will ever be the way it once was. But I find myself clinging to it just the same. Pesky emotions. Even when weak, they’re a hindrance to the logic I’m accustomed to.
    After Nightmare’s attack, after speaking to Rebecca in the hospital, I’ve been remembering more and more. Their past—Rebecca’s and Landon’s and their mother’s—comes fast at me now. I don’t know if it’s an unconscious decision on my part or if it’s just time, but the illusion is growing thin and my nothingness is a weak, feeble thing deep inside of me.
    “Elizabeth!”
    That’s not who I am. Now I’ll face the truth. As the threat of pain and darkness drools on my door, I close my eyes and say the words that I’ve been avoiding for so long.
    “I’m not Elizabeth.”
    Nothing happens, not that I expected anything to. There’s no explosion of realization or power or memories. No Emotions come to touch me, the untouchable girl. All I know is who I’m not, and not who I am. I open my eyes again, staring at the mural. It’s still unfinished, but I’m almost done. There’s just one more wall to do. I concentrate on that stone house, Landon’s still face, Rebecca’s pain, the death and the agony, the feelings I can’t reach.
    “I’m not human,” I say next.
    Still no earth-shattering epiphany. The pieces that are me remain scattered, incomplete, and there are no patterns to follow.
    Tim has been pounding at the door, and now it gives way. With a crack , his fist bursts through, and he’s cut his knuckle. He roars, shouldering the door now. More of the wood drops to the floor in jagged chunks. Tim keeps at this until there’s a hole big enough for him to fit through. He ducks inside, eyes wild and