Will finds all two and a half of my fingers laying on the pavement, but not before I grow new ones.

I take note of the time. It seems that the more I get hurt, the faster I heal.

He wraps my old fingers in some napkins he gets out of the glove box, lights them, then watches them burn. The putrid scent of my own flesh burning fills me with nausea; I cover my nose and mouth with my hand in an attempt to block out the smell. It doesn't work.

Once the fire burns itself out, he rolls them with his feet, throws more napkins on top of them, lights them, and watches them burn again. I vomit.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, between gasping for breathe and gagging. And how can he handle this smell?

“Just in case,” he says. I can't fathom a reason to need to burn disembodies fingers, but I leave him alone. Will is still in a bad mood and I feel terrible.

Finally, he stomps the ashes into the asphalt, and waits in the car for me to finish puking.

o.o.0.o.o

The ride home is completely silent. I hold my arms and look out the window, watching the sheets of green vine that have overtaken the fallen trees come towards us and pass us by. We turn onto a worn path and wobble through the woods until we reach the gravel that paves the way to the eggplant and dark-trim house. We eat our eggs and pancakes in the kitchen, surrounded by overpowering lemon yellow walls, chrome faucets and appliances, and dark wood counters with gray, faux marble tops. No one speaks. When he's done, he tosses his to-go box in the trash and retreats down the hall where I assume his room is. I retreat up the stairs, lay in my bed, and attempt to sleep this uncomfortable feeling off.

o.o.0.o.o

I dream of a seemingly endless darkness and an intense silence. In it all was the sensation of being constricted, lifted, carried away, tied up, then bound to a hard surface. Gradually, the darkness become shapes and figures and colors. The first things I see are Frank's, moss green eyes, glowing under the shadow of an ash gray hood. He's accompanied by several other men in gray cloaks. The first sounds I hear are that of flying insects buzzing around me and the men as they talk. It's not a conversation I hear, rather, a single person speaking to a mob. A tall one with yellow, red and black face paint says: “Today, we release our honorable mother Phakade out of this hell we call Earth.”

The others answer back in unison: “For life among the impure is akin to death by fire. Painful to the very end.”

My wrists and ankles are bound together with rope, both suspending me and stretching me down the front of a large oak tree. The bark pinches my skin as gravity attempts to return me to the moist earth.

“The suffering is inevitable. Yet it is better to burn as the moth burns: quick in a flash of beautiful, hot light, than to simmer over a low fire for years and years to come,” the tall one continues, “Come brothers. Let us quicken the fire together.”

The hot, humid, air is broken just slightly by a lazy breeze, causing the woods stir, just slightly. The sheets of green, heart-leaved, vine, rustle, waking the bushes and trees they've over taken. The smell of rotting plant life is nudged from beneath the vines to fill the open air until the breeze settles, and the air becomes heavy, sticky, and wet once again. It's a beautiful, moonless night.

The men begin to chant.

“Be free my goddess.”

“Be free my love.”

“Be free my mother.”

I see myself, standing amongst them, wearing the dress that Will gave me, looking up at me and chanting something different: “I am as I've always been.”

The men reveal identical metal rods.

My legs are broken first, then I'm cut loose. I land gracelessly with my face in the dirt.

I know how the rest of the dream will go.

I wake up to hear Will practicing scales on the piano and go to watch from over the railing. His brows are tensed with concentration, each movement he makes is harsh and deliberate. He fumbles often, but doesn't stop until he's complete the scale, and doesn't stop playing the scale until he's played without errors. When he's finished, he motions for me to come and slides over to make room on the bench. I sit there awkwardly for several minutes as he roughly plays the music a jazzy sounding song I've never heard before.

This is the time to free myself from the events of this morning.

“I'm sorry for the trouble,” I finally say.

He shakes his head. “No. It's OK. It was my fault.”

“No it's not, you didn't do anything wrong-” I stop when I see him, still shaking his head. He seems much more relaxed, but still isn't the Will I'm used to. I guess I'm seeing a new side to him. I prefer the other one.

“You like jazz?” I ask, reaching for something that might bring happy Will back.

He shakes his head again. “No, but my mother loved it. She used to blast it, all times of the day and night, and all different kinds: old, new, with vocals, just music, big band, soloists, orchestral and even synth if that counts.” He smiles a little to himself. “I hated it. But it doesn't feel right sitting in her house without it. Of course I have my preferences.” His smile became weak for a moment, before he re-adopted his at-the-verge-of-laughter tone. “I'm still the only person I know who knows the names of elevator music.”

I laugh a little harder than necessary.

“So, where is she now?”

“Gone.”

My stomach gets tight. I quickly apologize.

“No, she's not dead. She left. No one knows where she went though.”

I apologize some more, and say things I couldn't possibly know are true. I feel like I'm lying.

“Were you close to your mom?” I ask.

“Yeah. Funny thing is, we're not even really related. My birth mother died when I was four, which left my step-father to raise me. He isn't really a family guy. Mom was just a friend of his, but she took me in.”

I find it odd that I've been sleeping in his house four days and never knew a thing about him. I never even thought to ask until now.

“That was really nice of her.” I say.

He nods “Yeah, she was a nice person. She gave herself to others completely. The bad part of that is sometimes she would give herself up completely to the wrong people and forget about the ones who actually care about her.”

“Oh.” I say. There is another awkward silence, but this one is much more brief. “You don't see any of that in yourself?” I ask reaching for a response.

“Who cares about me?” he asks, through a harsh sounding laugh. “My birth mother had no family, Mom ran off without giving enough of a damn to even tell me bye and my step-dad remarried and moved on. I have no clue who my real dad is. I'm like you: alone. Except, I have memories of people I care about to haunt me. You're completely free.”

“That's not true. I'm not free. All I think about is who I am and who I used to be. I would rather know who I am and have sad memories than this not knowing and constant wondering. I wonder what I was like as a child, what my mother looked like, was my father tall, what I wanted to do with my life, if there’s someone looking for me right now. It scares me that maybe I'll never know. I'll never be able to answer those questions.” I pause, thinking of the dream I just had. “Will, what if I've always been this way?”

Will looks puzzled for a moment, but not surprised. He grabs me by the chin, too hard, turns my face to his, and asks, “Who is your mother?” Molasses colored eyes peer into mine, bouncing between the two as if expecting to find something in one of them. His face is close to mine. Too close. He's invading my space.

I grab his wrist and violent swipe his hand off of my face. “I don't know,” I growl through my teeth, scowling and rubbing my chin. But something in the back of my mind tells an answer.

He throws his hands up as if at gun point and backs away, eyes smiling. “Sorry Miss Ma'am!” he teases. I'm not in a teasing mood.

Who is Phakade?