I know I'm going to die soon. I feel my spine twisted into an unnatural angle, my pelvic bones facing the left of me, both legs shattered, bones protruding through the skin. The pain is unbearable. I want to scream and cry and swear but I remind myself that it'll all be over soon. I sit still and wait to die.

I lay there with my face in the mud for maybe five or ten minutes before I realize that I'm not breathing. And yet, the pain hasn't stopped. I prop myself up with the better of my broken arms and observe my surroundings. I lay parallel to a narrow, smelly stream of water trickling around rusted shopping carts, and a broken TV. I notice the dark blue sky, and golden light reflecting off the metal surfaces: It must be dawn, and I'm in a ditch. From the corner of my eye I think I can see the light, but as I drag my body towards towards it, I realize its just sunlight reflecting off of shards of broken glass from a beer bottle.

My body hurts. The pain makes my vision blurry. The black brown of the wet earth mixes with the orange and silver of the rusted shopping cart, the mossy green of the algae growing along the side of it, and the dark blue of the early morning sky. It does this until everything has mixed into an even tone of black and I feel myself relax into a deep sleep. This must be it.

Finally.

In the dark I hear a mess of chords crashing down the piano, starting again at the top then crashing back down again and overshadowing a constant pit-pat of subdued high-hats, and a beautiful, clear, brassy voice. I focus on her words:

...warm like the month of may it was and I'll say it was grand
Grand to be alive, to be young, to be mad, to be yours  alone
Grand to see your face, hear your voice, feel your touch...

The smell of burning food penetrates my thoughts.

...say I'm all your own

It wakes me.

I didn't know what year it was, life was no prize

I find myself aggressively tucked, almost wrapped, into gold satin sheets. The loud piano stops so that the track can finally be heard in full.

I wanted love and there it was, shining out of your eyes.

A wobbly baritone sings along, off key:

“I'm wise and I know what time it is now.”

Alarmed, I sit up quickly, breaking through the barrier of bedding to feel a sharp pain in my back that halts my movement. To the left of me is a dark-wood armoire with mirrors on the doors. I see myself dressed in a man's button down shirt with the barely legible words “cheater” written on it several times in black sharpie. My arms are covered and my neck is bruised.

I move again, gently this time, and notice that my broken limbs are healed and able to move freely without pain. My back is still aching. I ignore it and ease myself out of the bed, slowly. Not only because of the pain, I don't know where I am, or who's with me. I need to be cautious.

As I stand in front of the mirrors, I see purple bruises where the bones in my legs had been shattered and had protruded from the skin. My legs seemed to be otherwise intact. My face seems unscathed: down-pointing nose unbroken, full lips intact, round eyes without redness or swelling. I find this odd, since my earliest memory is of me taking a rod to the face over and over and over and over and...

It's odd that this is my oldest memory. I was then, as I am now, and the laws of nature dictate that at some point I should have been a child. I realize that I have no memory from before the beating at all, not even prior events of the day of, or why or how it happened: just the smell of sage burning all around me, the taste of blood in my mouth, the chanting men in gray, the sound of my own cries, and the synchronized rhythm of the rods at they made contact with flesh and bone.

The doorknob twists and I leap into the armoire. It rocks a bit.

I hear the door squeak, then heavy foot steps approaching the bed. The sheets ruffle and the bed squeaks. He must be sitting directly in front of me.

“I brought you breakfast.” say's the baritone voice. “I burnt it a little, but I scraped off all the black stuff... Or most of it anyways.”

I sit still, heart thumping in my chest. I take in a deep breathe to steady my nerves, and wait.

He continues:

“It's supposed to be eggs and bacon but I had an incident with some sugar, thinking it was salt, so I added extra pepper to try and fix it, then the sugar burned so I put water on it... meanwhile the turkey bacon is over cooking.. I really can't blame you for hiding, I'd jump in some furniture too if somebody tried to offer me this crap.”

He knows where I am and could get me if he wanted. There's no point in squatting in a cramped armoire. I open the door and stretch my legs. I see him sitting on the newly made bed, molasses eyes squinted and gleaming with amusement, thick brows raised with curiosity. Tiny black dots speckle the sides of his face where hair wants – but is not permitted – to grow. He is attractive: almond toned with a square jaw and piercing, narrow eyes.

“You don't have to sit in there staring at me like that. Unless it's Narnia in there, I'm pretty sure that's very uncomfortable.”

I bite both lips, trying to squish my embarrassment. He just smiles at me and offers me his spot on the bed, next to the tray of “food”. As I step out of the wardrobe, he rises and sits in one of the bright red armchairs placed near the set of french doors. I don't understand why he would cook for me and let me sleep in his bed.

“Do I know you?” I ask. Maybe he's someone I used to know and forgot, and there's some prior relationship between us that explains his kindness.

He looks puzzled for a moment then laughs. “Wow, is that how you talk to someone who's been wiping your ass for four days? To answer your question: No. You don't know me, and I don't know you either. I found you laying in a ditch a little ways off. Saw your wounds healing, and decided to bring you me back with me.” He waves his arm as if modeling the entire room. “This is our first time meeting.”

“Why did you do it?”

“To be completely honest, I saw you laying there with you back all twisted and your bones sticking out, and thought you were dead, until I got closer and saw you breathing. I knew you had to be in a lot of pain, and I thought you weren't going to survive. I shot you, but you didn't die.”

I resent that. “What does that have to do with you bringing me here?”

“I felt responsible.”

The entire time he answers my questions his eyes stare straight into mine with an open look to them, as if to show me his soul.

I pick up the charred turkey bacon and take a large bite. I find myself crunching on it for nearly a minute and a half. The man watches me expectantly. When I finally swallow he asks:

“Well?”

I glare at him as I stuff the rest in my mouth at once and chew deliberately. He throws his head back and laughs from the gut.

“You know you don't have to eat it, right?”

I glare and chew soot for another ninety-seconds and swallow.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“You tried to kill me.”

He sighs and hangs his head in his head for a moment, then perks up.“Lets start over. Hi, I'm Will.” He approaches me with his hand extended. I look at it for a moment, bemused.

“I don't know how to take you.”

He grins at me, arm still extended. “With burnt bacon, maybe?” I can't help but to chuckle.

He continues “With not-burnt bacon? And fried eggs?”

“Let's not get fancy.”

He laughs some more.“ Agreed. Now shake my hand, my arm is getting tired.”

I concede. “Hi, Will, I'm...I'm...” I hold his hand and stare at him blankly. I shouldn't be surprised that I can't remember my name, but for some reason it hurts.

Who am I?

For the second day in a row, Will wakes me up with obscure music and bad piano-playing. I sit up and wait a moment, admiring the smooth, sultry voice of the woman as she sings low and soulful.

How can you lose your song?
When you have sung it for so long?
How can you forget your dance, your dance
When that dance is all you ever had?
What do I have? Nothing.

The door creeks open. Will slinks in holding a sunset orange bundle, freezes for a moment when he sees me, apologizes, then quickly retreats, closing the door behind him.

Knock, knock

I ignore it. He comes in anyway and takes his seat by the french doors.

The track continues:

You can't separate the two.
It's impossible to do
Just like the salt in the stew

I face the mirror, and search for myself in my reflection. I have a small frame and a deep-brown skin tone. I examine my delicate bone structure and pointed chin, and my wide forehead. I'm not there. My dark, wide-set eyes are lined with thick lashes and wear deep creases that give them the appearance of bulging. I open them wide until I can see their cool tone and inspect my shrinking pupils. I'm not there. The bridge of my nose is short, beginning just at eye-level, and smooths into a downward curve at the point of my broad nose. As I look I notice I have a piercing there, held open by a metal peg. I decide that I want a ring for it.

“Kalani?” Will says, calling me by the name I've given myself. I jump a little, having forgotten that he was still sitting there. “How is your back ?” He always sounds as if he's holding in laughter.

I feel my lower back with my fingertips, never taking my eyes of the mirror. The pain is completely gone and all the bruises are healed. I make a note to myself: five days. Most people would die, or if they hadn't, they would never recover. I've made a complete recovery in five days. “It's fine.”

“And your ankle?”

I jumped out of the window and broke it yesterday, wanting to go for a walk. I obviously could've used the front door, but the window seemed quicker and I thought I would be OK if I landed right. I didn't land right.

I wonder if I've always been this reckless, or if I only am because I know I'll recover. If I'm entirely different person with an entirely different personality who happens to wear the same skin as the old me. If that's true, will the me I am now disappear once I remember the me I used to be? If that's true, do I even want to remember?

I resent myself for thinking this way. This me, if it is separate from who I was before the beating, has only existed for a day, and has no right to even consider such things. Especially since the other me was around for... maybe twenty years?

I observe my ample hips and small, small weighted breasts and try to guess my age.

Will clears his throat dramatically to get my attention. I grunt to let him know I had heard him.“You know, it's normal to check yourself out every know and then, but this might be taking it a little too far,” he says, grinning mischievously.

I raise an eyebrow.

“What do you know from normal?” I say without looking away. I'm wearing a different men's shirt than the day before, but it still has the word 'cheater' written on it a hundred or so times. For the first time, I notice that I'm not wearing any underwear at all. Good thing it's so big – or I'm so small – that the shirt almost passes my knees. I would, however, like to have on real clothes.

“I know that normal people don't stare at themselves for hours at a time, jump out of second story windows for no reason, cut themselves to see how long it would take to heal-”

“-I didn't even do that one.” I lie, hoping that he didn't really know about that..

“But you would though.”

I let out a little sigh of relief. He didn't know.

“You have no way of knowing that.”

He smirks, as if he knows something that I don't. “I know normal people die.”

I finally look him in the face, after noticing that my hair is conformed to the shape of the pillow I slept on last night.

“Normal people don't try to kill people because they’re injured, even if they know they're going to die; especially not unconscious injured people. They call an ambulance.” He opens his mouth to speak but I don't let him. “But I'm grateful for it. If you had called an ambulance, the world would've found out about the way I heal and I probably would have been taken by the government. On top of that you brought me here and cared for me. Normal people don't do that either.”

A silence trickles in. It fills the spacious, sunlit room, surrounding the stained-black vanity table and its stool, filling the scarlet armchairs and the bookshelf, and traps us both in. But, it's not the awkward kind of silence. It's the comforting, clarifying, mind clearing kind of silence that can sooth suffering souls, if only for a moment. I smile to myself, amused by my own flowery thoughts.

The track continues:

And one thing, the one thing that life cannot do
It can´t take your song from you...

“Well, Miss Conceited, when you're done looking at yourself, get dressed and come downstairs so we can go to i-hop or something. I don't know about you but I can't keep living off burnt food and cereal,” he says, as he spreads his orange bundle over his seat. “I'm in the kitchen.”

He leaves me there alone with a summery, orange dress. It has cups built in and two ties around the neck and back to help keep up the alternating layers sheer and thin, poppy printed fabric. It's lovely. Still no panties but much better than his cheater shirts.

o.o.0.o.o.

I prop my elbow on the door, purse my lips and stair straight ahead at the narrow, two lane road lined with nothing but trees as far as the eye could see. We're already on the way back, to-go boxes getting cold in the backseat.

“I rode in the car for forty-five minutes so, I could sit and wait in the car for you to bring back the food,” I repeat for the third or fourth time.

Will sighs and rolls his head. “The people who attacked you could still be out here somewhere, Kalani. We can't risk them seeing you.”

“In that case, you should have let me stay home.”

“Why, so you can jump out the window again?”

I stare at a the man next to me. I want him to feel my eyes on him till they make him uncomfortable.

“I don't need supervising. I'm perfectly fine,” I say through my teeth.

“That's not what you were saying yesterday when you were hopping around on one foot.”

I want to dive across the seat and wrap my fingers around his throat.

“What did I say, Will.”

“You wanted me to help you.”

“Bullshit. I never asked for your help”

“No, you just need it.”

Then I want to squeeze and ...

I see a man behind the windshield of a pick-up truck approaching on the left. He's dark haired and green-eyed.

I know his face.

“HEY! HEEEY!” I yell, leaning over Will to be closer to the truck. If I could just talk to him, I could remember; I could get myself back.

“What the FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?” Will barks, struggling to see around me.

I roll the window down and wave my free hand, all the while screaming to get green-eyes to see me. He does, green eyes widening with shock. The truck gets closer. It'll pass us soon.

“Stop the car! I know him!”

“What? No you don't!”

The truck is just a few feet away.

“STOP THE CAR!!” I scream, addressing both Will and the green-eyed man.

“NO!”

The truck is adjacent to us. I jump out of the passenger seat, the wrong way, and roll a few feet. There is a crushing pain in my left hand, but I ignore it. Already, low to the ground, I sprint after the truck, inadvertently shouting: “HEY! STOP! WAIT!” He does, but he's not the only one who get's out of the truck.

“Are you mental?” a blonde woman pale blue skirt suit, fusses, stomping her pumps as she approaches me. She stops mid-stride and covers her mouth: “Oh my GOD...”

I step around her. Ignoring the sound of screeching tires, a door slamming, and frantic footsteps behind me. My business is with green eyes “You know me.” I tell him.

“Kalani!” Will yanks me by my arm- and whispers violently in my ear. “Get back in the car.”

The blonde woman continues “...You're hand! Frank, call an ambulance!” she seemingly pulls a handkerchief out of nowhere and approaches me with it.

“No thank you! She's fine I'll take her,” says Will, forcibly polite. He get back in my ear and murmurs “Come ON!”

“Are you sure?” she says.

“Yes, I'll take her, she'll be just fine.”

“She jumped right out of that car-”

“I'll put the child lock on this time,” he says, half growling the words he directed at me.

“I should report this to the police.”

Frank speaks, “No, we should just go. They're fine, and you don't need to bring any extra attention to yourself, Mrs Mayor,” he adds special emphasis to 'Mrs Mayor' as if to say: “You don't know who you're dealing with.” I don't give a damn about who she is.

“Don't leave without TELLING ME WHO I AM!” I shout. Will covers my mouth with his hand.

“I'm sorry about this. We ran out over her medication this morning and just went to get some more. It takes a little while for it to kick in.” He tries to drag me to the car but I wriggle free.

“ I KNOW YOU KNOW ME!” Will puts his arms around my waist and lifts me from behind. “I'M NOT CRAZY!”

“Frank, do you know that psycho?” asks 'Mrs Mayor.'

“I've never seen that woman before in all my living.”

“LIAR!” I screech. “AND I'M NOT CRAZY!”

I repeat these last three words continuously, kicking the air, as I watch them get back into the truck and pull off.

They took all hope with them.

“I know,” says Will, after setting me on the trunk of his car. “You're not crazy, that man probably does know who you are.”

I rest my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands.

He continues, “But you don't know him! He could be one of the people that tried to beat you to death!”

For a moment, neither one of us speaks.

Will sound like an entirely different person with his usual, cheerful tone. “OK, so... lets go find your fingers.” he says eventually.

I don't answer. Instead, I watch the water fall onto my newly ripped, sunset and poppy dress. The lovely one, now stained with mud, blood and tears.

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?

I can't sleep. The nap I took earlier this afternoon keeps me awake... that and a sick feeling I have in my stomach. It's the same sick, uneasy feeling I've been having whenever I think about Will burning the fingers and Will asking me about a mother that I know he knows I couldn't know. He must know something that I don't, but when I ask about it, he laughs it off like a joke and calls me desperate and paranoid. He denies knowing anything, but can't give me a decent reason for burning my fingers or asking about my mother. He says, “I didn't like the idea of pieces of you getting eaten by ants or buzzards,” and “I just forgot for a minute, that's all.” I don't buy it. I call him a liar and he just laughs and tells me how crazy I am. I am not crazy.

I hear something unusual in the hallway. I ignore it at first, but as the sound persists I become alarmed. As the sound get closer, and more clear, I become afraid. Soon I am able to identify the sound as loud, sloppy whispering. I sit up in my bed and listen, waiting to be able to recognize one of these voices as Will's.

“Why didn't we check the rooms downstairs?”asks a young male.

“He wouldn't keep it there, it would be too easy for it to wonder off,” murmurs a low raspy voice. “Remember, it's not human. It doesn't behave like one.”

My heart beats fiercely. Neither of them are him and I know that I'm the 'it' they're looking for. I frantically scan the darkness, hoping to find a clear solution somewhere in the room – all I can see is the dark outlines of furniture and all I can hear is the blood pumping in my ears. I'm losing myself to fear. I take one long, deep breath and shut my eyes, to steady my nerves until I can hear the intruders again.

“Look, there are four doors up here. It's in one of them. Remember, even if it is human-like, it's not human. Don't hesitate to shoot,” says the second speaker.

Their voices have gotten louder; they must have gotten closer to me while I was panicking. I'm running out of time.

I scan the room once more and consider my options. They're sure to check the bathroom. The armoire didn't work last time. The french doors lead to a dead end on a second story balcony... unless I jump. I remind myself that the last time I jumped, I broke my leg.

I hear the two doors on either end of the hallway open.

I'm out of time.

I slip out of the bed and run as quickly and quietly possible to the double doors. I shut them carefully as I exit, hoping to buy myself some time. I climb over the railing, lowering myself by holding the bowed balusters. With one hand, I feel beneath the balcony for the decorative brackets while gripping the railing tightly with the other. My chest gets painfully tight: I can't find one anywhere.

I hear shuffling in my room.

I have to move. I grab the rails hand to hand, moving about two feet, and try again. It's there. I grab it and swing myself down, lifting my legs up so that I hang from it with both hands and feet.

I hear the french door swing open. I hang there, muscles tense, and hold my breath as I hear rushed footsteps walking across the balcony.

Gunshots fire in the house.

The intruder runs back into the building.

I release my feet and let myself drop to the floor.

Two more shots are fired.

I race around the building, searching for an entrance. Will is still inside.

The opening is in a downstairs bathroom window, with a neatly sliced screen. I climb in feet first, pushing my weight with the frame of the window to avoid knocking the textured glass.

I hear groans of pain. I grab the wooden plunger and twist the head off of it. It's not much against a gun but it's blunt and heavy. Plus, if I'm shot, my wounds will heal quickly. I approach the sound.

I ease down the hallway toward the living room with my make-shift weapon raised. As I approach, I hear Will's voice.

“Wow,” he says, sounding entertained as ever, “I am extremely lucky, you know that? I go looking for a sprig, and find a freaking immortal, then after months of digging and searching for your ass you just walk it right into my house!”

I stop and press my back against the wall.

He continues in an unusually ugly tone. “I mean, I knew that immortal girl would lure you out but not the first day I take her out! And, I figured you would just hire someone who knows what they're doing, like any sensible rich guy with money and no kidnapping experience would. But you're not sensible are you? You can't be if you thought you could steal from me, or any non-deaf person, while holding a goddamn conversation. But hey, Karma is a backwards ass bitch cause things are really looking up for me.”

The sick feeling I've been having flares back up, hitting me stronger than ever, but now I know exactly why. He's been using me.

The deep, raspy voice replies, “You don't know anything. I'm the only-”

He's cut off with a splat and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

I inch closer to the end of the hallway, curious to see.

“Shut up. It's my time to talk,” Will says. “You will have yours.”

I take one more step. He becomes quiet. I stand against the wall in utter silence, barely breathing. What is he doing? I decide to take one look around the corner. I make my way over to the end of the hallway, hold my breath and peak, to find Will crouching just enough so that his face would be level, eye to eye with mine. I scream and swing the wood at him thoughtlessly. He blocks it easily, snatching it from me and grabbing my arm all in one movement.

“Is this my plunger?” he asks grinning and waving my make-shift weapon.

I nod. In that moment I look down and notice the blood on his right slipper and splattered up the leg of his sweat pants. There is a gun at his waist. An uneasy feeling trickles down my spine.

He laughs obnoxiously, throwing his head back and bending at the knee.“Oh wow,” he finally says, regaining a fraction of his composure. “I think this might be the best day of my life, and it's all thanks to you Kalani! Come, let me show you what you did.”

I don't want to see anymore. I try to twist my arm free, but he holds me tighter, pulling me and twisting me to reveal the horror scene behind him.

A boy that looks to be in his mid-teens is crumpled on the floor, bleeding profusely from his shin. He's been shot. An older man lays in a motionless pile of blood stained clothes, and fake defiance. He's been shot twice. They're both soaked in fear. They sweat it. It pours out of their glossy, red eyes, drips from their noses, runs down their foreheads and wets them with salt. They're both frozen, caught with their hands in the cookie jar, and stare expectantly at Will.

“You dumb-asses moving around and shit?” says Will, pointing with the plunger handle.

The older one opens his mouth to speak.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He closes it again.

Will directs his attention back to me. “I want to thank you for your freakout performance earlier this morning! If it weren't for that, these two wouldn't be here.”

I don't see Will. I only watch the boy. He's stopped crying and is staring blankly into thin air. Everything I see, everything I hear, disgusts me.“You've been using me as bait... so you could shoot a kid?”

“Oh no, of course not. He's collateral damage. But as I was saying-”

“Collateral damage?”

“It's not my fault the guy was stupid enough to bring a kid with him, and it's not my fault the kid was stupid enough to come. Relax. I didn't kill him.”

The sick feeling warms, then boils into anger. He's not looking. I rear back and punch him in his nose with all my weight. He steps back, frazzled for a moment, then grips my throat in his hand. I clench from the pain.

“I said relax, not fucking sucker punch me. You're going to make me hurt you.”

I claw at his clenched hand, struggling for freedom. When he lets go I spit, cough, and wheeze for the air that I don't need to survive.

“You're acting like I'm the enemy. I'm not the fucking enemy. See that older one? He is absolutely obsessed with your people. He has an entire cult following that is obsessed with your people, which has a division that is obsessed with your mother. They're the ones that beat you. They tried to kill you. They tried to kidnap you.”

“So did you! And you did kidnap me. Then you watched me suffer. Why didn't you just tell me you were looking for someone? Why did you lie?”

Wills sighs, then relaxes back into his regular smiling self. In my peripherals, I see the young trespasser scooting, edging himself toward a gun on the staircase. A part of me hopes he makes it.

“I couldn't risk you leaving. Your personal feelings aren't worth losing the best chance I have at finding her.” He directs his attention to the boy. “I see you. Don't be stupid.”

“You're disgusting,” I spit.

“Says the chick who grew three fingers this morning.” He takes out his gun and put's it to my forehead.“I still need you.”

I look Will in his face. I've never noticed how desperate his eyes looked until now. His expression is reminiscent of the look his 'collateral damage' wears even now, as he inches toward a gun he'd do well to stay away from. On Wills face, its repugnant.

“You can't scare me with that. It wont kill me. You should know that by now.” I say, looking directly into his narrow eyes.

“I don't want to kill you, I want you to go to sleep for a while.”

He pulls the trigger.

I feel my body hit the floor. I hear him walk away. I try to move. I fail. I hear him return. I feel his touch, lifting my hand and isolating my left ring finger. There is a deep pain and I know that something is taken from me. I'm engulfed in a slow, creeping darkness, but I don't go to sleep.

The world becomes encased in an impenetrable darkness with an ear-splitting noise ricocheting near the crown of my head. Beneath it I can just barely hear the voices of Will and the older intruder, an occasional cry of pain, whimpering, sobbing, yelling... I can't make out any of what is said around the persistent, high-pitch ringing in my ears, but I easily understand. It's not hard to recognize torment, even if, for the most part, it's not exactly physical.

After the interrogation, I feel coarse hands tenderly wiping a warm liquid down the sides of my face. The result is stiff layer of dried blood, suffocating my skin, etching the scent of iron into my nose. He tilts my head back and forth with his thumb, causing it to bob from side to side limply with each movement as I feel his eyes, examining me with scrutiny.

I can just hear his baritone voice under the noise, saying something that sounds a lot like: Thank you.

I must be mistaken.

Will relocates me, lifting me and placing me in my usual spot in the bed... and leaving me to listen to the constant, maddening noise.

Hours pass.

 The ringing fades out just in time for me to catch the last minute or so of Will's mid-morning music session. The first words I hear are from yet another deep-voiced woman.

Now, a man is born to go a-lovin,

A woman's born to weep and fret...

If I could spit, I would.

Unfortunately, the darkness doesn't fade. I open my eyes wide and blink them and still see nothing, but am still glad my head has stopped hurting.

I have a sudden and strange feeling that an important part of me is returning to me, getting very close.

“Good morning, Kalani.”

It's just Will. I try to tell him to fuck off but my lips don't move. Instead, I make a sound blubbery spitting sound, air fills my cheeks and rushes out through vibrating lips.

“So you can hear me now! That's good, you're healing quickly.”

I flick a bird that he can't see under the sheets I've been wrapped in. I feel as if I've been made with the bed.

“I want to apologize. I know there are more, ethical ways to deal with these kind of situations and what I did to you wasn't fair, at all. And I would really like for us to work together in the future.”

If I could laugh, I'd be rolling right out of this sheet cocoon. How can he really think that I would be willing to be his 'partner' after all of this?

“There are a lot of people who would do worse if they could. You've seen it first hand: Those men who had you last time believed that you would 'bless them with immortality' if they killed you. There's a rumor that if all of the bones are broken at once, your kind can't regenerate. Obviously, either that's not true or they didn't do it right. If I was them, I would've just thrown you in the back of a garbage truck, the new kind that smash...”

I don't want to hear how he would've done it.

I tune out the details of all the way's my attackers were inefficient and 'collectively dumb-assed' and focus instead on the peculiar feeling that followed Will into the room. It's as if I have second pulse, beating to an entirely different rhythm. I listen to this rhythm and wonder if he is ever going to close his mouth.

He continues his speech.“They were nobodies who didn't know what they were doing. Not everyone you encounter is going to be like that. People will hunt you Kalani. There are myths about your immortality and desperate people will believe anything... They'll come for you first because you're new and easy to pray on.”

I wonder for a moment what he means by 'new,' then let it go. I've already accepted the fact that I've always been this way, I just wish I knew how. And why. And what exactly is this other me that I'm feeling in Wills direction.

“I can help you.”

By shooting me in the face?

“And I need you.”

And why should I care about that?

“ I hunt supernaturals and humans who affiliate themselves with them, which the witch hunters call anomalies. That's how I make my living and how I stay alive. But, here lately, I've been off doing my own thing, ignoring my obligations. It's entirely my own fault, I know, but if I don't kill twelve of them by the end of this year, I'll be branded anomaly and hunted my damn self. It's September.”

I notice the intense desperation in his voice as he say's the word 'September.' He pauses, letting his words sink in as he regains his composure and his pleasant tone.

“Kalani, where ever you go, they will come for you. They'll try to kill you. No matter where you are. If you stay with me, I will protect you. In the process, I save my own skin. It's a symbiotic relationship, everybody wins.”

He pauses, as if waiting for a response. I give him nothing.

“I don't want you to answer right now. I know it's hard to trust someone who shot you twice. And I know you feel manipulated. But try to put your feelings to the side for a moment and just think about it. Be practical.”

I hear his footstep as he walks towards the bathroom taking my second self with him, then a soft thud in the bathtub.

“I'll be downstairs if you need me,” he says before exiting the room. I wonder what he expects me to do with that information, being temporarily blind, mute, paralyzed, and strapped to a bed with aggressive tucking.

He closes the door behind me, leaving me alone with the heartbeat in the tub.

I don't see him for two days. In that time I regain sight to my right eye, and my movement returns completely... on the left side of my body.

My nights are sleepless. My thoughts are overtaken by the sounds of another pulse in the bathroom and the occasional bump in the bathtub ringing like a porcelain gong.

I stare at the ceiling, desperate to get my mind off of the noises, and watch a spider weave a thick, stringy web in the creases between several decorative tiles. It works busily until the room becomes orange with the sunset, and sits on its throne proudly, meaty black legs hanging free, as the room darkens into a deep blue. By nightfall I can no longer see him at all, but I have the feeling that he's not sitting like a king in his web anymore.

He is the least of my worries.

I learn to ignore my fear of the thing in the tub, just like I ignore Will in my thoughts, or the fact that there is a large, possibly poisonous, arachnid crawling around this room somewhere. I worry instead about my irrational attachment to the other pulse. How even now I want to be close to it. How at this very moment I want it, right here, beside me, comforting me.

The porcelain gong rings three times in succession, followed by the sloppy sound of skin slapping tile. My heart jumps. That's never happened before.

For a moment everything is silent. I fix my eyes towards the bathroom door, though it's entirely too dark to see that far.

After several minutes, I hear the door knob twist.

I frantically struggle to prop myself up with my left arm, but it benefits me nothing. Conceding defeat, I lay there in the darkness with my pulse throbbing in my ears, staring out into nothing, and waiting for something.

The seconds creep by as I hear the door slowly creak open.

I feel its eyes.

It comes, bursting through the doorway in an explosion of insanely fast-moving limbs. Before I realize it, its hand is gripping my sheets, pulling itself up. Mentally, I curse Will for tucking the sheets so tightly that they could be used this way. As it reveals it bald head I let out a terrified shriek that is instantly muffled by the creature's other hand.

“Shh-shh-shh-shh,” it whispers, as if coddling a crying baby.

I jerk my arm as the beginnings of my struggle to freedom but it expertly throws one of its short, lower limbs over it, easily cutting all of that short. I look down and notice that the creature has no feet, instead, its legs stop at rounded knee-like figures where a humans thigh would be.

“You're injured.” it says, touching my forehead at the place where the bullet entered with the hand it used to climb. “Head wounds are difficult to heal, but not so much that you should be in this state.” It's tone is soft and soothing, yet firm. It has the voice of a woman.

I kick my left leg against the bed, attempting to scoot myself up.

“No. Direct your energy to the point of affliction. Do the same for your thoughts. There is no reason you shouldn't be able to heal an injury like this within six hours, with minimal effort.”

I try to free my arm. She stops me with her thigh and presses her index finger into my forehead with added force.

“No. Focus,” she twists her finger from side to side. “All your energy goes here.”

I take a deep breathe and take her advice. I start at the place where her fingertip meet my skin and read the rocking motion. I go deeper, reading the tissue, the nerves, the disfigurement of the skull. I follow the path of the bullet and study the disordered brain matter. Everything is just slightly damaged and set out of place, as if forced into the nearest opening rather than set into its proper home. I go deeper, into the cells and force mitosis in order to replace the damaged cells, which I age until death. I continue this, as I listen to the being.

“We are spiritual beings. Our bodies are our vessels and our homes, and most peoples homes don't fix themselves. Yours does, but it does so mindlessly. It can make errors. It needs your mind. If you want your vessel to run properly, you must guide it's maintenance. If you want your home to be hospitable to you, you must make it so.”

I correct the damage to the optic nerve that had healed twisted, blocking the blood flow from my central retinal artery and forming a tumor-like bubble in the left side of my brain. Soon my sight and my mobility returns.

“See, that didn't take you but forty-five minutes.” She rolls from over me and lays peacefully beside me, propping her head up with her hand.

“Thank you,” I say as I rise, sliding out of the top of the tucked sheets, to cut on the lamp. It had never occurred to me that I should make an effort to heal myself. I just assumed that with time, my body would heal.

“I'm happy to be a help to you.” I can hear the smile in her voice as she speaks.

The connected feeling that I had before returns, and I know that this person is what I've been feeling for the past two days. As I click on the light and turn to face my company, I see exactly why.

There in the bed next to me is a naked, bald-headed me, smiling a toothy, dimply grin. We gasp in unison at the sight of each other. Hers comes with an expression of excitement. I don't know what my face is doing but I know it probably shows how confused I am.

“You're so beautiful!” she beams. “Do I really look like that too?”

I nod. “Yes, except for your dimples.”

She grins harder and put's a hand over her mouth to hide her over-enthusiasm. Still, it shines in her dark brown eyes.

“Who are you?” I ask.

For a moment her eyes widen and she waves her hands as if unsure what to do with them, before deciding to sit up, place both hands in her lap, and dipping her head as if addressing loyalty.

“ I am the daughter of your left ring finger.” Her goofy grin returns “I am so happy to be your first witi!”

I can't help but to grin right along with her, even though I don't know what she's talking about.

“My witi?”

She nods. “Yes, I am your child, your nurturer, your servant and I am you. But I am also different than you, because I will only regenerate once, and because I wasn't born from a womb like you were. When you are first born you grow into adult-like forms within the first day, but are unable to reproduce for many years later. I take several days to finish, but once I'm done, I'm done.”

I look down at her legs and notice that they both stop at the knee.

“You don't look done,” I say. She presses her lips together for a moment before responding.

“Yes. I came because you called me. No matter the circumstances, a witi must come when their wo'at mother calls.”

I think I give her a confused look. She responds by going into greater detail.

“You are wo'at, a very different people than all others on this planet because of your trans-generational memory. Unlike most species, your memory is encoded with your DNA, which is why you are born with language and other basic skills needed to survive. You are born with a block on several parts of this memory so that you can develop a strong sense of self. Once you decide that you are ready to know who and what you are, instinct will lead you to do things that may cause the loss off a limb or appendage. From these detached segments of the body, a witi will form, that's me. The witi has the ability to remove the blocks by telling them what they need to know to remember. We are separate beings from you, but barely.”

“So what do I need to hear to remember?” I ask, only half believing what I've just heard.

She lays there without answering for a while, popping her brows and twisting her lips with her tongue.“Before I tell you, I want you to name me,” she says finally.

“Enitan.” I say instantly.

A slow creeping smile spreads across her face. “Do you know what that means?”

I shake my head no.

“Yes, you do. You remember more than you think.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Get comfortable. Yours is an old, and very long story.”

In the beginning, the One True King created the earth and all the beasts thereof. He created them perfectly, giving them everything they needed to thrive in this world for many generations. He gave the buck the doe, the rooster the hen, the lion his lioness, and man the wo'at.

Of the men, were Manolo the Angry, Kayode the Kind, and Adam the Favorite. Of the wo'at were Nosipho of the Mind, Nizhoni of the Heart, and Kanda of Song.

The wo'at were then as they are now: powerful, intelligent, and nearly immortal. They could create life out of their blood and bones and they could heal there wounds. Because of this, the men were subjected to their superior strength, lacking the power that the wo'at had. This is until the One True King elected man to rule the earth. The wo'at resented this decision, but were obedient still.

Eventually, it was time for the men to choose there wives. Adam chose first because he was the favorite of the One True King, and married Kanda, instantly falling in love with her beautiful voice. Manolo, angry that his first choice was taken, did not choose. Instead he walked many miles to the icy mountains, trying to cool his boiling rage. Kayode the Kind picked Nizhoni, being drawn to her passion and zest for life. This left Nosipho of the Mind without a husband, and unable to reproduce.

After several months the wo'at got together to discuss there new lives.

“Kayode is a weak-hearted fool,” said Nizhoni. “Whenever I want to try to do something fun he stops me. If I dance he says,'Think of the ant's beneath your feet.' If I swim he says, 'Think of the fish you're scaring!' I will leave and find a superior man.”

“But there are no men to find, except for Angry Manolo, and he only has eyes for Kanda.” says Nosipho.

“I will find something better than a man,” says Nizhoni.

“Good luck,” say the other two.

Nizhoni leaves them and wonders the earth until she meets a demon called Buburu. She falls in love with his spontaneity and quickly beds the demon. Afterward, Buburu, who had promised to marry Nizhoni, gives her away to his demon brothers and friends. Nizhoni bares all of their children and becomes the mother of all of the peoples of the darkness.

Now Kayode is without a wife and wanting to have children. He asks Nosipho to marry.

She responds, “You drove Nizhoni away with your extreme and unreasonable desire to protect the animals that were born with the tools needed to protect themselves. You used your title to limit her and make her life miserable, which ran her into darkness. Why should you deserve another wife?”

Kayode answers, “Because my intentions were good. I always think of the feelings of others. If I had known how Nizhoni felt I would have treated her differently. If you become my wife, I will treat you differently. I will do all the things that will make you happy. You will not want to run away.”

Nizhoni responded,“I will marry you Kayode, but only if you keep to your word. You must promise with your heart that you will listen to what I say and do all the things that will make me happy.”

He does and Nosipho and Kayode marry. From these two, you and I are born, and all the wo'at and wo'at sons and all of their witi.

This is where our lives are born, but our trouble starts with Adam and Kanda.

Every day Kanda gathers food for their meals while Adam strolls around naming the creatures of the Earth. As she works, she sings with her soul about her loneliness and how dissatisfied she is with her life.

About this time, Korin, the angel of song, comes down to earth to speak with his former partner, Lucifer, the fallen angel of beautiful music, to try to convince him to apologize for his evil. One day, as Korin searches the earth for his old friend, he hears Kanda singing as she worked. He is drawn to her beautiful voice and becomes instantly infatuated.

Korin asks Kanda to marry, and she refuses. Yet, despite of everything they know is right, they bear many children.

Now, the One True King elects to send Michael, the angel of war to destroy Korin for his transgression. When his brother Tumaal, the angelic weapon forger, hears of this, he begs the King for a chance to convince his brother to repent. His wish is granted and he goes to earth to find Korin.

Once Korin hears from his brother that he can return home without punishment, he immediately does so and leaves Kanda with their many kids. She grieves, singing a song so terrible and lovely that it cuts into Tumaal's soul like a knife. Impressed by the power of Kanda's lyrics, Tumaal asks her to marry him. She refuses, but despite of everything they know to be wrong, they have many children.

Kanda becomes the mother of all other day-walking peoples, excluding wo'at and human.

Now, Adam comes home after naming all the birds in the sky, bearing a beautiful hummingbird as gift and sees Kanda alone with her flock of children. Distraught, he leaves her once more and walk to the garden of Eden to speak with The One True King.

He returns with a female of different sort. This female could not create life out of her blood and bones. She could not heal her wounds, and she would not live for hundreds of years after her husband's death. Most importantly, she did not intimidate man but was more closely related to them, being born of a man's rib. Adam named this creature woman, and named his wife Eve. From these are born all the humans of the earth.

“Man foresakes wo'at for woman, creating more humans and causing our people to nearly go into extinction. To this day there are still less than eighty wo'at alive. And this is after the many steps taken to ensure our survival.” Enitan says, concluding her story, or, at least I hope she is.

“After all that, I still don't remember anything,” I confess. And I don't see how this story relates to me specifically.

“Patience, is something you'll need to learn if you want to keep your sanity,” says Enitan, peering at me under raised brows. “There's no reason to rush. You have all the time in the world.”

After many years, Manolo the Angry returns from the icy mountains to be with his people. When he returns, he is shocked by what he finds, and turns to Nosipho of the Mind for an explanation.

“What are these abominations that walk the nights?” he demands.

“These are the children of Nizhoni of the Heart and Buburu and his demon kin.”

“And what are these monsters that cloak themselves in beauty?”

“These are the children of Kanda of Song, and the angels, Korin of Song and Tumaal the Armorer.”

“And who's witi is Adam married to? She doesn't look like any wo'at I've met.”

“Her name is Eve, and she is neither witi nor wo'at. She is a wo-man and is formed from Adam's own rib by The One True King. Their children are yet another people.”

Manolo takes a moment to consider everything he had just heard, then realizes the Nosipho and Kayode's children were the only wo'at people of this new generation “What will become of our people?”

“The wo'at will live indefinitely until they bear sons and lose their immortality. Yet, I fear that there will be no one for future generations to bear sons with. We will live long, torturous lives with no hope of rest, as our men assimilate themselves with the human population, never happy, and never quite fitting in.”

“Why should such horrible things happen to your children? I am here now. I can save your daughters from this fate.”

“And why should I let such a pitiful creature as yourself near any of my daughters? When things don't go your way you run off to the mountain to sulk like a cowardly fool. Why should I believe that you won't desert my daughter like you deserted us? I will never allow any child of mine to marry a childish, selfish, imbecile.”

“It's true that I acted selfishly back then. I apologize. I was younger than my years. I only suggested what I did because I care about our people and I want us to thrive. Please don't refuse.”

Nosipho is moved by his words and says, “You are not the man you were when you left. Manolo the Angry would have been deeply wounded by my insults and lost his temper. He, will never come near any child of mine or, the True King help us all. You, Manolo the Earnest, can meet my children, and if any of them will have you, you can marry. This is only if you prove to Kayode and I that you are harmless and dependable.”

“Kalani, what does it take for a wo'at to die?”

I furrow my brows, not quite understanding why she would be asking me this, when she's the one who knows everything. Still, I give her my best answer.

“Two ways: we lose our ability to heal ourselves quickly after having a male son. When this happens we can die from illness, accident or by being killed. The other way is if our bodies are completely incinerated and our ashes mixed into something else. Like if I was cremated and made into a vase, or if my ashes were poured into the ocean.”

Enitan smiles her slow, creeping grin once more, and I realize that I knew this without ever being told.

Now, Nosipho and Kayode have seven children together, four daughters and three sons.

Of the daughters were Maiara of Wisdom, Yejide of Compassion, Treasa of Strength and Zyanya of the Long Lasting Life, in that order. Of the sons were Shi the Honest, Citlali the Gorgeous, and Sipho the Gentle, in that order.

Nosipho gather her husband and children and presents Manolo the Earnest, so that they can all discuss the future of their people.

“I am repulsed at the thought of wedding a niece,” says Shi, the second born of all the children. “And I don't care how dire the situation is for our people. Why should this generation have to commit abominations because the previous one did?”

“If this is how you feel, then leave. This meeting is not for you.” says Maiara, the eldest.

Yejide of Compassion, the third born, feels sympathy for her eldest brother and questions her sisters words.

“Why should Shi be isolated from his family as we discuss the future of our people?”

“His words are true, but his attitude is sickness. We cannot afford for it to spread to the rest of this family.”

“So you mean to make your siblings ignorant, mindless sheep?” asks Shi, feeling contrary.

Maiara ignores his nasty comment and explains her thoughts in greater detail.

“It is true that our situation was caused by the carelessness of our predecessors and that it is not our job to correct their mistakes. However, it is our duty to learn from their mistakes and become an example for the next generation, whether we be an inspiration, or an example of what not to do. What good are we if we are careless, like the last generation? What can our children learn from their history that we didn't already know? If the actions we are planning are wicked, as I hope they are not, at the very least they are different, so that our offspring will know ahead of time to not do as we did.”

Shi is not impressed by her words, “I will one day be a proud uncle of beautiful wo'at children, but never the father of one if this is what it takes.”

“I respect your decision, now leave. If that is how you truly feel then this is not a meeting for you.”

Shi leaves, marries a human woman and has many children, all daughters.

“This means all of his children had the wo'at 9 chromosome as well as the human X. chromosome, so they still had the possibility of birthing wo'at.” I blurt, interrupting without thinking.

“Yes, and they do, also spreading the 9 chromosome to their children who then also have the possibility to birth wo'at,” says Enitan, seeming to not mind my rudeness. “There are several humans with wo'at genes and several cases of wo'at being born of woman. But there was one problem with that.”

I nod, understanding that the humans who birth these kind of wo'at usually don't know what they are. They often try to kill them, calling them witches or devils. This thought reminds me of something Enitan said in her story: 'We will live long, torturous lives with no hope of rest...' For many the pain starts at birth. I'm not the only one.

“We should take a break and start again in the morning,” says Enitan, sliding under the covers and pulling them over her face. She looks utterly exhausted. It shows all over her slumped body as she lies there like a lifeless heap.

I slide over to give her a little more space and lay there in the lighted room, and wait for morning... and Will's awkward piano-playing.

He says he wants a symbiotic relationship. I can do that. But there's something I need in return

For the time since I've been here I wake up before Will, disturbed by a sick feeling in my gut. I roll over to see my own peacefully sleeping face drooling on the pillow beside me. I wonder for a moment if drooling is something Enitan and I have in common, or is it like her dimples, a unique variation.

I hope it's the latter.

As I open the blinds to let in the soft, early-morning sunlight, I notice a river of small animals flowing towards the house. My skin crawls at the sight of it. The sick feeling intensifies as I run to check the french doors on the other end of the room. Something is terribly wrong. I quickly make my destination and see that the flow continues in the same direction, breaking into smaller streams and disappearing into the woods. I cringe as a frantic buck bounds through the stampede, squishing several unfortunate rats and lizards.

I find myself running down the stairs, with no clear objective, and find Will sitting quietly, cloth in hand, on the couch with a large weapon I can't identify layed in his lap. He sees me looking at it and simply says:

“Maintenance.” He continues with a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I see you're not a vegetable anymore. Congratulations.”

“Good morning to you too, asshole.” I glare at him and make my way to the large, tinted window in front of him.

“I heard you talking last night. I hope you weren't too distracted to think about what I asked you.”

I don’t answer his question. Instead I open the curtain and motion to the chaos outside.

“What in the hell is this?” I ask.

“Hell itself, coming for you,” he says in an exaggerated and falsely spooky voice. He finishes it with a campy, villainous laugh. His eyes are completely joyless, even as he teases.

“Don't fuck with me right now.”

He answers me with a pearly smile. I'm not impressed.

“What is it?” I repeat, shaking my hand as I point once more.

He laughs, his obnoxious laugh and claps his hands together as I glower at him through squinted eyes. “Everybody wants a piece of you, Kalani, and there's the proof. Remember what I said to you?”

I drag my hands down my face.“Where ever I go, they will come for me and try to kill me, right? I got that. What I'm trying to figure out is why are their animals running all around this house?”

“Banshee. Class angelus cecidissent.” says Will, firing his words in an unusually flat tone. “Carnivorous and cannibalistic. Man-eating. Race, unknown.”

He picks up his usual tone as he continues, “We have a little time, but not much. She'll be here in about fifty two hours, but I'd rather meet her in the woods than let her make it all the way. I don't want to have to get new windows.”

He pats the seat to the left of him, motioning for me to sit next to him. I refuse and continue to stand.

“Now, about my proposition?” he asks, dryly.

I nod. I'm obviously not going to get a real explanation out of him, and it's not worth the trouble.

“I am willing to stay with you, but there are some conditions?”

He squints his already narrow eyes and raises a curious brow.

I continue, “First, I can't just be stuck here like I've been, you have to go where I go.”

He shrugs.

“I don't know where you think you'd be going, it's not like you have anything to do but ok. What else?”

“I want your skills.”

He chuckles,“I can't just give them to you.”

“You can teach me.”

“I can't teach you in three months what it took me years to learn.”

“Then get used to me.”

He shakes his head with raised brows.“I'm not interested in a long term relationship.”

“I could just leave.”

He shrugs. “ I could just follow you. I could just lock you in my shed.”

“What if I told you that I know that you're looking for someone important?” I say, referring to the anonymous 'her' he'd mentioned days before.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Will says, faking nonchalance, but I notice that he has become stiff. I'm making hm uncomfortable.

“That's how I know you'll end up in this same place next year. I highly doubt that you're the kind of person to procrastinate on something so important you'd die if you didn't do it-”

“I highly doubt that you have a clue as to what kind of person I actually am.” he hisses.

“Don't cut me off.”

For a moment his expression becomes violent, but he quickly settles back into his usual soft smile. He looks at me expectantly, narrow eyes gleaming.

“So what's the plan? You go back to searching for her and neglect your witch-hunter job again, which we both know you will do, and run out of time. Again. But this time, there'll be no me laying vulnerable in a ditch. You'll be stuck in this exact same position with no one to help you. Or you can just agree to train me, and protect me, at least until you find what you're looking for. Then you won't have to worry about a quotia.”

He chuckles once more, eyes glowing with mischief. “Awww how cute, she wants to get smart all of a sudden.”

I consciously ignore his fuckery. “Make a choice.”

Will makes an expression that I can't read.“I'll do it.”

“Good.”

I move to make my exit. He rises and cuts me off as I pass in front of the TV, arms extended as if asking for a hug.

“I think we're done here,” I say, then attempt to step around him. He grabs my arm and leans in close, close enough to kiss.

“If I wanted, I could've kept you here, unconscious, with a wire running through your brain. I didn't.” He loosens his grip and I jerk away. Our eyes meet, and I see the sadness, the remnant of suffering, emanating from them. “I didn't. Remember that.”

“One more thing.” I say, lifting my chin as I sweep his hand off of me.

He smirks, “I thought we were done.”

“If you hurt me again, or allow me to be hurt again, the deal is off. If you threaten me again,-”

“When have I ever threatened you?” he interrupts, shoulders lifted feigning confusion.

“If you threaten me again,” I repeat, louder this time, “I will stab you in your sleep.”

We lock eyes for a brief moment before bursts into laughter.

I watch him blankly as he doubles over for no real reason. I've already gotten used to this.

“OK.” he says, once he catches his breath. “OK. Hmm”

He sticks out his hand to shake and I seal the deal with the devil.

He continues with a gleam in his eye. “I won't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you. But I keep my right to say what I want.”

I snatch my hand away and walk towards the stairs. “That wasn't the deal.”

“Compromise!”

o.O.o.

After much deliberation, Citlali the Gorgeous, the middle child, finally speaks up.

“It will be many years before any of your children will be of age. I am willing to wed whoever for the future of my people, but not exclusively. I have beautiful damsels born of angels who love me hopelessly. They write me songs and cook me great meals. I have titillating dames born of demons who want me grievously. They hunt the beast that make my meals and clothing, and they mark themselves with symbols of my name.”

“Do as you will,” says Nosipho of the Mind, the mother of all wo'at,“But do so with caution. Remember that the only difference between a fallen angel and a demon is the curse of darkness that prevents the latter from entering the light. With the spirit of The One True King withdrawn from them, they are driven only by there desires, whether they be progressive or detrimental. Whether these desires are holy or evil. Their devotion today doesn't mean they won't desert you tomorrow. And they may feed you one day, but that doesn't mean they wont eat you the next.”

After many years, Manolo the Earnest proves himself to Kayode the Kind and his wife, Nosipho of the Mind and all of the daughters wed him, excluding Zyanya of the Long Lasting Life. You and I differ than most other wo'at. We are born form the line of Zyanya of the Long Lasting Life, who watched for thousand of years as the world changed in millions of ways before ever having a single child. She lived from the days where mist covered the earth, fought in the days where the world was ruled by evil, and swam in the water of the Great Flood. Only after the earth dried and the sons of Noah repopulated the earth, did she have a child. This was your grandfather Khalid.

The smell of soot and pancakes fills my nose while Enitan tells her long story and Will makes a valiant effort in the kitchen. I can't stand to look at her right now, dressed in another one of Wills cheater shirts. She looks like a bald reflection of me. A reflection that carries hairlessness very well, but has a habit of randomly grinning at me and telling me how beautiful 'we' are. I'll have to talk to her about that later.

I look out the window to avoid her gaze and see that the river of terrified wildlife has slowed down just slightly.

“You've stopped listening,” says Enitan, sounding just a tiny bit hurt. “We should take a break.”

“Good, she needs to focus on the present for a minute,” says Will, as he scrapes up a still-wet pancake to flip. “She has a banshee to fight in two days.”

“What? That's insane,” I say, finally looking away from the window.

“You want to learn, you'll learn by doing.” He smashes the pancake with his spatula. “That's how I learned.”

I watch as he picks a scrunched, rubbery looking thing out of his pan with his fingers and plops it on his 'finished' plate.

I wonder how did he learn? Was their like some sort of witch hunting school? I imagine a round face, almond-toned young boy squinting his eyes at a pile of papers in a class room full of other young students.

“How did you get into something like witch-hunting?” I ask.

“I was raised and home-schooled by a sprig, or witi as you people call it. For the most part it was me and her, Will and Nine, and I never thought anything of it. I was happy. And I really loved my life. I was sort of a mama's boy. You couldn't see one of us without the other. Ever.”

“I bet.”

“I was just turning nine when everything started. Phakade came here to see my mother Nine, short for NineFourtyTwo, because she's Phakade's nine-hundredth and forty-second sprig.”

He stops fussing over his pancakes to look me in the eye. “If you didn't know, Phakade is the most sought out of your people, being the oldest living wo'at and from the fourth generation of your people. People call her The Last Founder, considering her to be one of the founders of your race, and think that she has godlike powers.” he turns to poor more batter in the pan, spilling a little on the stove “Many worship her as a diety and a goddess. They stalk her and build bases everywhere where they know she has a sprig. The witch hunters follow them.

“Once she came to visit, her worshipers moved nearby, and the witch-hunters came. Not long after that, the witch hunters broke in the house, and took me out of my bed. They whipped me, spat on me, and called me a traitor to the human race, made my mother watch it all. Then, they gave me a choice: I could work for them and prove my loyalty to the human race, or they'd kill us both.” His eyes become distant.“I killed my first anomaly the next day. It was a human man, accused of having a werecat lover... I knifed him.”

Will tells me where to find everything I need, and tells us to leave whenever we're ready, as long as we leave enough time to be finished by sundown. He promises to be close behind. I'm not completely sure that I believe him, but I'm hopeful. Worst come to worst, I'll get my ass kicked, he won't help, and I'll leave him here to deal with his own problems. He might be able to keep me prisoner if he wants, but he'll have to get me first, and I won't make it easy for him. Or at least, I hope I won't.
As we walk through the woods, looking for the banshee, Enitan continues her long story.

Now, with the rage the True King felt for Adam, the land became barren and all people worked to produce the fruit of the Earth. However, there came a time that no matter how hard they worked, the land gave no fruit nor vegetable for the people to eat.
One day Citlali, feeling the pain of hunger, decided to visit one of his admirers for dinner. He looked up at the angry sun and decided to visit Nizhoni's seven demon daughters, and travel by the light of the moon. Nizhoni's daughters are: Wrathful Ibinu, Greedy Yoku and Gluttonous Lōlupatā. When he arrived, they were waiting for him.
“Hello, my darlings. I've come to share meat with you,” he says.
“Share with us? Do you mean that you've finally hunted meat and have come to make our meals for once, or did you come to continue to be a parasite?” says Ibinu, angered by the pain of hunger.
Citlali is puzzled, for he had come the day before and was fed, and the girls were happy to see him.
Before he could respond, Yoku speaks up, “We have given you everything we could for many years. It's time for you to give something back.”
“But I have nothing at all to give. All I have are the clothes that you've given me and my own flesh.”
Lōlupatā examines his flesh and licks her lips. “I have tasted the meat of frogs and lions, pythons and flamingos, but I've never eaten the body of a man.”
“Citlali! Give us your left arm to make into a stew,” Yoku demands.
Citlali is deeply wounded by the demands made by the half-demon sisters, and firmly refuses.
Ibinu, angered by Citlali's response, attacks first, ripping a large chunk out of his shoulder. She gives the chunk to her sisters and they all eat.
Citlali is made to run for his life, as the taste of fresh blood makes the half-demons ravenous. They chase Citlali for more until daybreak, when they are forced to take refuge in the shadows.
Citlali then goes to take refuge with Kanda's angel daughters, Primanka the Bait, and Sumira the Hook, thinking they would tend his wounds and maybe cook him a nice meal. When he arrives they are waiting for him.
Upon seeing him in his state, Sumira asks,“What is that wound on your shoulder?”
He answers, “The demon daughters of Nizhoni have attacked me. They ate of my flesh.”
The half-angel sisters hear this and become very jealous. They had known Citlali for just as long, and given him just as much as the demons, but the demons had gotten to have a piece of him that the angels never had.
Sumira, fueled by her jealousy, slashes his injured arm into many pieces for her and her sister to eat. Citlali flees as they slow roast, then devour his flesh. The sisters enjoy the taste, and go to find Citlali for more, once they are done.
Now with only one arm, Citlali runs until he finds the place where many humans have settled, the grandchildren of Adam and Eve. They see his wounds, and show compassion for Citlali by tending to his arm stub and hiding him amongst them.
By the time night falls, all of the peoples of the fallen angels surround the camp, wanting to taste the unique flavor they had heard about. The peoples of darkness follow close behind, driven by a ravenous hunger and blood lust. They tell the humans to present Citlali, or they would kill all the humans in the vicinity, but as the humans go to the place where they had hidden him, they see that Citlali has run away, yet again, leaving them to face the monsters alone.
Wrathful Ibinu punishes the humans by tearing the ear of their leader. Motivated by her hunger, she eats the human flesh, and becomes instantly addicted.
That night, the carnivorous peoples of the earth feast on one sixth of the human population, This becomes the largest feeding frenzy in history. From this day forward, the humans were prey to these creatures. Their lives were uncertain, so their actions resembled those of the peoples that hunted them, selfish and wicked. The world became hell for all creatures: the humans who could never rest in peace, the carnivorous peoples who were ruled by their addiction, and the wo'at who were tormented with constant scenes of horror.
So the world is until The One True King releases the first rain.

As the world becomes tinted with a soft orange, I wonder if I should have left a bit earlier, but unfortunately, it's too late to change that. I breath deep. Will should be close, though I'm not sure if I should count on him.
Enitan and I step high, navigating thick patches of tall grass and leafy foliage. The parasitic vine, that covers nearly every part of the woods with a thick, inhospitable blanket, rocks gently with the breeze, giving it the effect of one giant breathing creature, inhaling and exhaling, and patiently waiting to swallow us both up. We trek through the woods alone, but armed, walking against the flow of steady marching insects. I notice Enitan clutching her elbows tightly and occasionally flinching as she walks.
"Are you OK?" I ask. She makes a thin whimpering sound, and turns her head to both sides. I take that as a no. "Are you afraid of bugs?"
"No," she says in a wobbly voice. "I just don't want them to touch me."
Her wide-eyes and nervous movements tell me otherwise.
“You know you don't have to come."
She responds with a flat expression, as if she is insulted that I would even suggest that to her.

“Is it odd,” she says “ that he would send you to hunt a banshee for experience, when he told us that his first experience was a human?”
My heart pounds in my chest as I'm reminded that I'm hunting a monster. I breathe deep to quell the fear, and review what I was told.
Banshee are both psychic and empathic. Some can see your pasts, others see your future, some will look right into your mind. They are known to use this to confuse or distract their victims, so don't listen to anything it say's about you. This one has the cannibal's curse. When a banshee eats another banshee, it emits an aura that scares the shit out of other creatures. This helps other banshee to avoid the cannibal one, and makes it really easy for me to find it.
All I have to do is follow the trail of migrating bugs.

I fill my lungs with moist, stagnant air and hold it there, enjoying the sensation in my chest. I'd asked myself that same question before ever stepping foot in these woods. Yes. It was odd. And thrilling.
I get a cold, churning sensation in my stomach. I look over at Enitan as she gazes expectantly ahead and her grim expression tells me that she feels it too. The constant screech of cicadas has stopped, making the space eerily silent except for the rustling leaves of the vine blankets. We stop simultaneously.
I begin to hear a faint voice in the distance, a young girl singing in a language I can't understand.
The bugs become frantic darting away from the sound, making a mad dash towards safety, towards us. Fields of roaches, spiders, ants, and a few bugs that I've never seen before, scatter, running away from the sound, scampering across the vine, around trees and shortly, over our feet as they begin to crawl up, rather than around. I hear a blood curdling shriek and look over just in time to see the heel of a boot and the hem of a shirt waving behind Enitan as she vanishes down the path we took to get here.

I brush a particularly juicy insect off of my shoulder, and snort a collection of ant-sized, winged creatures out of my nose.
The child’s voice gets louder. She's getting closer.
I shudder as something crunchy crawls over my lips. I immediately attempt to cover all the places where something could creep in to.
The voice becomes even more clear. She's definitely approaching.
I can't keep standing here with my lips rolled in, my eyes closed and my nose pinched until she comes. I have to move. Now.
I run full speed, toward the sound, smashing insects under my feet, until coming to a clearing in the woods and slowing to a stop, then brush and shake the remaining insects off me.

I realize that Enitans screams have become fainter.

“ENITAN!” I shriek, panicked. I turn back to get her, heart racing, legs numb. “ENITAN!” I should have went with her, not in the other direction. Now we are separated.

I chase her voice down the path, then off the path; its sometimes ahead of me, others to the right and other times behind. I call her name and chase her voice until the woods become completely silent.

My surroundings have changed. The trees are taller and closer together, the vines are more sparse, the ground is soft, covered in dead leaves that had been there so long they they are turning into soil. I am lost.

What should I do? What can I do? How did I let this happen to myself? Where is Enitan?

The singing that Enitan and I heard before has returned. This time, it's vibrant and clear. A youthful voice lined with brass.

“Who's there?” I say, turning towards the sound. There is no one there. “Come out!”

I feel eyes on me and spin myself around quickly, almost frantically, to see who they belong to.

Two tall, identical women walk briskly in my direction, one slightly behind the other. The woman in the front walks gracefully, taking long, purposeful strides, as her slightly curvier counterpart strains to keep up, carrying a very long bag as if it was a baby. The slimmer woman’s thick locks have been twisted forward to the crown of her head and pooled into a crooked pile of hair, and yet, every aspect of her appears flawless: her ill fitting khaki's, and ragged sandals, the well defined cheekbones one her long, ovular face, her scowling eyes, her gaudy gold necklace. She looks back occasionally, observing her equally gorgeous partner as she hobbles along, the edges of her hair freeing themselves from her puffy bun, making a dark halo around her face. I flinch as they get near, but neither woman seems to notice me. Instead they walk right by.

The lady with the locs turns suddenly. Her partner and I freeze.

“You're slow,” she says, speaking lazily, as if she was bored with the entire world, and has always known all of it's secrets. Yet she speaks with authority and confidence and her stern eyes pierce her companion as if she were her enemy.

In a voice that reminds me of trickling water, her partner responds,“I know Miss Phakade, but the weight,-”

“I told you, if she got too heavy, drop her.” Phakade says wearily.

“I can handle it-”

“Drop her. She can survive. You can't, and I need your mind. She'll serve me best by taking my place.”

The voice of a child enters my thoughts: Your mother didn't even want to bother with you. You should give up your life. No one cares about you.

The willowy, russet-brown woman, no, she was most likely a witi, stands motionless for several seconds, unresponsive to the order she had just been given. Finally she asks, “But what about her? She's a child.”

Phakade quirks her head to the side, lips curved into a humorless smirk.

“Did raising that murdering human boy make you forget what you are, Nine Forty-Two?” She spits those last words as if they are a curse.

The larger woman shakes her head no, a defiant look still burning in her eyes.

“Then don't ask me questions. Just do as I say.”

The woman stares at the lady in front of her for a moment, then makes a show of slowly lowering the bag to the floor. “Will she get hurt,” she asks, despite of Phakade's ban on inquiries.

“Did you put her in my robes like I told you?”

“Yes.”

“There's your answer.”

She turns and continues her stride. Nine falters a bit, then follows the one she serves.

I shouldn't be witnessing any of this right now. In fact, I know I'm not. Not really. It’s just, somehow, I managed to go to my past. Or, rather, she managed to take me.

I remind myself of what I'd learned, some banshee can see the past and they can use this to distract there opponents. I don't know why I wasn't warned about hallucinations, but here I am hallucinating.

I have to find a way out of this.