The Dream Where the Losers Go (21 page)

S
KEY HAD NEVER
heard such silence. Lying on the floor of the small padded room, she let her arms splay outward
and floated on absolute weariness. For the moment she felt oddly safe, as if something, some terrifying undefined
thing
that had lived deep within her, had finally been released. With that release came a kind of knowing, an understanding of where she would find her missing part. Returning in her mind to look at the cabin bedroom, Skey saw her lost part still lying on the bed. Above her head, close to the ceiling, was a glowing tunnel of light that traveled through the room, then on into the wall and what lay beyond it. Below the tunnel of light, at floor level, traveled a parallel dark tunnel—two alternate dimensions, one of bright mind-searing terror, the other of night-blind forgetting and safety.

So this was where she had first found the tunnels, thought Skey, staring at them—here in the cabin bedroom, during the rape or after, while she had lain alone, unconscious. The tunnels had been ways to escape, ways to forget what had been too difficult to remember. At the same time, they had become dimensions of searching for what had been lost. Losers were people who had lost something. The tunnels of darkness and light had always existed, they would always be there for the losers who needed them. The tunnels were dreams where losers could go.

In her mind, Skey reached out. Stepping into the memory of that cabin bedroom, she walked over to the bed and took the hands of the naked girl who lay there.

“I love you,” she said quietly. “I’ve come to take you home.”

The girl sat up. Slowly their arms slipped around one another, Skey and her lost part pulling each other close. Closer. Then, like the taking in of breath, the other girl slipped into Skey, and they were one.

“H
OW ARE YOU
feeling?” asked a voice. Looking up from her position on the floor, Skey saw Terry standing in the unlocked doorway.

“Terry?” she said, squinting at the staff. “Turn out the light, would you?”

“I need to be able to see you,” said Terry.

“There’s light from the hall,” said Skey. “I can talk better in the dark.”

Terry hesitated, then switched off the light. “Where would you like me to be?” she asked. “Would you be more comfortable if I stayed here in the doorway?”

“You can come in,” said Skey.

Quietly Terry entered and sat down beside her. With a groan, Skey sat up and leaned against the wall. She was so tired. Dizziness lifted heavy wings in her head and flew off slowly.

“Terry,” whispered Skey, her eyes closed. “I want to be somebody.”

“You are,” Terry whispered back.

“No,” said Skey. “I’m a thing. A machine. When they did that to me, I didn’t want it. I wanted Jigger, but I didn’t want the rest. But it didn’t matter. It was the dragon’s claw, and I still turned on.” Skey stumbled over her words, frightened at their hugeness. “I’m a thing,” she repeated, her face twisting. “A
thing
.”

“Skey,” Terry said slowly. “Are you talking about a rape?”

Skey nodded once.

“A gang rape?” asked Terry.

Skey’s breathing snagged. She nodded again.

“And you had an orgasm?” asked Terry.

“Yes,” Skey whispered.

Terry touched her arm. “That happens to many girls and women who are raped,” she said gently. “It doesn’t mean you wanted to be raped.”

Within Skey, something opened—hope, the possibility of being human. “Then, why does it happen?” she asked, opening her eyes.

“Your body wants to give life,” said Terry. “That’s why it gives you orgasms. The body wants to make sex pleasurable so you’ll conceive a child, but it doesn’t always know the difference between making love and rape. It just wants to make sure you keep going until you’ve conceived, so it gives you pleasure.”

“I was with my boyfriend first,” said Skey. “Then the others came in.”

“Makes even more sense,” Terry said firmly. “You were probably in a state of arousal before it happened.”

She’s all wet and ready,
Skey remembered, her mouth trembling.
You’ll slide in easy.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I was.”

“You weren’t responding like a machine,” said Terry. “You responded to your boyfriend. Then the others came in.”

Behind Terry’s back, the light from the doorway was fading, the room around them going dark.
Too much
, Skey thought wearily. She needed to retreat into the dark tunnel again and rest.

“Skey,” called Terry, but already Skey could feel Lick’s presence materializing beside her in the dark.

“Weird,” he said. “I can see a blue-green glow when you first come in.”

“First day of a bruise?” she asked.

“Morning on the ocean,” he replied. “Beautiful.”

In the distance, she could hear Terry call her name a second time. Putting out a hand, she touched the tunnel wall and found a long thin wave with sharp nicks.

“Skey,” Terry called again.

“Can you hear her?” she asked, turning to Lick. “Can you hear her calling?”

“Hear who?” he asked.

“Terry,” said Skey, turning back to the staff on her other side. “We’re in the dark now. Can you feel it?”

“Wherever you are, I’m with you,” said Terry.

“The carvings,” said Skey. “I want you to feel the carvings.” Reaching out, she fumbled for Terry’s hand, then guided it along the carving, tracing the full length of the wave.

“Can you feel it?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Terry.

“It’s a scream,” said Skey. “My own scream. It hurts.”

Around her the darkness began to fade, taking Lick with it. In its place, the padded room and doorway of light reappeared, and she saw that she continued to sit beside Terry, between the dark and the light—enough light to see by, enough darkness to keep them safe. In her hand, she still held Terry’s, and now she noticed that she was gently moving the woman’s fingertips across one of the scars on her left forearm.

Carvings,
Skey thought in astonishment.
Scars. Stories in the tunnel wall, stories in my skin.

With a gasp, she dropped Terry’s hand and ran her own fingertips across the scar, feeling it carefully, then shifted her fingertips to the other scars on her left forearm. Beneath her touch, they hurt with fresh pain, jagged and deep as if they had just been cut. Cradling her arms against her stomach, Skey began to rock.

“How’s Ann?” she asked.

“Ann will be fine,” said Terry.

“Sorry about the wall,” said Skey. “My parents will pay for it.”

“We’ll work something out,” said Terry.

“Will I go to the detention center?” asked Skey.

“No,” Terry said firmly. “It wasn’t a riot, Skey. Ann might have been dead, if it wasn’t for you.”

“I didn’t want her to have any scars,” said Skey. “I didn’t know she was cutting her throat.”

“She was,” said Terry. “And you stopped her.”

With a sigh, Skey crawled onto Terry’s lap and burrowed her face in the woman’s neck. “I stopped her,” she whispered.

Terry’s arms came around her, and they rocked.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

S
IDE BY SIDE
, Skey and Terry walked up the front steps of a small bungalow. From inside the door came a mad scrabbling of paws and a furious yapping. Seconds later the door opened, and they were greeted by a ferocious growling Corgi.

“Shh, Microbe,” said Lick’s mother, pushing back the dog with her foot.

“Microbe!” said Skey, staring at the animal.

“My son named him,” Lick’s mother said apologetically. She glanced at Skey and her eyes widened. “You’re the girl in the hall,” she said. “When I came to get him at school that day...”

“Yes,” said Skey.

“And you think you can help him?” asked Lick’s mother.

“I hope so,” said Skey.

Stepping inside, she scanned the thin red-haired woman standing before her, the mother who hadn’t believed her youngest son for twelve years, then had believed him absolutely. In spite of what Skey had recently told her own
mother, Mrs. Mitchell was still saying, “But Jigger’s such a
nice
boy. His father owns Full Circle Real Estate.”

T
HE COURT HEARINGS
were over, and the trial dates set. Skey’s statement about the two assaults—the physical one against Lick and the sexual one against herself—had put the four male Dragons into the youth detention center, where they would remain until their trials. Lick still hadn’t given his statement, but that wasn’t the primary reason Skey had decided to visit him. No, the real reason she had come here today was because she needed him. Here, in the real world, where he belonged. Where both sides of himself belonged.

“He’s still not talking,” his mother said warningly. “Just sits in his room, saying nothing.”

“Can I go in?” asked Skey.

Ms. Serkowski nodded.

“Alone?” asked Skey.

Lick’s mother glanced at Terry, who nodded. Leaving them in the front hall, Skey walked down a short hall that Ms. Serkowski had pointed out, then stopped at the first open doorway. Glancing through it, she saw that the walls were plastered with posters, but the room was deadly clean, obviously taken care of by a mother. Lick hadn’t been here in a long time. Sitting on the bed, she could see the boy from the tunnel, his eyes closed as he whispered to himself. Quietly Skey stood in the doorway, listening. Yes, it was still the same code—a long string of swear words, meticulously phrased.

“I’m here,” she said finally.

“It’s you,” said the boy. Smiling, he turned his face toward her. The bruises and black eye had faded, and the scrape scab on his left cheek was beginning to lift at the
edges. Eyes still closed, he turned his head, following her movements as she pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Yes,” said Skey. “I’m the girl with the carvings.”

“You’ve been gone a long time,” he said.

“But I’ve come back,” she said.

“I was trying to feel for your carvings,” he said, frowning. “It got so quiet, I thought I’d make up some stories for myself. But I couldn’t find any ideas in the walls. Nothing.”

“They were just there for me,” she said. “Only I could feel them.”

“I’m in a weird dream now,” he said. “I don’t like it. I want to go back to the tunnel, but I don’t know how.”

“I think I have a solution,” Skey said carefully.

“You do?” asked the boy. He straightened, and she watched the thoughts run across his face.

“Remember,” she said, “how I always came and went? I was traveling between the dark tunnel and here, the dream you’re in now. I want to see if I can show you how to do it.” Slowly she took the rock out of her pocket.

“Finally,” said the boy. “I’ve been waiting for a millennium. There’s this woman who sticks to me like some kind of disease. She’ll be upset if I go.”

“She’ll be all right,” said Skey.

The boy’s body settled, as if getting ready for a long ride. “So,” he said, “how do we get there?”

Everything in Skey paused, hoping. Quietly she said, “I need to hold your hand.”

The boy’s face leapt in fear. “No way,” he said, sliding away from her on the bed. “No touching.”

“Why?” asked Skey.

“It’ll bring them back,” he said. “They’ll come back and get me again.”

“Who will come back?” she asked. “I thought you forgot everything.”

“I don’t know who they are,” he said. “I just know they come close when someone touches me. Hands. Invisible hands.” He shuddered, turning his face left, then right, scanning the darkness behind his closed eyes.

“There are different kinds of touching,” said Skey. “There’s the dragon’s claw.”

The boy nodded fiercely.

“And there’s me,” said Skey. “Just me, holding your hand.”

He grimaced, then said hesitantly, “Just my hand?”

“Just your hand,” said Skey. “It’s the only way I can take you there.”

She watched his face struggle between no and yes. How familiar this was to her—being swamped in fear and not knowing why. Fear was so much bigger when you didn’t know why.

“It’s the way to discover your own story,” she said. “All the time you were traveling the dark tunnel, you were looking for something. Searching and searching to understand why.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“This will help you find it,” she said.

His face twisted, the pain acute. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Skey, “you can.” Carefully she stretched out a hand, the rock in her palm. “My hand is in front of you,” she said softly. “You just have to reach out a little.”

“Just a little,” the boy whispered. She watched his hand tremble, reach forward and pull back. Then, with a small grunt, the boy pushed his hand forward a second time. Swiftly Skey slid her hand under his, and together their hands closed around the rock.

“What’s this?” asked the boy in surprise.

“It’s a rock,” said Skey. “I found it in the tunnel the first time I heard you.”

“I thought it was from there,” smiled the boy. “I can feel it.”

“Now you have to wait a minute,” said Skey. “I’m going to go away for a bit, but then I’ll come back.”

“Just a bit?” asked the boy.

“Just a bit,” said Skey. “Promise.” She closed her eyes, and the boy and the bedroom disappeared. Instead of a chair, she found herself sitting on cold stone, with a trickle of water running under her leg. In her hand, she still held the rock.

“Lick?” she asked quickly.

“So,” he said irritably, his voice inches away. “You decided to show again. What brought you here now? You miss your little carvings?”

“I don’t need them anymore,” she said.

“Why’d you come back then?” demanded Lick.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, pulling back a little.

“It’s creepy by myself,” snapped Lick. “Too quiet, and I can’t see. At least you come and go. I’m stuck here. No one to talk to. It just keeps happening, over and over in my head. I can’t get away from it.”

“From what?” she asked.

“From those guys coming after me,” said Lick. “And my brother. You know—all of it.”