XVIII. Reflection
She awoke in her own bed. Stuffed animals arced a rainbow across the counterpane, their plastic eyes shining in humid sunlight from the window. In fact the heat was everywhere; the entire room looked to be basting in sick yellow that Ingrid found hard to breathe. Blinking, she put her feet on the floor.
"Scott?"
No answer. But she noticed the door was open--or rather, broken off its hinges. Of course it had not been repaired since Randy’s assault. Why, though, did splinters still scatter the carpet? Ingrid hated to leave messes be.
And just like that the splinters were gone. The carpet became freshly shampooed, giving off a lilac scent. Ingrid frowned. The door was now back on its frame, a perfect fit. Cool wind lifted the curtains.
"Hi!" Scott said cheerfully, stepping into the room.
"Uh...hello?"
He kissed her on the cheek. "So how are you?"
"Um..."
"Um! Um! Um!" His eyes looked wider than usual, crazier than usual. His mouth leered. "Come on, baby, talk to me. Like lovers do." A lunatic laugh burst from his lips, and he began to dance about the room like an ox, singing a song Ingrid hadn't thought of in years. "Oh baby talk to meeeee! Like lovers dooooo!"
"Am I making you do that?" she asked, standing up.
"Walk with meeeee! Yeah, you are. May I stop now?"
"Please. I need to speak with Jo-Jo."
Scott's capering froze. He looked at her for a moment, his chest heaving. "She's in the basement."
"Okay. Well she's coming here now. It's my dream," she added, before he could form a rebuttal.
"It's our dream," came a familiar voice from the hallway stairs--the very stairs, Ingrid remembered, Randy had used in pursuit of her obedience not long ago. The feet treading them now were much lighter and daintier, but no less intimidating.
"Jo," Ingrid said, looking at the doppelganger as it peeked from the top step.
"Our dream," it said again.
Unlike Scott (who had already disappeared from the scene), Jo-Jo's face wore no message of greeting or concern. As always, it was bitterness that carried the day. Everything else—dress, shoes, hairstyle—made Ingrid feel like a carbon copy.
"Because we're the same, right?" Ingrid told her.
"We're the same."
The doppelganger entered the room slow and silent.
"But you don't think I belong here."
"No."
"I do. Doesn't that make us different?"
"You've always been a good liar, Ingrid. The confidence you're feeling is false."
The room darkened. Ingrid looked to find a sky of gray over the church steeple across the street. A scent of rain followed, rippling the curtains.
"I'm the real you," Jo-Jo went on. "Always angry, always frustrated. Always knowing she isn't good enough for anything." Her lips stretched in a lopsided smile. "Ingrid Semeska refined."
"It's Felton."
"No. There is no Ingrid Felton."
A flash from outside made her look through the window again. It was followed instantly by a prodigious clap of thunder that shook the entire house. Ingrid jumped; Jo-Jo only laughed.
"Storm's almost here, little lady. Time to take cover again."
"I'm not afraid of storms."
The doppelganger's head tilted. "What then? Commitment comes to mind. You ran away from Scott, then Lisa, then school."
"I went back to Scott and Lisa."
"You fled back," Jo-Jo corrected, face twisting in disgust. "Like the desperate girl you were. Excuse me, are."
Ingrid thought about this before being forced to concede that Jo-Jo was right. She had fled back. From what though? Nancy and Randy without question. But a feeling from somewhere else said they were not alone. There was another something--something dark and dreadful. It terrified her, and rather than face it, she ran. All the time, she ran.
"But you can't run anymore," Jo-Jo said. "Not if you want the dambuhala out of the region."
As she spoke the skies opened up. Everything outside became a veil of singing silver through which she could barely see.
"I want to know what it is," Ingrid said over the din. "Tell me."
"First tell me why you shouted at the mirror so much when you were little. Why you called me all those terrible names."
"I hated you."
"Exactly. And how do you feel about me now?"
Her body vanished without waiting for an answer, leaving Ingrid alone in the room. Or not. There was someone standing near the bed; she could sense it. She turned...and there was Jo-Jo again, framed in a gigantic mirror that leaned against the wall. The Carlson Glass.
Ingrid stepped closer. Jo-Jo did the same. Ingrid tilted her head. So did Jo-Jo.
We're the same, she thought.
And so they were. The girl in the mirror stood five feet, two inches tall. She had long brown hair. Her thoughts were hard to organize, and even harder to express. She was forgetful. She made a lot of silly, frustrating mistakes.
"When you forget," the reflection gritted through its teeth, "it's the same as saying you didn't care. When you make a mistake"—the word was spewed like vomit—“it's the same as saying you weren't smart enough to do it right. To err is stupid, Ingrid, to forgive is a waste of time."
"Everyone makes mistakes," Ingrid reminded it.
"Yes, but the same ones, over and over? You flunk a test at school, study for the right answers, then flunk the damned thing again. You burn meals. You lose keys. You forget to wash your paintbrushes. You splash milk on the table when you pour cereal. You cut your legs when you shave. You read music at the piano the way a stream corrodes a rock. You--"
"Enough."
The reflection hesitated. Yet it had more, even uglier things to point out. "And really, Ingrid," it said, "you're never going to be good at anything anyway. Everyone's better than you."
"Who’s everyone?"
A very well-used shrug came from the glass. "Everyone. Your whole life is an exercise in futility. Give up already. Let it go. If not for your sake then for the sake of people around you."
Ingrid could hear the rain falling harder than ever.
"Consider," the reflection went on in a perfectly conversational tone. "You don't deserve nice things. Scott and the baby. Let them go too. It's not hatred anymore, Ingrid. It's logic. It just makes sense."
"How?" Ingrid almost sobbed. The criticism, like it or no, was beginning to get to her, as it always did.
"They're just two more people you're going to hurt with your shortcomings. Your stunted abilities. You can't be a wife and a mother. You're not good enough. I know," it cut her off, just as her mouth came open to argue the case, "I know how that makes you feel. But I'm not yelling at you, Ingrid. I'm not being spiteful anymore. I'm just trying to make you see the better way."
The reflection turned its head. There was a dresser next to the glass. On top of it was a stereo. And on top of that...
As if in a dream (and wasn’t that all this was?) Ingrid picked up the gun. She knew nothing about firearms, except they were heavy and lethal. A very simple representation of one now lay in her trembling hand. The gun was black. It had a barrel, a butt, and a trigger. And yes, it felt very heavy indeed. Ingrid pointed it at the reflection. The reflection pointed it straight back. That wouldn't do--it wasn't enough. She put the barrel against her own temple instead. The reflection, of course, followed suit.
Outside, the rain came to a dead stop.
"Now you're doing it right," Ingrid told herself in the hush that fell over everything. "For once in your life, you're doing something right."
***
Randy Semeska walked up the hill with his fists clenched and his teeth gnashing. During this most recent stay in the region, two people had gotten the better of him: Ingrid, whom he had drowned once but who had somehow survived the ordeal anyway; and of course his uncle, Woodward Cambridge.
The latter stung much more than the former. Ingrid had at least been fun. Cambridge, on the other hand, had not only renounced his involvement in the coming new order (casually, like a table scrap being pushed into a dog dish), he had shamed him as well. Made him feel small.
So he decided to save his greatest redemption until last. After locating Cambridge near the bottom of the hill (held at gunpoint by the black man who had knocked him out on the stairs, that made three helpings of vengeance due), he went to the far side and there began his ascent. The slope was long but not steep. Already he could see the boyfriend--frightened, nervous thing that he was--watching over Ingrid at the crest. No problem with that. Randy had never considered Scott to be anything more than a nuisance.
After Scott, of course, would come Ingrid. How he wished he could drown her again. But there was no water nearby and he didn't feel like dragging her any great distance to find some. Ah well. Strangulation then. His step-sister (or whatever the fuck she was) didn't have very good lungs anyway.
He stayed behind Scott during the climb, though he had no intention of ambushing the man. It would be enough to see him jump when his name was called. Randy closed the distance with a patient, casual gait. A mere twenty yards separated him from the top of the hill. Now there were fifteen. Now ten. Now five.
Randy stopped.
"Hey!" he called cheerfully.
The man watching Ingrid did not jump. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he turned around to address his caller. And all at once, Randy's cheerfulness began to curdle. This was not Scott. Or at least, this was not the Scott he remembered. The man standing before him now wore a thick, dark beard beneath long tufts of wild hair that framed a face no longer familiar with fear. Indeed, nothing save contempt for what pressed at the gate flared from his eyes. There was no predisposition to flee about his open stance, no trembling of the clenched fists at his sides. In short, this was a man who looked ready to fight.
That suited Randy just fine. His merriment rekindled at the thought of digging deep for Scott's lost cowardice and finding it between tortured screams as he punched that falsely impudent face into mush. Because whether he wanted to admit it or not, Scott was no champion. Crying and begging fitted him much better. Tonight, Randy would make him do both. Then he would make him die.
There was a dagger in his belt. Randy touched it but did not unsheathe it. No need. Bare hands would suffice. Bellowing, he charged the rest of the way up the hill, meaning to tackle Scott before beating him to death. Scott crouched and stepped to the side, punching Randy's neck with his fist hard enough to send him flailing.
Okay then, so he was quick. But if he meant to hang around for Ingrid's sake that wouldn't be enough. Randy charged again, this time slowing his approach just as Scott made for a second dodge. The wide-eyed face in front of him looked as fragile a target as Ingrid's. Randy swung his fist at it--
And somehow, Scott punched him instead, right under chin. Once more Randy found himself off balance and tumbling, this time with stars before his eyes. A heavy boot kicked him as he hit the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. Randy grabbed it and pulled. Arms flailing, Scott fell into the grass with him.
"Now let's see how much hurt you can fucking take!" Randy wheezed.
Hard as he could, he punched Scott’s nose. A very satisfying crunch followed. Blood fountained everywhere. Randy located Scott's front teeth and punched them to pieces as well. Loverboy's face got lost in a mess of blood and broken bone. Yet still, he wasn't showing fear. If anything he looked ready for more pain.
"Great," Randy said, happy to oblige.
That was when Scott grabbed his neck and squeezed.
Instantly his air was cut off. "Guh!" he let out. "Uh!"
"Thassh right," he heard Scott spit. "Keep shryin to breef."
Randy took hold the arm choking him but for whatever reason couldn't seem to dislodge it. Either he was weaker than he used to be, or Scott was stronger. Whichever, the tide of the fight had returned to the hero.
"Goddammit!" Randy tried to say. Except all he could manage was Gah! "Gah! Gah! Gah!"
Scott bent forward, paying no mind to all the blood. His grip tightened. Over the last few seconds a wind had gotten up, making the grass dance, but Randy could get none of it into his lungs. There was something shining off to the left as well, a white light growing bigger and brighter by the second. Wondering if heaven were opening, Randy strained to turn his head to see it. A gigantic gleaming rectangle, big as a drive-in movie screen, hovered over the hill.
"What the hell?" he whispered.
He could talk! He was breathing again!
Realizing this, he spared a glance at Scott. He, too, had become mesmerized by the light. Not wishing to waste the opportunity, Randy shoved him backwards. Next, he pulled the dagger from his belt. The time for mucking about was over. He wanted closure with this man, who had probably gone crazy during his time in the region. How else could this sudden bravado be explained?
"Nighty-night," Randy told him.
The dagger came down once, twice, three times. On the fourth blow, he aimed for Scott's heart. Except movement from the bottom of the hill made him hesitate. Randy turned his head. A dozen ogres were charging the slope. Behind them, a hundred more stampeded the fields.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Randy said.
In that same instant Scott knocked the dagger from his hand, and the tide turned yet again.
***
The steel pressing Ingrid's temple felt nothing like she imagined, off and on through the years, when she contemplated suicide. There was no sharpness, no coldness. The hammer didn't give off clicking noises as her fingers trembled. No smell of grease tinged the air. Simply put, all her ideas about the experience had been wrong.
It was puzzling. This was her dream, after all. Why shouldn't her imagination dictate from memory how this whole thing was supposed to play out?
"Because a large part of what makes us afraid is not knowing," Jo-Jo told her through the glass. "When you get what you expect you just shrug your shoulders, the way you do with Scott." She hesitated. "The way you did with Lisa."
"Shut up," Ingrid snapped.
"Are you going to fire this thing or are you going to stand there forever? That's it," Jo-Jo went on, after Ingrid closed her eyes. "Now just squeeze. Do it, Ingrid. Do it for the people you love. They'll understand. Martyrdom involves passion, too. It may even be passion at its purest. Think what it takes to die for what you believe."
Gritting her teeth, Ingrid squeezed the trigger.
There was an echoing explosion—the sound of dynamite through a canyon. A blinding white light flashed for an instant and then went right back out. Everything began to turn, to tip, to spin. Something heavy thumped the floor. Ingrid opened her eyes. One of them could no longer see. Black flowers blossomed over the carpet, which was now level with her other, working eye. She was on the floor.
"Okay let's see what we can do for her!" someone suddenly said. "Bullet wound through the temporal lobe?"
"That's right," another voice tremored.
"And it's still in her brain? I mean the bullet is still in her brain?"
"I think so."
The second voice began to weep. "Somebody help! Help, HELP, PLEASE OH GOD HELP HER!"
***
Scott closed his eyes just as the first ogre jumped over his head on its way to the interstice. He knew that very little time remained to take care of Randy. For one thing, all the hill was trembled. Hundreds of dambuhala were thundering from the Rudgard side, which meant that hundreds more were likely doing the same from the other side. For another, he was pretty sure he was dying.
Randy had stabbed him three times. Pain screamed in his abdomen and shoulder. The third stab had found his right eye, obliterating it. Half the world had gone black. And his head hurt so bad it was hard to concentrate.
The knife sailed to the right after he'd knocked it away. Blind in that direction, Scott--still on his back beneath a distracted Randy--began to claw the grass, hoping to get lucky. Seconds later his fingers did indeed close around something hard and cold. Not the knife though. This was a rock.
Training his left eye on Randy's temple as best he could, Scott swung hard. The results were more pleasing than he ever dared hope. Gagging, choking noises came from Randy's throat as he toppled over in a spew of blood.
Another ogre charged past. A third leaped Scott's head. It was time to get back to Ingrid. She was still on the blanket, still holding the interstice open, but there were ogres running everywhere in groups of ten, twenty, thirty. Surely she would be trampled before long.
"Damn the Zucker brothers," Scott laughed.
He could he be laughing now? Had he gone crazy from his wounds? Or was the interstice, which now spanned the entire hill, to blame? Even the ogres made for a funny sight. They were stampeding into the light<