Free Fall (Pyramid of Gold)

'One, two, one-two-three-four!' Claire's guitar moaned a long, growing note. Just as it was about to die, Ted came in, transition perfectly seamless. The brass Tibetan bowl he used was supposed to sing, but he made it ring instead, a steady, fast stream of surprisingly low notes. When the baseline was established, he hit the drum, making a fast series of strikes. Then pause. Then another drum roll, this one longer, more threatening. Another pause, then repeat. Disciplined, sullen, sinister.

Claire joined next, same pattern: one low note, over and over again, repeating the rings of the brass bowl. Dylan was mirroring her, his rhythm guitar creating a calculating, unnerving dissonance. Then Nelly came in, flawless, playing of the drum, two simple sequences of chords echoing its rhythm.

They created a strong melody, aggressive, imminent, beautifully symmetrical. But also monotone, almost blend. So by design. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ NovᴇlFir(e).nᴇt

I came in last, making it all sing. A chaotic, yet perfectly timed series of high notes, going up, then pause, then same notes backward, going down, then pause, one note up, one note down. Repeat. Our tapestry was ready, and now it was time for Dylan to fill it with emotion. When he started singing, I closed my eyes, and let myself dissolve into music.

It was a beautiful song, sharp and dark, almost macabre. Claire called it 'Chilled to the Bone', and when I asked her what it was about, she said simply that it was about being cold. The song was quite different from anything Claire wrote before. But then, many things changed in the month since the ill-fated Solstice party.

Dylan was sporting a full beard now, looking even more like a person you would want to listen to, a tortured artist. When we joked about it, he just smiled and shrugged, saying nothing. Nelly's hair grew longer, Ted finally managed to quit smoking. He was in a habit of playing with coins now, spinning them between his fingers absentmindedly, performing simple tricks for our amusement.

I changed, too. Maybe not in a good way, but becoming more effective. Focused. There was a strange feeling in my chest now, like constant fuel. Not anger, because anger was hot and irrational. Not fury, because fury was righteous. Perhaps hatred. I guess it was always there, seething, festering. I even knew when it first infected me, remembered it in perfect detail. It happened the morning I surrendered my mother to the PA, when I opened the door, and a fat panting Protector looked at me with irritation, and said: 'Goddammit, boy.'

Goddammit, boy.

It was there for a long time, sleeping. But it was shaken awake when Mitchel's fist crashed into my face, salty taste of blood on my tongue. It took root now, it was growing now. Cold, patient. Getting stronger, ready to bloom.

I felt it streaming through my veins, every second of every day. In my heart, in my mind, making me more aware, more careful, determined. But also more lonesome, more hopeless, and a little bit afraid of myself.