ekstasis

viii

I was standing on a hill.

It was late autumn, the sky painted all shades of gold and auburn as the sun ticked ever-closer to the horizon. The leaves had all fallen from the trees by now and turned into a murky brown sludge, just deep enough for the tiny heels of my black Mary Janes to sink into.

I remember the fading light, the soothing voice of the priest as he recited the rite of committal, looking up to my father's bloodshot eyes eyes and thin-set mouth. It was only the third time in my young life that I had seen my father cry: once when he received news that his brother was to spend the rest of his life in a Belfast prison. Once when he found my mother's body. And once at that graveside, his hand in mine.

After that, I never saw him cry again. I think he worried that it scared me, but the dry eyes and distant smiles were far worse.

And besides, I was grieving too.

I am standing on that hill again. The sky seems redder, though. The priest drones on, one word fading into the next. Sometimes, I am back in that bucktoothed child's body; sometimes, I am still sixteen, all matted hair and ill-fitted clothes.

It doesn't matter, really. I've lived this all before.

Instead, I turn around. Behind us, there is a field of gravestones, cut through by a muddy, boot-indented path. Far beyond that, the forest.

I blink, and there is a dog—or perhaps two of them—standing at the treeline. They flicker in and out of each other as if there is a bad television signal, but I don't know where the antenna is. I can't see very clearly from where I stand anyway. Still, I know that they are pitch black and carry the faces of jackals, and they are waiting for me.

I blink again, and I am there at the edge of the woods. The dogs lick my hands, tails wagging, and child-me sighs as the heavy, sad feeling in her heart is lifted.

Then they turn and lead me into the forest. But as soon as I pass the treeline, soft earth is replaced by creaking stairs; the sky and leaves overhead, a water stained ceiling. This place is familiar, too—the way up to the Manchester apartment I share with my father.

Behind me, I think I hear the faint sound of dogs whining, but when I turn around, there is only blackness, and soon enough, they go quiet.

All I can do is go forward.

Our apartment is on the fourth floor. It's not the top floor, but the stairs don't go any higher now. The door is already open a crack, so I press my palm against it and it swings open easily.

The place is packed with moving boxes up to the ceiling. I squeeze my way through a narrow path between them—too narrow for an ordinary human body to pass—and find myself in my bedroom. It's empty, save for my bed and the girl sitting on it.

Holly.

Her head is downturned and her hands folded on her lap; she hardly acknowledges my entrance, but I feel that I shouldn't interrupt her, so I wait.

I don't know how much time passes, and I suspect that measuring it in this space would be a fruitless effort anyway, but eventually she speaks, her voice cracked and dry.

Why did you bring me here?

I thought you were someone else, I say, without meaning to.

It's then that she looks up at me, and I recognize her arched cheekbones and delicate lips, but something is wrong. Her soft brown eyes have been replaced by the slitted amber glare of a snake.

I stumble backwards and fall down, through the floor, through the earth below, and all the while, her voice rings out in my head.

Help me go home, Sophie. I need to go home.