Gray Matter

He is standing atop a grassy hill. Nothing else is around him. No trees. No people. No buildings. Just vibrant green grass and the angry, steely, puffed clouds that veil everything in shadow. The wind is cool and eerily quiet. Noon is disguising itself as late evening.

I am at the bottom. Dandelions tickle my shins. My unruly blonde hair is clenched in my fist at the back of my head in order to stop it from whipping maddeningly against my pale cheeks. Forcing my chest to expand into a breath weaves streaks of pain around my ribs. Despite the hurting, some unexplainable force is pulling me toward Blake Carter, so I take one step and another and another until my calves ache from climbing the steep rise.

His looks are the same as they were four years ago, when I’d last seen him. His hair is so black it’s like a pot of ink has been spilt over his head. It is long and sloppy, parted down the middle and bluntly cut at his chin. Brown freckles splatter his cheeks, which are rounded and plump from baby fat that refuses to vacate. A dark hoodie engulfs his torso, the cuffs of the torn sleeves hanging past his fingers.

We were never friends, Blake and I, but when our eyes connect a warm smile cracks onto his face and I can tell by the crinkle of my eyes that I’m doing the same. We’re soon so close that his own musky scent is more pungent than that of the oncoming rain. He reaches out his left hand. I reach out my right. And just as the tips of our fingers barely brush, I am struck by lightening.

***

When I wake up, reality is like the ocean tide, slowly washing over me and then slipping away only to return moments later. My muscles feel seared and paralyzed, like well-done steaks. I am on my stomach, laying on the soft, cotton quilt I’d fallen on to.

It is not until my eyes focus on the wall that I’m taken over by a body wracking blubbering. It’s a simple and sudden thing; the thought that the wall is coloured by a crisp beige layer of paint and not the dated striped wallpaper that I’m used to is what tilts me over the edge. Rather than suffocating myself with sobs, I attempt to focus on the strangeness of the dream that roused me but it is no help. And once I realize the uncontrollableness of it, I don’t bother concealing my racket. I want the two who have taken me to know.

The worst part is the confusion. The complete lack of knowledge about anything and everything that is going on. I don’t know what to do and I don’t know where to start. I hate the fact that the only thing I’m capable of is pitying myself. I don’t want to ask questions because the answers will mean that I’m coming to terms with the fact that this is all real. I don’t want this to be real.

I’ve always thought of myself as someone who is strong and assured and wild, but that was when Adam was supporting me. The last thing he’d said to me was that my desire to push boundaries is a great weakness and also a great strength. I’m having trouble remembering what it’s like to be that sort of person even though it was who I was only two days ago.

Behind me, the hinges of the door rattle and squeak open. At first I do not turn to acknowledge it because I do not want reassuring pats on my back from Sarah or a disdainful glare from Garret. But then, after a few moments of silence, there is a small gasp followed by a quiet, distressed, “Shit,” so I tentatively crane my neck over my shoulder.

The girl is about my age, with the brown skin and high cheekbones of an Aboriginal. Her dark hair falls in a tangled braid over her shoulder. She quickly peeks behind her and then steps into the room, closing the door with a soft click. She leans against it, watching me with sharp, anxious eyes. “Who are you?” She whispers.

I turn and scramble backwards on the mattress, sitting on my knees with tense shoulders. Instantly in defence mode. The blanket tangles around my feet. Her concern stirs worry in me. My heart races in my throat and it’s like millions of ants are scurrying beneath my skin. I don’t answer her. I only stare back, wide eyed.

“I’m not…” she begins and then pauses, shakes her head slightly, “What are you?” There is more urgency behind her slight Newfie accented voice now but she’s remains just as quiet.

I don’t know how to answer. It shows in my frozenness. My voice is suddenly locked away in some deep part of me. I can feel the puff of my eyes and the oncoming headache from my crying. I have to curl my fingers into my palms and dig my nails into my skin to stop my hands from shaking.

The girl steps forward. Her feet are quiet against the carpet. “Are you a spark or a plug?” She rephrases. I still don’t answer. Mostly because I don't know. She steps forward again until the middle of her muscular thigh is pushing against the edge of the bed. “Are you a damned mute? What. Is Your. Power.” She breathes impatiently.

Telepathic perception. I’m not sure if I should tell her. If she lives here with Sarah and Garrett shouldn’t she know? Wouldn’t they have told her? She seemed surprised when she found out about me. Am I willing to take another leap of faith?

When I decide to tell her and she chokes on her own breath. Then I ask, “What did you mean by spark or plug?”

She waves away my question. “You need to get out of here.”

Something inside me snaps. It is time to embrace reality. It's funny. The second step of grief is always anger. “I am not moving an inch until I get answers to my questions,” I growl indignantly. Her eyebrows raise patronizingly. In the back of my head I feel the brush of Adam’s encouraging smile. “I have been taken from my home. The only family I had has been killed.”

The girl scoffs. “Welcome to the club.”

“Who are you and what do you have to do with me? Or Sarah and Garret?” Hopefully she doesn’t notice the shakiness of my voice when I utter their names. Or the terror in my eyes. Or the flush of my neck.

Her sardonic grin reveals perfect white teeth and a dimple on the left side of her face. “You don’t know nothing, do you?” I swallow at the insult, wrapping my hands in the warm blanket at my knees. When I don’t answer right away, she takes the liberty of assuming she’s right. It brings a new understanding to her cocky body language. She leans forward, pressing her hands into the plush mattress. Our noses are two feet away from each other. “In short: Those two fuckers on the floor above us, they’re coiners—bounty hunters. If you don’t get out now, you’ll be sold to people one hundred times worse.”

This newness is all too much. The game keeps changing. It's becoming impossible to stay in the same place for even a few hours. Uncertainty creeps up my spine. These people were my last hope in discovering Adam’s history— my mother’s history. Which is something I hadn’t realized was important to me until I realized how permanently gone she is. I want them to be reliable. I need them to be reliable, for my own sanity. “And what makes you so credible?”

“Generally, when someone calls someone else a bounty hunter, they’re not lying.” She stops, looks back over her shoulder and quirks her head to momentarily listen. Her braid swings in the air beneath her chin. When she’s pleased with whatever it is she does or doesn’t hear, she starts up again, “This system is a complicated one. I don’t know your history. I don’t know what brought you here. Normally I ain’t so sensitive, but if you don’t even know what a spark and a plug is, I’ll make an exception. You got a power? You’re a spark. You’re a commodity to a lot of people.”

I fidget on the bed, wiping my palms on my thighs and then rewrapping them in the blanket. She’s giving me information that doesn’t make sense, like defining a word with the word you’re trying to define. But she seems to know something, which is a start. Slowly, I'm crumbling. I think it's more out of disheartenment than anything else. “Why should I trust you?” I ask quietly.

“Because I’m like you,” She rasps, exasperated. The confession, though not proven, seizes my last ounce of faith. If I am what I am, I’d be a moron to not believe there are others, too. I don’t understand her intensity, but she’s creating hope that I could eventually. “They may be coiners that have lotsa money and the will to murder but they’re dimwits, too. I ain’t eighteen yet so they can’t sell me—I’m useless to ‘em for the next three months. They think they’re keeping me hostage but I’m choosin’ to stay here to help idiots like you.”

She is rude and supercilious, but there is a genuineness to her words. Just as Garret was surrounded by an atmosphere of unease, she is surrounded by one of reliance. Still, there are so many people who are telling me to believe in them. Adam and Sarah and Garret and now her. My hopefulness is quickly being exchanged with skepticism. “Why?”

Her narrow shoulders drop up and down in a shrug. “For the cause.” She states it simply as if it’s obvious.

“What’s the cause?”

Her hand comes up to push a lose strand of hair behind her ear. I mimic her action on myself. She sighs. We’re both frustrated. It’s not my fault I don’t know anything, but it’s still annoying. “Got no time for a full history lesson. You don’t have to trust me. Just know that to them you’re a tool. To me you’re a human.”

This time it is my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Oh, that’s why you’re insulting me? I don’t even know your name.”

“Are you really hung up on that? I am offering you a life. And it’s Winnie.” There’s a loud racket on the main floor. The girl stops and crouches, like she’s getting ready to crawl beneath the bed. When she notices my intake of breath she presses her index finger to her plump lips. We sit in a tense silence for a few minutes, desperately listening for a sign of what our captors are doing. When Winnie’s certain it’s clear, she stands and moves to the door and grasps the knob. “My room’s below this one. The door to the stairs is next to the laundry room. When you decide to come, be quiet and don’t get caught.” Then, she is gone.