Blue, Page 2

her head. She must be his daughter. In the waking nightmares, the male was always injured, and I could always hear a ringing in my head. I didn’t even know what Blue was… I only had my adoptive human parents, and they had very little knowledge of Yulyans. The girl I saw though—I seemed to harbor some odd feelings for her even though I had no idea who she was. She was calming, gentle force when I thought of her, however… and I always found myself missing someone I never knew when I thought of her. It was an empty space in my soul that felt bitterly cold and angry.

  The boy with the blood on his hands, however, was a different story. I simultaneously hated him, understood him, and had odd feelings of wanting to help him. He seemed to be a figment my mind was always returning to, and desperately wished to see freed of whatever demon had caught him. Maybe he was me…

 

  When I opened the door to my house, I plopped the bag down on my chair, and looking at Micah sitting on the bed, I said, “your parents are probably worried sick,”

  At the mention of his parents, his hooded eyes flitted upwards and met mine sarcastically. “Really?”

  I looked at him blandly. Sarcasm never got anyone anywhere with me. “Maybe you should go back home. You really ought to think of someone else other than yourself. Personally, I think your threats of staying out in the cold all night are empty.”

  He was going to come up with an angry retort, but then he calmed himself down and slumped back against the wall. “I tried to end it before. What would stop me now?”

  He was bluffing. He had to be. “Don’t be ridiculous…”

  However, I did not know why one would lie about such a thing. I looked at his wrists, but they were covered by long sleeves.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t feel he needed to. He did look to the side, however—just lost in thought.

  “What’s so bad about them?” I asked him.

  “They don’t give a damn about me…” He said vacantly.

  I sighed, frustrated. Then I breathed out. “Just for tonight. You have to be gone by dawn tomorrow.”

 

  I cooked up the vegetables in the fire pit for dinner, and I spiced them to my own taste. I reluctantly made enough for my guest. I watched him eat—he smacked his lips and chewed with his mouth open—I glared at him, but he didn’t noticed. After a minute or two, I said with a low, dangerous voice, “chew with your mouth closed.”

  “Or what?”

  “Chew with your mouth closed!” I jumped to my feet and tossed my chair aside—it shattered against the wall—I pressed a hand to my forehead.

  He visibly cowered against the wall, mouth agape. He obeyed sheepishly.

  I closed my eyes--not even wanting to look at him he’d made me so angry—and sat on my desk instead.

  Under his breath I heard him say, “You have a malfunction. Blue is leaking out of your nose,”

  “Malfunction?” I asked, not opening my eyes.

  “Yeah, some Yulyans are born with malfunctions. Their memories get all mixed up, and they have gaps in them. Sometimes they even conjure up fake ones.” He said, talking while chewing.

  “If you say one more word while eating…” I said, trying to keep cool.

  For a long time, he was silent, and finally, I cooled down enough to look at him again. He looked sad, and deep in thought. I raised an eyebrow.

  Distantly he said, “I’m sorry…”

  I shrugged. “My fault again. I get ticked at things no one else would even notice.”

  “No I mean… I intruded on your privacy, and I’ve made a mess of things like I always do. I don’t know why I do these things. If you want, I’ll go.” He said amiably.

  “It’s night, I don’t need you going home in the dark,” I crossed my arms and blinked thoughtfully. “About Blue—is it supposed to hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Does yours?”

  “All I can hear sometimes is pounding at the back of my head…” I grumbled, completely frustrated.

  “Is that why you’re so angry? I didn’t think it hurt so much.” He looked a little guilty—and deep in thought.

  For a moment, I was silent, and then, leaning my head to the side, looking off in a daze. “Can you imagine living a life with someone constantly waving a hand in front of your face? With a fog in your head that prevented you from seeing clearly?”

  He looked at me in surprise. “That bad?”

  “Anytime you think your life is hard… just think of mine. These memories—how clear are they for you?—I was born with adoptive parents, so I don’t think any of these memories can be real.”

  He was confused. “How do you mean? Some of them are, probably.”

  “Just what I said. I’ve never seen any of the people in those memories,”

  “Were your adoptive parents humans?” He was curious.

  I nodded.

  “That explains a lot. Yulyans usually see memories from their past lives with pure clarity. That’s the point of Blue.” He explained.

  I thought he was joking, and I smiled incredulously, but when his serious expression did not change, my smile was replaced with a frown. I never, ever, wanted to face the possibility that the memories that haunted my dreams and pounded at the back of my head could be real, the things that pinched my stomach and made just getting up in the morning hard. “What causes Blue to malfunction?”

  He had an odd look on his face as he said, “I think Yulyans are just born with it sometimes… you don’t seem happy to know something so important. What’s wrong?”

  “I was just thinking like I always do. Selfishly. Just wondering why I seemed to have been cursed with something so rare. And…” I nearly cried, but bit back. “And now that I know I have to live more lives like this--I can’t stand the thought of living anymore lives like this.”

  He was silent then, thinking over his own life, presumably.

  “And you?” I asked. “Do you have—memories from your past life? Is that why you tried to end it?”

  He pressed his hands together and they hovered over his mouth. “No. My past lives were happy for the most part.”

  “Is it possible that my memories could be fake?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say all of them. Maybe some of them. I wish I could help you… I feel so bad.”

  I chuckled quietly. “It’s not your fault or your problem. There’s no need for you to feel that way,”

  “Do you really think—I mean—do you think it’s a good idea for you to hide up here all alone? It might be good for you to have some company,” he suggested.

  “The last time I had company,” I said, “I ended up with a broken heart, and my guest ended up with a broken arm.”

  He nodded. “So you wouldn’t like it if I stayed here with you for a little while?”

  “Are you nuts? You could be dead within a week. If you and your Mother are having issues, the only way to work them out is to talk to her.”

  “It’s not that easy!” He yelled.

  I gave him a dry look. “Raising your voice is not a good way to get someone to listen. Go to bed. I’ll be up a while longer,”

 

  I went outside and looked up at the sky. Even just talking to Micah was sending the Blue at the back of my head pounding like crazy. It was all like a never-ending nightmare. My new knowledge of what the visions were in my head did not help. I could only hope they were not real. Otherwise, I could not help but think the boy with blood on his hands was me. I certainly seemed to identify with him. I could do nothing but wonder why our species was saddled with such a curse. To remember an old life after death made it so hard for you to be anything else than what you remembered being before. There would be no fresh starts for me. And when I died, I would have the same issues when I was reborn. It was a cycle of torture. If I could piece together my old life, I might have some amount of peace, even if the twisting in my stomach told me I did not want to know.

  But worse th
an that feeling in my stomach, was the emptiness I felt from a long life of isolation. I was safe, but I would never know what it meant to be fulfilled or happy—or, indeed, where happiness came from.

  I thought of the boy who I was reluctantly letting stay with me. He clearly didn’t know when he was well off. He was a silly child, and he knew nothing of real pain. It was all in his mind, and he didn’t think for a second what his parents might be feeling, what they were probably doing to support him. It made me cringe. I would be glad to see him go in the morning.

  After about thirty minutes, I went back inside. The boy was asleep, and before I went to bed, I did a little writing. It was about the thing that put me at ease. After I finished, I set up a cot on the floor and slept on and off as I always did; dreaming about the boy in my memories. The boy I hated.

  I awoke feeling only mildly refreshed. But I nearly exploded with rage when I saw that Micah was still in my home. I walked over to him and shook him roughly. “Get up.”

  He opened his eyes—and then he rolled over, pretending to be asleep.

  I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him to a sitting position angrily. I growled low and dangerously, “you said you’d be gone!”

  “But I’m not feeling well!” He claimed--eyes wide with fright. “Don’t kill me, please.”

  “You’d rather live with someone who might kill you than your own mother who loves you! What is wrong with you?”

  He bit my wrist and I let him go. “If I go back there, I swear I’ll be dead within the week!”

  I attempted to grab him again but he dashed off the bed and slid under it. I