Things Get Dark

Chapter Two

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of a smile. That’s all. I look away, my breath caught in my lungs, banging on the walls, desperate to be let out. Around me the world seems normal. Well, as close to normal as I generally allow myself. My stomach still feels unearthed, unanchored. Dr Kaung’s words come to mind, and I try to follow her advice. But instead of searching for five things that are red or naming three things I can hear, I count the floor tiles. Something steady and rhythmic will help.

One, two, three…

Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-si—

“You must be Jamie Stewart.”

I leap to attention, pulling down my suit jacket with one hand and thrusting out the other. My eyes settle on—

“Augustus Grant.”

My voice is about five octaves too high and may or may not have cracked in the middle there.

He smiles indulgently and shakes my hand. “How are you enjoying the party?” he asks.

I don’t want to lie and say I’m having a nice time. But I also can’t say that my anxiety is making my skin crawl, and I don’t have anything in common with his other guests. So I opt for something true but non-committal.

“Your house is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

He smiles graciously, steps forward, and… fixes my tie. I freeze. It’s so unexpected and so intimate. Also, Augustus Grant is touching me. I do a stellar job of impersonating a statue, waiting for it be over. He’s handsome for sure, but this is too much.

“That’s exceptionally kind.”

He lets go of my tie and steps back, then eyes me up and down like he’s judging how much he might be able to sell me for.

“Mr Grant—”

“Call me Augustus.”

“Augustus…”

His name tastes strange in my mouth, but maybe that’s the remnants of the Palma violets. “What am I doing here?”

“Only you can answer that. Why would you accept such an invitation?”

His voice, smooth as silk, glides across my skin, whisper-soft, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Why did you send me the invitation?”

“Same reason you accepted it. Curiosity.”

“A-About me?”

He nods.

“What could you possibly be curious about?” I ask.

“I find there’s always something about us that piques the inquisitive nature of others. For you, it’s your art.”

I’m taken aback by this. I didn’t realise anyone outside my immediate circles was even aware of my art apart from the handful of people who attended a local exhibition last year.

“My art?”

My voices comes out wavy, and my gaze falls to my shoes. I definitely should have polished and waxed them befo—

“Yes. You have promise, you know. We never know how our creations can impact the lives of others. Gifts have an obligation to be shared.”

I glance up and fall into his eyes. Everything around us blurs. His face is my entire world. High cheekbones, strong brows, perfect teeth. He’s the epitome of male beauty.

“And you have a gift.”

His words dance in a captivating melody, swirling, inviting.

“I-I do?”

I really wish my voice would stop quivering.

“You do. I hope this evening you’ll discover a way to bring yourself to share it.”

“What?”

But he turns and dissolves into the crowd, breaking the spell. The sound of his Cuban heels click-clacking on the marble floor seems heightened, ringing in my ears. I want to follow him. Need to follow him. I lean forward, but my feet are cemented to the ground. I look down. The floor tiles I was counting sway gently back and forth. The grout between the dancing tiles shivers, undulating like waves. I reach out, and my fingertips brush the soft marble tiles much sooner than I thought possible.

My knees are bent. I’m crouched in the middle of the hallway. But I don’t remember how.

Panic erupts inside me. My semi-friendly stomach butterflies morph into a swarm of ravenous locusts. It takes monumental effort to get to my feet. The floor seems to extend farther and farther beneath me, and for a flash, I feel like a giant.

I have to get out of here, away from whatever is happening. But every direction looks the same. Marble statues begin to stretch though I know that’s impossible. The figures in the grand paintings lining the walls turn and leer at me, then grip their frame, climbing out. I can’t tell who is real and who is just an artistic creation.

I stumble about. My feet feel so distant from me now, so detached. Looking down, I notice cracks in the leather of my brogues. They enchant me, and my eyes follow them from one side to the other, the floor tiles shifting underneath. I watch my feet intently as I force them to move, step by ponderous step. Thunderous pumps erupt from my chest. I can actually feel each pound of my heart and the adrenaline streaming through my veins. What is happening to me?

The pair of feet swerve into my view, and I tumble to the floor. Fractals of glass scatter around me, casting unending colours into the champagne-scented air. A million tiny knives pierce my palms. I squint and focus on my hands on the floor. Crimson swirls into flaxen, making love atop an expanse of shimmering grey.

“Sir, are you all right?”

A golden-haired angel hovers over me, a halo resplendent above his statuesque features. Then the world shifts as he grabs me by the hand, and pain sears through my fingers. I yelp.

“Apologies, sir.”

A few seconds pass. Or perhaps a few lifetimes. My vision swims, then focuses, and I realise it’s the waiter from earlier, his face made up of angles twisting into concern. On the floor, the crimson-flaxen union demasks: champagne mixing in with blood. I look away, only to see my hands bleeding, shards of glass dotted about my palms.

“Wha—”

I try. “What’s happening to me?”

An array of creatures has gathered behind the angel. They shift and shimmer, changing from Victorian gentlemen to Venetian doctors, conquistadors to courtesans. Their masks pulsate, lines stretching out and contracting, bending into whatever best suits the character before me. Another pulse of pain shoots through my hands, and I back away.

The waiter gently grasps my forearm and leans close. “My name is Gabriel. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His voice warbles like a low note on a guitar.

“What’s going on?”

I ask, eyes darting to the crowd behind him.

“Let’s get you somewhere private, and I’ll explain.”

“O-Okay.”

Gabriel extends his hand to me, and I brace, then grab it. A short, sharp tug from him gets me on my feet. Walking has never felt this peculiar. Pressure descends on my right shoulder, and I see a hand resting atop it. I’m being led away by Gabriel. Despite the fear, his presence calms me down, and I feel myself being carried away on another influx into another reality. My hands feel milky calm, my clothes feel dry, though a faint part of my mind knows they’re wet with champagne, and my heart has simmered down.

Suddenly, I see heaven before me. My angel leads me atop a cloud, and I ascend, floating towards paradise. The smell of jasmine swirls forth to greet me with a caress across my cheek. It’s only as I near the top that doubt creeps in, and suddenly every bad thing I’ve ever done floods my brain. Then I remember…

There is no Heaven without…

I turn to see the path to Inferno, flames licking at the feet of those who stared at me before. Their characters have shifted, their masks flickering. Victorian gentlemen replaced by Silicon Valley despots, courtesans replaced by witches. My cloud breaks, and I fall, suddenly hitting what I realise I must have been climbing this whole time: a staircase. Beneath me is nothing more than a crowd of guests at a Halloween party staring at some crazy person having a psychotic breakdown.