I AM NOT DEAD. THE THOUGHT HARDLY HAS PENETRATED MY MIND WHEN I DOUBLE OVER, THROWING UP WATER. Over and over, I’m folded over, throwing up what seems like gallons of water. It rakes my lungs like claws. My mind is blurry. How am I alive? I lay on the ground, coughing up the rest of the water. Stars blur in and out of my vision. Another question crowds my mind. Why am I alive? Nothing makes any sense. I could have promised that I was dead. Or is this heaven? Will I be able to see Carrie again? Does heaven even have stars?

I turn around and another litre of water claws its way up my throat.

“It’s going to be okay, Darry,” comes a familiar voice I can’t place.

A blurry face comes within my field of vision. Black spots dance before my eyes. Everything swims. I wonder if I’m once again underwater, as everything goes black.

***

I wake up in the same room as the previous morning. Everything seems to be the same. But instead of Zak in the corner, it’s General Gordon. He bites his lip as if unsure what to say. He walks slowly towards me. A blaze of anger illuminates his face for a moment.

“Darsal, what were you thinking? To let yourself run off in the middle of the forest while the Scriptios were searching for you? I know Carrie’s death was hard on you, but,” the general says, but I interrupt.

The sense of calm and safety leaves in one swoop.

“Hard on me, General?” I scream, “Carrie was my life. She died, and it was my fault. And maybe it hasn’t occurred to you I knew where they were. Did it ever cross your mind that I wanted to get caught? That I am done being chased around like a dog? Thanks, but your search party should have left me because I no longer have something to live for.”

General Gordon looks stunned. He looks at me for a moment, incredulous. His mouth moves as if to create words, but no sound comes. My anger dims and I realize what I have just done. I put my hand to my mouth.

“I—Forgive me,” the words stumble out of my mouth, tripping over each other.

“No, forgive me, Darsal. I know how it is to lose someone you love,” he says, and we both know who he means.

I remember what General Sanderson said, about how “Gordon” always got what he wanted. For the first time, I realize.

“You and General Sanderson are brothers!” I exclaim.

General Gordon gives a sad nod, adding “And Sam and Zak are cousins.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought. I have never thought of that. They knew each other.

“Darsal, I want to help you, but I don’t know how to. I know how hard this all can be. I just don’t know what to do,” the general tells me.

“General, thank you, but I don’t need help. I’m fine, really,” I say, although we both know it’s not true.

“Darsal…”

“General, I’m totally fine. Just a little—unsettled,” I finish.

“Enough to run away for, join an army who kills everyone you grew up with, let your sister become kidnapped and tortured for a month, come back, run away again straight into the clutch of a general who will do anything to have your head. I don’t know how to put this. You’ve always been someone very reserved and always hated depending on other people. But even for someone who hasn’t any prominent problems, that can be too much,” he pleads.

I only look at him. In my mind right now, only three things remain within grasping distance: I’m hungry. ‘prominent problems? seriously?’ and something like ‘This is getting kind of weird. Must. Go. Away.’

There is a long silence.

“Darsal, you’re not alone anymore,” he whispers, brushing hair from my face like he would when I was small.

Finally, my brain makes enough room for a reply.

“General, do you talk to someone? Someone who probably does not know what you’re talking about and the feelings you’re trying to describe? Sometimes, General, it only makes you feel like no one will ever understand you. Like no one else in the world has ever known what you’ve been through.”

General Gordon sighs at his defeat.

“Just—just try for me, okay?” he says.

I give a small nod.

As he leaves, I decide I need to go wash. I have a vague memory of who I think was Sam, but there is no way to know. I figure he, or whoever it was, had me on the riverbank, which would have been anything but clean.

I sit up, waiting a moment for the room to stop swimming. I get up slowly and shake pine needles out of my hair. I try a few steps and have to stop for a moment, leaning on the wall. My head spins and I try to regain my balance. Slowly, the room comes into focus again. I wait, back against the wall, but the dizzying feeling has faded. I take in a deep breath.

Mrs. Fern enters the room, carrying a silver platter.

“Oh, hello dearie,” she says cheerfully, and I can’t help but smile.

***

Carrie’s death has been like a dam, blocking me from the rest of my life, stopping everything. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. I mostly wander around the streets, looking around in bewilderment. I don’t quite know why I always seem to end up out on the streets, meandering. I can sometimes catch Zak, Sam or General Sanderson watching me, worried expressions on their faces. I can’t seem to grasp any brink of reality—except one.

Black has inevitably passed away, leaving his wife and family alone. His wife, Helene, a small, gentle woman, is nine months pregnant and could go into labour at any moment. Her three-year-old daughter, Harper, sits alone in front of her father’s booth at the market. Black’s apprentice took over, but Harper only stares out into the street, watching people pass by.

I often helped when Harper was first born. I used to come, bringing food and clothing, helping out whenever I could. Mechanically, I seem to gravitate back to Helene’s home, doing the same thing as I used to. I cook meals and help Helene around the house. Helene, like her daughter, only stares at the fire, jumping around in the fireplace. Neither of us speaks a word. I haven’t spoken a word since my encounter with General Sanderson. The only way I communicate is with nods or by shaking my head. Helene doesn’t speak either, and I’m guessing it’s from the death of her husband, so close to her baby’s birth.

I make Black’s family meals, do the laundry, and clean their house. Helene gives me a thankful look from across the room. But Harper’s mother’s silence doesn’t seem to help her with her loss. I can almost tell that for her, it feels like she has lost both her parents. In the morning, I help Harper out of bed and get her dressed. I make different braids in her hair and help her to her father's booth on the main street. I know it isn’t safe for a three-year-old girl to sit by herself on the side of the busiest street in the Guardian village, but if I didn’t take her, she would end up there by herself. I let her sit there, return and clean up the house before spending the rest of the day wandering aimlessly before returning to bring Harper home, cook her dinner and putting her to bed. It’s the only productive thing I do. Once it gets dark, I return to my home but do nothing. I avoid sleep at all costs, terrified of the nightmares that might follow. It seems to be too quiet without Carrie signing or telling me of her day. I only sit alone at the white quartz island in the kitchen, staring emptily at my tea, watching the vapour curl up into the air.

Although only three, Harper seems to be the only person who kind of seems to get what I’m feeling. Sometimes, her large green-gray eyes fill with tears, being the only sign of emotions from the young girl.

I often stop in front of the butcher’s booth. My eyes will scan it as if trying to get a glimpse of my old life; of Black greeting me with a tremendous smile; him holding out a pepperette; newborn Harper sitting on the counter, watching her father with enormous eyes. But nothing comes. I sometimes see glimpses of how it used to be, but it’s gone as soon as I blink.

One day, I sit down on the side of the street, watching people walk by, dust lifting beneath their feet. I slowly feel a small body next to me. I turn to find Harper next to me, watching the people walk by. Slowly, she leans against me. I wrap my arm around her. I look down at the small girl next to me. Tears stream down her face. For a moment, I can only see Carrie in the Black’s daughter. I suddenly feel empty.

“Darry,” Harper croaks.

I’ve always known Harper is a smart little girl for her age, but I didn’t know she knew my name. Well, Sam’s name for me. I run my fingers through her white-blond hair.

“Can it be okay?” Harper asks in her meagre vocabulary.

I bite my lip. I wish I could reply, but I don’t know if my tongue will allow it. But then a thought comes into mind. I have people who are helping me through this—but who does Harper have? She just turned three and her mother doesn’t speak, move or do anything anymore.

“It can definitely be okay,” I say, voice raw from the silence.

My vocal cords seem to become raw. It’s the first words since I left Mrs. Fern’s home.

Harper looks up at me, but nods. When my mother first left, everyone would tell me it was going to be okay, and how did it turn out? All it did was make me feel like no one understood. I don’t know. I don’t know if everything will turn alright, but I know I can help it get there. I motion for Harper to follow me. She nods and slowly follows me on short legs. Before long, she reaches her small arms up for me to carry her.

I walk down the dirt street, balancing Harper on my hip as I used to with Carrie when she was small.

It doesn’t take long to get to my home. Suddenly, I feel messy. I put Harper down on the floor, opening the curtains. Harper walks around, admiring all the plants. I pull her away from the cactus just in time. I clean around the house a little, preparing Harper a bit of food. She chatters with Carrie’s old doll, engaging in a very serious conversation in which I only understand a few words. As I water my mother’s old plants, on the brink of drought, I notice that someone must have watered them while I was away.

A smile tugs at Harper’s lips as she looks up at me. It’s the first time I have seen her truly happy since Black's death. A small glow of warmth lodges itself into my chest and I decide, if I can’t improve my life, I have to make sure I do Harper’s. No one should feel such a loss, and even less a three-year-old, just old enough to feel genuine pain and lack.

***

“Sam wanted to show you something,” Black’s apprentice tells me as I pass the shop.

I slowly make my way over to the library.

***

“Is Sam here somewhere?” I ask quietly, afraid to disturb one of the few places where peace remains still.

Zak pauses for a moment before nodding, “Went to get something,” he says, giving me an odd look before returning to the study of an old map.

He doesn’t mention me speaking, but I can tell it relieved him. He hasn’t been the only one to have occasionally wondered if I were ever to speak again. I knew it was within my power to speak, but I just hadn’t seemed to manage the words. It was like everything was stuck. Eventually, I just stopped trying. I felt like speaking was going to break the self-control over my emotions I have spent so long trying to build up.

The smell of paper fills the room—a familiar smell, the kind that will let you hold it in your palm and won’t try to run away. The familiar feel of the library engulfs me and, for the first time, a small part of me settles. A fluttering butterfly finally choosing a place to land. The walls, covered up to 10 ft high ceilings, entirely with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Ancient volumes line walls.

The butterfly has settled, but something else arises in me. Something I have been running from. I let my fingers brush against the books’ rough spines. The only place without books is the fireplace, a crackling fire jumping back and forth as a child, jumping to get your attention. With the thought, everything I have been suppressing comes collapsing upon me. I fall into a large leather chair. Sobs overtake me. My shoulders sag and I bury my face in my hands.

“Hey, it’s okay, Darsal. We’re going to be okay,” Zak says, putting the map aside, and crouching next to me.

“She’s gone, Zak. She’s gone forever.”

“I know,” he whispers, taking my hand, “I know.”

Pain comes crashing over me like ocean waves in a storm. Blow after blow, each one harder to bear than the last. I feel like it might crush me below the weight. I don’t push my tears anymore. The trip over each other until I can hardly breathe. Pushing everything away only makes it harder to bear, so I let the tears rush out of me, slipping through my fingers and down my face. If Carrie’s gone, how can I keep going? She was always the one to cheer me up and to keep me going. And yet, it’s all gone. That chapter ended and can’t seem to flip the pages back.

“Everything is gone; all my family, my friends. I have no one left. And it’s all my fault,” I sob.

Zak gives me a soft shake.

“Stop it. That’s not true, and don’t start fooling yourself into thinking it is,” he blurts.

I stop sobbing, but tears continue to run down my face. Somehow—somehow this library has brought memories, along with so much pain, I don’t know how to control it. All my emotions have caught up with me; pain, loneliness, fear, depression, despair; all in one swoop. I take a breath, but I can’t seem to control how shaky it is.

“It’s going to be okay,” Zak says softly, squeezing my hand.

“I just want Carrie back,” I hiccup, trying to turn away.

He takes my shoulders to keep me from hiding. He wipes my tears, forcing me to look at him, even though every fibre of my body wants to run away and hide.

“I know how it is to love someone. To love someone and to miss your chance, possibly forever. But you can’t let that stop you. Darsal, you were born with the willingness to keep on fighting. You can’t give that up now. Not now. You live in a rough and broken world, but you can conquer it. Losing Carrie was hard, and I can’t even imagine how hard it is on you. But don’t let that ruin the rest of the world,” he says with a pained smile.

I look up before finally giving in and nodding.

But a part of me is afraid I’ve already let it crush my world. Can I possibly go back?