Chapter 8

”To my Fantastic Fantasia: Allow this journal to serve as your intellectual compass. May the essence of my spirit resonate within these written words, never leaving you solitary…”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

The days pass as the Phantom’s offer lingers in the back of my mind. I’ve returned to my normal life, my normal routine. After one particularly shitty night at work, I’m dragging myself up to the third floor of my apartment building, only to be greeted by the faint pounding of electronic music and the shrill tone of excited, overlapping voices.

I groan, begging under my breath, “Sirius, please.”

When the entrance to my apartment comes into sight—one of four identical metal storm doors, differentiated by the decaying 3663 identifier and a raggedy, faded WIPE YOUR PAWS welcome mat—I can see my prayers have gone unheeded.

The building’s chipped plaster walls are like lungs expanding, each pulsing beat of music a violent inhale. Light seeps from beneath the door’s crack.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my forehead, as if I can will it all away with mental fortitude. But the party isn’t going anywhere. Giving up on delaying the inevitable, I twist the doorknob. The knob rattles as it spins, but it’s unlocked. I shove my shoulder into the heavy door, unsticking it with a sharp jolt. The door flies open, and I almost lose my balance.

Damn latch.

“Great,” I mutter as I slam the door behind me.

My entrance is muffled by the blasting music. This place reeks just like the bar.

I count to five before spinning around and elbowing my way through a small throng of people I don’t recognize. My shoulders tighten and my teeth clench as I move through the living room. I’m careful to keep my eyes locked on the refrigerator across the apartment. I pass the tattered, vomit-green sofa and the rickety table currently missing its three chairs. Writhing bodies knock and jar me about, but I choose to ignore them, as if my lack of eye contact means they’re nonexistent.

The rhythmic bass thumps at an unholy level, and my head pounds back in response.

With two closet-sized bedrooms and an open living space that combines a tiny living room and a galley kitchen so narrow that the oven won’t open fully, the apartment barely fits the three of us who live here, let alone a dozen drunk assholes.

My two roommates—Stace and Alisha—share the slightly larger bedroom. They’ve been friends their entire life. I found them a few years back through an ad. When I left my foster home at eighteen, I needed a place to stay. Although I had some silvers saved up from working at The Rising Star since I was fifteen, it wasn’t much. Most of my labor was paid under the table by Jeremiah, since I wasn’t of legal serving age for those first three years. He jipped me, took advantage of me, but it wasn’t like I had any other options. It’s a damn blessing he even took a chance on me. I wasn’t in a position to complain about unfair wages.

Fairness is a myth, anyway.

A private, furnished bedroom in my price range wasn’t something I was poised to turn down.

Stace screeches my name when she spots me entering the kitchen, then throws her arm around my shoulders. I almost topple beneath the unexpected weight of her lean, muscular build. She’s a dancer, but in her current drunken state, she’s less graceful than normal.

“Please, Stace, get off me.” I shove her sticky skin away, frowning at her.

She hovers a few fingers over me, one of the few girls I know that is taller than me. Her soul-shade is bright orange, vibrant, almost blinding to look at. It contrasts with her dark hair. I close my eyes and rub them, willing myself to stay focused and ignore her aura.

When I reopen my eyes, the color still grabs my attention—it’s almost as annoying as the girl herself—but I focus on her face, choosing to pay no extra attention to it.

She fake pouts, her smudged eyeliner making her look comical. “Fine. Be that way.”

Alisha appears, a cup in her hand, brown eyes glazed over. A soft yellow aura wafts from her body. Her curls are held out of her face by a pink floral headband that perfectly matches her dress. It hugs her curves in all the right places. She designed the outfit herself, and it’s impressive.

“Get off me,” Alisha mimics in a nasally voice, reminding me of why I don’t ever compliment her to her face. “Always a bitch, Tasia.”

“Takes one to know one.” I roll my eyes and nudge my way past them, refusing to look at them any longer. I yank open a cupboard next to the fridge and snag a box of medicinal tea.

Lemon-echinacea flavor.

There’s a niggling ache in the back of my throat. I hope it’s from exhaustion and not a sign of an impending cold. Missing work is extremely unaffordable.

My mind briefly drifts to the Phantom’s offer.

I fill the kettle with water and stick it on the stove to boil, then search the kitchen for my favorite mug—the one that says “Life is Ruff” with a large paw print on the side.

Ironically, despite my choice of welcome mat and mug, I don’t own a dog. If we were allowed pets in the apartment, and if I could afford the time and money necessary to care for another being, surely I’d have one. I’d love a fluffy companion. Someone to love me unconditionally.

I spot the white, ceramic handle sticking up from the dirty sink, smothered in greasy pans and plates caked with crusty pasta and beans. Sighing, I curse under my breath.

Not in the mood to deal with that disaster, I scout for another mug. After a moment, I find one in a high cupboard, out of reach. As I’m debating climbing onto the counter to snag it, a pale arm with a smattering of red hair reaches up and grabs it for me.

“I got you, babe,” a familiar voice says.

“Reed?” I whip around, frowning at him. He sets the mug on the counter beside me and gives me a crooked grin. “What are you doing h—” My eyes zero in on his glossy hazel eyes, his mussed up hair, and finally on the plastic cup in his other hand. “You’re drunk. Seriously?”

His eyes hood as he sips from his cup. “Nahhh.” He chuckles. “Maybe a little.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

All night I’ve had to deal with drunken assholes at work, only to come home to this.

He steps closer, nudging me with his shoulder. “Lighten up, babe.” He leans in to nuzzle my neck.

My skin heats with annoyance. I’ve been on edge with my hyperawareness to soul-shades tonight. It’s as if seeing the grey shades has triggered some sort of unconscious defense mechanism, and now I physically can’t turn a blind eye to all the other colors.

Reed’s hazy fog is tinted greenish-blue, wavering between both colors.

“You sound like Alisha,” I mutter, planting a hand on his chest and stepping back to keep a healthy distance between us. “Unsurprising, considering you’ve been hanging out with her tonight.”

“Nuh-uh. Don”t be like that, babe. I came to surprise you. Thought you’d be home from work, like, forever ago.” My stomach roils at the bitter stench of alcohol on his breath. “Leesh invited me to hang and offered a drink while I waited. It ain’t like that.”

“Leesh?” Since when did they start using nicknames?

“Loosen up. Have a beer.”

“You know I don’t drink.”

He snorts into his cup, his groggy eyes narrowing as he takes a quick sip. ”Mmhmm.”

“That’s funny to you?”

“You drink at work.”

“No I don’t.” I occasionally taste the new taps to know what I’m selling, but I don’t drink it leisurely.

It’s harder to control my ability when I’m under the influence. Not that I’m having any success doing that currently, but I definitely don’t want to make it any worse. Plus, it’s a slippery slope. One drink easily turns into two, then five, and then the next thing I know, I’m waking up in the morning with no recollection of the previous night, my body filled with leaded regret.

No thanks.

I rub my temples, taking a few intentional breaths to calm myself. My kettle whistles, the screech practically swallowed up by the onslaught of electronic music, and I flick off the stove’s flame. I tear open my packet of tea, place the bag in the mug, and pour the scalding water over it.

“Here, just have some beer. It’ll help,” Reed says. He thrusts his cup at me, sloshing the liquid onto my shirt.

“For the love of Sirius!” I hiss, swatting the cup out of his hand. It hits the floor with a splash, and his brows rise in delayed surprise. “I’m exhausted. My throat hurts. I have a headache.” None of which are being helped by the chaotic music and drunken chatter filling our cramped apartment. “I’m going to bed. Stay here and party with Leesh, if that’s what makes you happy.”

His face pinches into a frown, and he reaches out and squeezes my shoulder gently. “Sorry,” he says, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “I-I only want you to have a good time, babe. You work so hard.”

“I know.” I pull away from him, snagging my mug of tea from the counter and blowing on it.

Stepping out of the kitchen area, I stride toward my door, only to be cut off by Stace.

“Come on, Tasia, just hang out with us for once!” she whines, sticking out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout. “We’re having so much fun.” Her pupils are blown wide, and I wonder—not for the first time—if she’s on something other than alcohol.

“She’s too good for us!” Alisha calls over the music. “Give it up!”

I turn to see her beside Reed, whose feet are still firmly rooted to the floor of the tiny kitchen. She reaches up, running her claws through his hair. He shudders, his eyes flitting shut for a moment.

My gut twists, and the urge to rip Alisha’s hand away from my boyfriend rises.

But I don’t.

I’m tired of dealing with them. Tired of being disrespected and belittled. Tired of my entire life, if I’m being honest.

How can I explain to Reed that I can see soul-shades? Or that I’ve been seeing grey ones specifically, which trigger memories of the worst moment of my life? How can I tell him that I’m tired of pretending soul-shades don’t exist? That right now—with all these people, their auras, and the music—I’m incredibly overstimulated?

I can’t.

I can’t risk anyone knowing about my ability, because if the wrong person found out, it could be a death sentence. Although I’ve known Reed since we were preteens, he’s not the best person to confide in. He likes to run his mouth—especially when he’s drinking. Sometimes he doesn’t understand the potential consequences of his oversharing.

The Phantom knows, my inner voice reminds me.

I block it out.

“Are you coming or not?” I yell at Reed over the music, my sore throat protesting, and gesture toward my door.

When he hesitates, looking from me to Alisha, I scoff and shake my head.

“Aw come on, Tasia.” He steps forward, rubbing his neck. “It’s not like that. I just wanna relax and hang out, have some fun—”

“Fuck you,” I mutter as I step into my room and slam the door shut.

I flick on the light switch beside my door, and the tiny room is illuminated. Someone screeches, and two faces I don’t recognize peer up at me from my twin-size mattress resting on the floor. They scramble to use my blanket to cover their naked bodies.

The teddy bear my father gave me topples to the ground. It’s a sad, raggedy thing with matted brown fur and a missing eye.

“Give me that!” I step forward and snatch the bear before they can soil it with their disrespect. “Get out of my room!”

The curly-haired man’s glaze flicks between me and the girl in bed beside him. He shoots me a sheepish grin. “You can join us if you want.”

I exhale a deep breath. “Get. Out.”

With unhurried motions, the couple stands and re-dresses. I close my eyes and count to a hundred, snuggling the bear to my chest. When they finally leave, I slam the door behind them.

The past few days have been too much. I need a release.

Grabbing my mixed-media notebook and artist’s toolbox, I sit on the floor. The single lamp casts warm shadows over my art as I flip through the notebook. A myriad of faces and objects stare back at me as I search for the next empty page.

Once I’ve located it, I snap open the toolbox, and pull out the package of oil sticks. Some colors have been worn down to nubs, but I don’t have the funds for new ones. I snatch a black nub, the most heavily used color of all. My hand hovers above the paper, tracing air circles before landing on the page. I approach my work lightly, since I can add layers and blend later.

Soon, the emotions take over, and the art drowns out the rest of the world. Engrossed in my work, swapping out colors, I’m overcome by a surge of anger. I start applying more pressure to the pastels, making the colors more intense. The textured page absorbs the force. Each stroke in this gritty battle demands energy, force, and attention.

With the absence of blending sticks, I use a sock to vigorously blend the colors. By the time I’m done, my stained fingers ache. My wrist pulsates with pain. Chunks of oil pastels are caked beneath my fingernails. Despite being both emotionally and physically drained, I’m pleased. The final product gives the impression of being made with meticulousness rather than forcefulness.

Using oil pastels is different from painting with acrylics or watercolors. It’s not really painting at all, in my opinion. It’s tactile, requiring a certain amount of force. Pressure is necessary for creating art.

I can relate.

I choose to see life’s pressures as opportunities to be transformed into art, too.

When I finish, I study those recognizable gold eyes staring back at me. Just like the process itself, the man on the page possesses a brutal beauty.

Loud screams of excitement come from the living room, and the noise comes crashing into me, jarring me from my peaceful state.

I snap my art book shut, stuffing it and my toolbox into the closet. My head is a little clearer now, my breaths steadier, but somehow I’m no happier, despite finding artistic release.

My door slams open, and a couple practically falls through, colliding with me.

“Oh shit, sorry,” the girl says, laughing.

They barely spare me another glance before tumbling into my bed together.

I’m tired. So tired of this.

“Forget this shit.” Snatching my teddy bear from the floor, I clutch it to my chest with oil-pastel-stained fingers, willing the blooming tears not to fall. My phone and keys to The Rising Star are still in my pocket, so I exit my room and cross the living room, fleeing from the apartment. No one tries to stop me.

The tears break free when I’m bolting down the rickety stairs. They’re not tears of sorrow or even anger. My bone-deep exhaustion forms these tears, and as each one slides down my cheek, it’s a reminder of how devastatingly exhausted I am of this life. And how soul-achingly alone I am in it.