The Day I Wore Purple

10.2 Generation 9

hannah didn't tell jon about the urn during their slow drift apart. lack of communication was a mistake she had made before, but the distance was growing and it was only jon's naive cuddles that gave her momentary comfort.

how was he able to exorcise his demons? she wondered. he was no longer haunted by the events of april eighteen or the attacks in year 52. he never obsessed over the death of his brother, parents, ex-wife, or aimee.

it seemed like every other mind had forgotten their scars. had the system become t4 for the human brain? repairing lesions left by painful events of past lives? eradicating cancerous memories hell-bent on neurological annihilation? why was hannah's mind the only mind unaffected by the healing power of eternal pleasure?

it was one of those rare days in the somewhere when hannah met herself.

flower in her hair, she did her best to engage. she laughed with friends, listened to gossip, and brushed off accolades from minds who recognized her as their favorite worldbuilder. human interaction was one of the few ways she could experience the beauty of the unexpected as conversation danced with the unpredictable whims of other human minds.

suddenly, hannah noticed a woman who looked exactly like her; a mid-century whore sporting a black dress, ten silver necklaces, and orange braids. hannah checked the profile of her doppelgänger. the woman was human, female, and 18/35. (if her age was correct, she must have been born to mortie parents.)

curious, hannah tapped her on the shoulder. "hey there."

"hi..." the woman began, then she saw hannah's face. "oh," she muttered, then maintained a frozen smile as she scanned hannah's CIN. "you're... her."

human minds usually vanished at the first threat of awkward confrontations, but the woman stood her ground. "it was my boyfriend's idea!" she confessed. "don't get me wrong. you're beautiful. but i wouldn't look like this if i had a choice."

"who's your boyfriend?"

the woman hesitated. "brock foster."

for a split second, hannah's memory conjured the image of a man stoned and naked on her masdar bed. on impulse, she blocked the woman, turning her into a coloring-book outline without a face. "i don't care what you look like," hannah said. "but i'd rather not see it."

the woman responded, but to hannah, the words were garbled and incoherent.

finally, after years of ignoring it, hannah succumbed to the beckoning of the urn.

"what do you want!" she lunged for the vase, but it slid just out of reach. she stepped forward... and it moved again. it was leading her.

off the edge of her spire it fell, so she jumped. arms wide through the open sky—descending through canopies of felt leaves—she reached the forest floor and found herself face-to-face with strawberry vines, the red brick wall, and the pair of wooden doors. the urn was at her side.

crushed daisies served as a sad welcome mat to the lefthand door. in the silence, she heard a distant, creeping hiss.

the urn twirled in the space between hannah and the door. she reached again, and this time, it let her grab it. the base was the same size as the indention in the door, so she pressed the urn into the notch and felt it click in place like a puzzle piece. the jar turned. the door unlocked.

it was a stairwell—the stairwell—with wide steps and even lighting.

hannah keeled to her knees and vomited, then she slammed the door, transported to the middle of nowhere—the blank arena with no life, no witnesses, no judges—and command her body into arousal. she could have climaxed instantly if she wished... but that wasn't as fun. instead, she taught herself to control anticipation, to withhold desire, to distract herself once and for all from the call of the stairs.