The Otherworlds

Chapter Eleven

James

I WAS HIDING WITH HER, my small body pressed against hers. She was crying, but I covered up her mouth, trying to muffle the noise. It was dark, and there were walls and a small board above our heads, closing in on us. I was ten, and she was just six, a small little youth. Our wings were pressed against our bodies, overly uncomfortable, but we dared not leave the cupboard.

I heard a thumping outside, and felt Ella wrap her arms even tighter around my forearm, squeezing it so hard it was almost painful. I didn't mind the pain. The pain reminded me that I was still alive, still breathing. And so was she. The thumping came closer to the concealed cupboard that we were hiding in, and I held my breath. It stopped right outside, and I felt as though if I even shifted a centimeter, we would be found. Slowly, I heard the sound of boots scraping on wood fade away. I still held Ella tight, and I heard her whispering softly, praying, I realized. I was about to call her out for being a fool, but if this was what helped her through this, then so be it, I would let her pray.

We waited there for hours, in the darkness, even after the sounds of people had long since faded into the soft, rattling wind. Still, we held our breaths, waiting in the cold. I could feel the darkness closing around me, wrapping its invisible talons around my throat, suffocating me. I could feel the walls closing in around me, trapping me in this cold and desolate place. My sister's sharp breaths slowly faded, she had either fainted or fallen asleep. She was silent either way, for which I was grateful.

When I was sure that no one was in the house anymore, I shook Ella awake. "What's happening James? I'm scared. Where's Ma?" I couldn't answer any of those questions, we had just heard a scream, and rushed inside to find men in black uniforms scouring and rampaging the house. Before they could see us, I pushed Ella into the small hidden cupboard in the living room, going in there with her, shutting and locking the door and praying that no one had heard nor seen us. We wait and wait and wait, until the sound of the breathing fades away, until we no longer hear footsteps, until I haven't moved so long I am just a corpse, prone to fade to dust and be scattered across the winds, never heard, seen, nothing more than one small, wrong note played for less than half a second, in the orchestra of the universe. Still, somebody might have noticed. Somebody may have cared. But they could never see us, never determine the source of the one player that dared make a different noise, that dare sing a different song.

We slowly clambered out of the cupboard, looking left and right, blooms of dust unfurling as we stepped out. I held Ella's hand as we moved, not making a single noise. Our little mice feet had left the little cracked hole in the wall, going through the kitchen full of angry chefs, underfoot and hopefully out of mind. I tiptoed with Ella out of the main room, its rotting walls splattered with dry blood. We padded into the hallway that led outside, breathing fast and hard, our hearts like rabid animals in our chests, pounding and trying so hard to break themselves out of our rib cages.

Suddenly, I heard voices coming up from the cellar. The cellar. It was low and far enough below the ground that Ella and I would not have heard a single thing, and large enough that they were spending the entire hour that we were waiting in the cupboard searching its clattered contents.

Ella and I started running, bolting, as fast as we could, down the hallway, not caring at all about the noise that we were making, because we would have already likely been found had we not started running, for it was too late now to hide, to cower, for we were hungry and thirsty and could not even spend another hour in the cabinet before we would have to come out and search for the necessary amenities.

The rotting wooden floorboards groaned and creaked beneath our feet, and as Ella and I reached the very end of the hallway, I skidded to a stop and grabbed two threadbare, homespun cloaks, and gave one to Ella. Our mother was faerie. They were looking for more faeries. We would not last an hour if we did not cover our wings and ears. Plus, they would make for good warmth if we could not find a place to sleep for the night. Ella took the cloak, her baby hands swimming in the extra material, the bottom of the cloak almost touching the ground, and I quickly swung the cloak over my shoulders, pulled on the hood, and flattened my wings so hard to my body that it hurt. Ella did the same, and when she sagged underneath the weight of the relatively light material, I realized that she could never keep up with me, not even for a minute.