Inversion

Chapter XII

The stale, quiet air of your bedroom was a blanket, heavy with the scent of old laundry and the faint, metallic tang of the autumn chill seeping through the window frame. You were sprawled on your bed, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a screaming face—a fitting mural for your life. The static in your head was a low, companionable hum today, the kind that felt more like white noise than a scream. For once, it was almost peaceful.

Then you heard it.

A sound that didn't belong. Not the groan of the house settling, or the distant rumble of a car. It was a sharp, electric crackle, followed by a hiss of static so distinct it made the hair on your arms stand up. It was a sound from your world, a ghost in the machine.

Fzzzt—krshhh—

Your eyes snapped open. You knew that sound. You hadn't heard it in three years.

Slowly, silently, you pushed yourself up from the mattress, the springs letting out a soft, protesting sigh. You padded across the worn rug, your socks making no sound. The door to your room was slightly ajar. You peered through the crack.

There she was. Eleven. A small, hunched figure sitting cross-legged in the dim hallway light, her back to you. The grey hoodie you'd given her swallowed her whole, making her look like a little ghost. And in her hands, clutched so tightly her knuckles were white, was the walkie-talkie.

It was an old, clunky thing, its yellow plastic shell scuffed and faded. You'd found it in a box of this world's forgotten junk when you first arrived, a pathetic attempt to feel connected to something, anything, that reminded you of home. You'd never gotten it to work, which was obvious. The batteries had probably corroded to dust years ago.

But she was holding it like a lifeline. Her head was bowed, her entire body trembling with concentration. You saw her thin shoulders tense.

"Mike... Mike, can you... hear me?"

Her voice was a raw, desperate whisper, scraped from the very bottom of her soul. It was a prayer sent into a dead wire.

Oh, kid. No.

You felt it then, a shift in the air. Not from the walkie-talkie, but from her. A familiar pressure began to build, the same one you felt in your own skull when the static got too loud. The hall light above her flickered, the bulb letting out a weak, dying buzz. She was pouring everything she had—every ounce of her loneliness, her guilt, her need—into a piece of plastic that was never going to answer.

The walkie-talkie remained silent. A dead, useless brick.

A small, wounded sound escaped her, a sob she tried to swallow. Her head drooped lower, the shorn vulnerability of her scalp stark in the flickering light.

That's when you pushed the door open the rest of the way. The floorboard under your foot gave its signature, betraying creak.

Eleven flinched so hard she nearly dropped the device. She scrambled, a frantic, clumsy movement, trying to shove the walkie-talkie behind her back, her eyes wide with the guilt of a caught thief.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest. The leather of your jacket gave a soft creak. You let the silence hang for a moment, thick and uncomfortable, before you spoke, your voice a low, dry drawl that cut through the tense quiet.

"The hell you doing...?"

She shrunk into herself, becoming even smaller within the hoodie's fabric. Her gaze dropped to the floor, refusing to meet yours. "None," she whispered, the lie fragile and transparent as glass.