Ten & Levan

7. Seven

LEVAN

I'm starting to doubt myself.

I'm a completely different person when I'm outside; alone and together with Ten. I don't know the Levan who smiles or laughs, I don't even know the Levan that talks as much as I did yesterday. Who are all these extra versions of me? I wonder if I have some kind of multiple personality issue because I don't even know who I am anymore. Outside, I am unleashed, I bolder, like the sky could eat me up and I'd still be blown away; scattered like dry, crunchy leaves in a hurricane. Outside, I'm so far away from the Levan who lives in the dead house that I almost forget he exists.

I frown; unable to understand how stepping inside a house can make me feel so differently. Maybe it's because mom's sun doesn't shine here anymore. Maybe it's because dad's burnt-up, dark, dead sun is what rules the land now. Maybe that's why we're doomed; me and my other fellow selves. Maybe that's why there's no oxygen, no air, no light. There's no existence inside the Dead House.

But everything I'd felt yesterday at the park is back, and it hits me with the force of a tidal wave. I can feel the wind in my hair, the sun shining into my eyes, the sky trying to eat my small, small self. Outside never felt so...outside before. It's like I'm outside my damned body. What a mindfuck.

Even though I keep my lips sealed, Ten never stops chattering about how she really wants to learn to walk a tightrope. Maybe she doesn't care if I don't respond. Maybe she's okay with me letting my thoughts swallow me whole. Maybe she just wants to speak. And holy hell does she speak a lot. She's been going on and on and on.

Half an hour later, she is still singing a never-ending song about tightropes. On our drive to Bike Station, a store that lends bikes like a library lends books, she tells me how she once went to watch a magic show when she was seven and the magician made his assistant 'walk on air'. But as clever as seven year old Ten was, she knew the girl was walking a tightrope that blended with the background and she was fascinated anyway, and so she has always been looking for an opportunity to learn to walk a rope.

I listen to her endless blabber and wonder if this girl has a speaking disorder. Then I wonder if there even is such a disorder. What if I'm the one who has the disorder, a disorder for not speaking too much? Will I become mute if I don't speak for days and days? Will that give me any peace of mind? Will then, the silent noise just get tired and leave? Ten snaps her fingers in front of my eyes as she takes off her seatbelt.

"We're here," she chimes, opening her door and slipping out of the car. I do the same and follow her inside the store.

"Um, why are we lending bikes, again?" I ask her, letting go of my silence, as I catch up with her near the reception.

"Because, Number Eleven," she peers at me through her lashes, "we'll be biking up the cliff, into the woods, and then we'll use my little legs and your tall ones to roam around and explore!" she puts her plans forth with lots of gestures, a huge toothy smile iced with a wink. I shudder inwardly.

"Hello? Is anybody here?" she yells, leaning over the vacant counter and looking behind it. A man emerges from the door right beside the counter, Ten pays for lending two bikes for four hours and the man leads us to his garage where he has almost thirty bicycles parked up. Ten picks out an orange one for herself and an all-black for me. Thoughtful. We're also offered helmets but both of us refuse to wear them. I'd look like a freak in a helmet, I think immediately.

"I'd look like a freak in a helmet," she says, shrugging. I frown.

It's been a long time since I've been on bike, so I cycle in circles where we've parked Ten's car for a while, it's awkward. When I'm sure I'm not going to fall off and break my neck, we go into the unknown. No, seriously, I blindly follow Ten as we ride up the hill. She's merry happy, smiling wide while the sun melts us like ice cream. There's wind in her dark, dark hair and it flies everywhere. I'm sure I can hear it snarl.