Sort of Dead

71 - Old Ghosts, Past Mistakes

Marra's POV:-

You remember Gaba. The Great And Big Abomination. I know you do. He's not much of a forgettable guy. I hope you also remember how much of a jerk he was. I want you to reminisce on it. How we served him right with theatre props and how he left the {Undisclosed} school soon thereafter.

Well, he's right here in the dungeon with me.

Let me explain.

Firstly, it's not much of a dungeon in the first place. It's more of a portion of the dungeon. Like, I'm on one half of it. Nosferatu knows what's on the other half.

Oh, right. Gaba. Yeah, he's here. I'm pretty sure he's an illusion, but that doesn't make it less excruciating.

He's pacing in front of me. His donkey face and goblin ears and mean eyes and burly muscles are not a problem. The problem is his mouth. He is constantly talking, talking of things that deliberately hurt me. Of how I scared him so much, he had to go to mental therapy sessions, of how he had to change school, of how he lost his meal for days . . .

I try to shunt him. I whisper 'not real, not real, not real' under my breath and sometimes he does go away, leaving me and my contemplation alone for a bit. But he always comes back. In an hour, or in two. But he always does. Torturing me.

Well played, witches. Well played indeed.

There's nothing to do except wait. Wait for what? I don't know. Something. For Mr. Cellomann to come down to the dungeon and tell me Aar and Bee and Mr. Om had starved to death. That Rasthrum had turned back to the Dark Side, to his mother. That he had caught Es. That I was going to stay here forever. Something.

I will starve, I will be sick, I will be driven mad - but I will stay alive. That's my curse. It has never been worse.

I lean back against the wall that separates my half of the dungeon from the other portion of it. I try to meditate. I've always thought meditation was stupid. Who can sit cross-legged for minutes, with closed eyes, trying to attain peace? I'd rather have pizza than peace, thank you very much.

But right now, there seems to be nothing else I can do. The Coven should at least have had the courtesy to send Pac-Man down here with me if they were going to torture me as such.

Whatever. Let me try to cogitate, drown in the pool of my thoughts.

Closing my eyes. Right. That's better.

Illusory Gaba will be back soon.

Nevermind. Don't think of him. Think of . . . I don't know. Don't think at all. Cool. Yeaaaahh. Perfect.

Es. Where are you, Es? If they didn't catch you, where are you? Are you safe and sound?

No, no, no. Mar, come on. Don't think of her. She is okay. I can feel it. Empty your mind. Hear no sounds and see no sights.

I try to hold my breath till I die, but I guess Bee was right. It can't be done. It must have been something I could do only in the vision. Well, poop.

No sounds, Mar. No -

Wait, but there is a sound. From behind me. Someone is saying something. It's a familiar voice.

My eyes jolt open and I turn, electrified, crane my ear up to the wall demarcating the dungeon into half.

'. . . hell with it!'

'Mr. Om? Is that you?'

There is an anticipating silence hanging in the air, and then a shuffling of feet as I hear whoever is on the other side come closer to the wall.

'Mar?'

My Uncle's voice. It really is him. Or is it an illusion?

'I'm not an illusion, Mar,' he says, reading my thoughts. 'I hope you're not, either.'

Somehow I believe him. 'I am not.'

A sigh of relief on his side.

Realization strikes me like lightening strikes a lone tree. He is going to die in the matter of a few hours. Do I want him to die thinking his nephew despises him? Who thought it would take a wall between us, and the looming threat of death, to make me say the words I have been waiting to say for so long?

Finally, at long last, I govern my tongue: 'I - I am sorry . . . Uncle.'

Crying. Low, undramatic crying on his side. 'No, Mar,' he says. 'It was all my fault. If I had never taken your parents here, if I had never meddled with things that I don't understand to curb my selfishness - '

'Hey, hey,' I soothe. 'It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter now.'

A pause. More weeping. Exhausted, reprehensible weeping. 'I guess you're right. It doesn't.'

I don't know what to say.

Uncle does, apparently. 'Your parents, Mar. They'll hate me. I am your godfather. I was supposed to protect you . . . it's - I - I deserve this.'

'No. Please don't say that. None of us knew better.'

He doesn't say anything. Neither do I. Behind me, Gaba has started pacing again. Ugh, won't these witches leave me alone?

I won't be able to speak after a couple more hours. I haven't had water, or food, or anything.

But Mr. Om and the others have it worse: they'll downright die.