❝what's in a name?❞
ｗｉｌｌｉａｍ ｓｈａｋｅｓｐｅａｒｅ
___
ＳＯＭＥＯＮＥ is screaming, and it isn't me.
"Somebody, help her!" they say, "She's going to drown!"
...Cass?
Suddenly, the water around me stills. I feel myself being lifted out, floating in a body of water. Mere moments later, the feeling stops and I begin to drop back down. This time, however, I am caught between a pair of arms gripping me firmly to their owner's chest.
I can faintly hear my name being called. Over and over again. By different voices, in different volumes, in different tones.
"Emma!" they say desperately. "Wake up!"
"Emma! Can you hear us?" they clamour anxiously. "Help is on the way." But 'help' is not able to stop the voices from fading away.
"Emma!"
Nor does it stop their panders from muffling. Nor the niggling feeling of déjà vu that gnaws at my subconscious mind.
"Emma!"
But then, even that stops. And all that is left is darkness, and quiet.
"Emma?"
❧
The first time I was called 'Emma', I despised the name.
It was a week after joining the daycare at my parents' workplace and the only person I had talked to was the lady at the front desk who gave us juice boxes and toy games and checked on how we were doing every half hour.
The other half of 'us' (aka the little boy who was sat alone at the round table) did just that— sat alone. Despite my best efforts, he refused to speak a word to me all week. I was told he was shy. I always felt he just didn't like me. Otherwise he would've told me his name at least, right?
As the hours turned into days and the days into weeks, I progressively became obsessed with find out what his name was.
At first, the lady at the front desk wouldn't tell me. She believed I must have been too shy and often tried to convince me to ask myself. Nothing I said could convince her this was not the case. The whole thing seemed futile.
But then one day, my luck finally changed.
I was usually first to leave the nursery— if there was anything my parents were good at, it was keeping to a strict schedule. That day, they were running late— and the reason behind this quickly becomes apparent when I notice Mom and Dad sauntering along side another couple, laughing at whatever joke amuses people in their occupation.
The female of the couple momentarily broke away from the conversation to address us young folk who were still stuck in the daycare centre. The woman was young, blonde, fair, and spoke with a certain accented fondness when she uttered the magic words:
"C'mon, Nico, we can go home now."
My eyes lit up like a pair of firecrackers as I watched the little boy rise (with more vigour and enthusiasm than he had expressed in all the time we'd known each other), take her hand and follow her out the room.
By the time my parents came round to doing the same procedure with me, I had a grin on my face big enough to put the Cheshire Cat out of business.
Though I wouldn't be seeing 'Nico' again until the week after, I couldn't help but revel at this newfound piece of information.
The thing about names was, they gave you a certain form of power. Knowing a name granted acknowledgement. It gave you a certain amount of control of what you did with it; how you shared it, praised it, tarnished it. In your name held your reputation, your identity, a piece of your soul. And so with an air of pride the next week, I brandish my knowledge.
"I know what your name is." As a three-nearly-four year old, I didn't like to bother with niceties. It was always better to get straight to the point. "Your name is Nico."
The boy paused. He dropped his crayon and gave me a look. It was the sort of look that held a thousand emotions and hundred questions but none at the same time. In the silence it seemed like he was saying why-are-you-talking-to-me, do-you-have-to-sit-so-close, can-you-leave, but in reality, he said nothing. For a moment, I began to fear that was all he would do, when suddenly, he replied:
"Who told you that?" He had his eyes narrowed in suspicion, like he believed I had acquired this information through some dastardly underhanded means.
"I heard your mommy say it."
Nico grew quiet again. And then, "Well, you're wrong." I frown. "It's actually..."
Nico slurred out a long jumble of unpronounceable words that I forgot shortly after he uttered them. There was a hint of smug pride in his tone as he recited his name, not realising all I got out of it was 'Nicolas'.
I scrunched my nose in response. "That's not a real name."
Nico looked offended. "Yes it is," he was quick to fire back. "What's yours?"
Pleased he asked, I eagerly replied, "My name is Emerson Sparke. But everyone calls me Emmy."
It's Nico's turn to scrunch his nose. "Emmy is a dumb name."
"No it's not!"
"It is," Nicolas said decidedly. "I'm going to call you... Emma."
I gasped, enraged. "You can't do that!"
"Yeah I can, Emma," he added the last part childishly; the once rare smile broadening on his face as my cheeks flushed with anger.
"D-don't—" I stammered, "Don't call—"
❧
"DON'T CALL ME TH—at!"
My voice trails of when I regain consciousness. The harshness of the bright artificial lights hanging overhead cause me to wince, my hand automatically rising to shield my face from its rays.
I wasn't quite sure where I was.
Though on the upside, no one was around to witness my embarrassing outburst.
I am about to rise when a sudden pain shoots across my spine and through my joints like a thousand tiny, sharp knives. Reluctantly, I sink back into the bed and try to think of the last thing I remembered.
Right. The 'obstacle course' at the Dome. I had fallen... and by the numbing ache that I could feel throughout my body, I had bruised a couple parts along the way.
I chuckle bitterly to myself. Trust me to get into a situation like this. It was naïve of me to ever think I could be normal — even among 'freaks'.
One of my hands unconsciously goes to the necklace from my mother that currently rests on my collarbone. Whoever had changed my attire hadn't taken it off, which I was grateful for. Twirling my necklace around my fingers, I think back to how many times I'd woken up in a similar situation over the years.
Too many.
It made me tired. How different yet how familiar this all was. It made me wonder if I would always be stuck, living the tragedy that was the life of Lucy Brandson.
Silent and thinking, with the only noise being the quiet, steady beeping from the heart monitor, is how I am found moments later by a surprised looking nurse who looked like he had hurried down 3 flights of stairs to be here on time.
"Good, you are awake, there was a spike in your heartbeat which had us worried, but you seem well." He pulls out a clipboard hung by the door and begins to take notes. "How does your arm feel?"
Instinctively, I try raising the arm in which most of my discomfort was located, resulting a wince from me. "Okay, but hurts a little." The nurse nods and briefly notes this down. While he is silently writing, I ask, "Where am I?"
"The infirmary," the nurse replies simply. Content with whatever he had scribbled down, he looks up to inform me, "Dr Soho should be along any moment. She'll answer any further questions you have."
I nod mutely and allow him to exit the room again. Glancing around the room, my eyes zero in on a digital clock displaying the date and time.
Huh. I had only been out for a couple hours.
That was new.
❧
"You're supposed to be relaxing."
Professor Horowitz is one of many people who needed to stop being a worrywart.
If I had a dollar for every time that phrase had been said to me over the past week, I'd be rich enough to by my own private island and start my own school for super-powered adolescents.
Well, maybe, not quite— but the point still stands. Willow, Markus, Valerie, Logan and even Cass had taken it in turns to come visit during the short period I was quarantined in the infirmary. Complaining about lack of anything exciting to do, Markus had even once smuggled me in an ice-lolly to brighten my mood —though that was immediately confiscated as soon as one of the nurses found out.
Besides my friends/teammates, I got a few other visits from other classmates I vaguely recognised including the culprit behind my falling. It had never even occurred to me to be angry at whoever it was until I saw the guilt plastered all over his face. Fortunately however, all ill ease was resolved within a half hour conversation, and though I do not believe we had much potential of becoming the best of friends, we parted with an air of civility between us.
The only person who refuses to be civil is Professor Horowitz.
Last week, he complained about the fact our therapy session had had to be held in my sector of the infirmary while I recovered. This week, he is overly pedantic concerning my every move, as if believing I would worsen my injuries by simply inhaling too much air too quickly.
"It's only a sprained wrist and a mild concussion now," I tell him. "My ankle healed a few days ago and to be fair, I've sort of had the cold for a while now."
"You say that as if it negates my previous point," Horowitz responds flatly.
I roll my eyes. "I am relaxing. I spent the last week cooped up in the infirmary. Today's the first day I was actually allowed to return to my lessons and even then, I've had to have a chaperone attached to my hip all day to ensure I 'take it easy'."
Maybe Horowitz finally realises I had a point, or maybe he is just too tired to argue back, but he lets me win the dispute and moves on to a new conversation.
"Last week," he says, rifling through one of his notebooks, "you said you had a different dream to the ones you were used to having. Would you like to talk about that?"
He meant Nico.
My first enemy turned friend. The shy, quiet boy who was not exactly shy or quiet. And ever since my little accident on Friday, the new subject of my recurring nightmares.
They were nightmares because they all ended the same way: with a big, gaping hole of emptiness where a memory should be, left only with a big, red question mark.
I'm not sure what happened to Nico. And that thought makes me sick to my stomach. I was hardly in contact with anyone from my past. Sometimes I wonder if it's because they're all dead, and the thought terrifies me.
"Can we... talk about the Twenty Reasons instead," I suggest quietly.
Horowitz seems surprised. "Oh. Okay. Well, it has links to recent ongoing trauma so I was unsure whether you were ready to cope with it yet," he admits.
My eyes flicker up abruptly. "No, not at all. I don't see it as a trauma."
Horowitz raises an eyebrow. "Really? And why not? Most people would not consider the symptoms which you so casually brush aside as a positive experience."
"Well-" I hesitate. "It wasn't all positive. But I felt like it was a learning experience."
"Being blasted off a 60 feet totem pole made of ice?"
"No." I say pointedly, sending him a withering look with which he responds with battered lashes and feigned innocence. "I... was able to use my powers. For a moment, I was in complete control. And because of that, nothing else mattered."
"Nothing else as in...?"
"The notebook. The twenty reasons. It's important I take them into account, I understand. It's important to know the risks. Because me closing my eyes and pretending they don't exist doesn't mean they aren't still there. But in the end... I'll still take them."
Horowitz slowly nods. At first, he is indecipherable. I couldn't tell if he was happy or disappointed. But then, he smiles, and I can tell he is pleased.
"Well, I am glad you finally got the point of the exercise."
My eyebrows shoot up, I'm surprised. "I did?!"
"Yes," he says, getting up and handing the notebook to me. "The whole point of finding twenty reasons not to use your powers is deciding whether or not even with all odds against you, you still would. And it seems, you have made a decision."
"And.." I begin cautiously, rising to my feet after him, "did I make the right decision?"
"Well," Horowitz says kindly, "only time will tell. All we can do is hope."
I remain quiet.
"Hrm, I say we've made progress this term, would you not?" Horowitz muses.
I perk up. "Hmm?"
"Have you forgotten already? This is our last session of the year," he reminds me. "Aren't you happy to be going home?"
He was right. With today being a Monday and the Dauntley Academy closing earlier than most schools... I had less than a week before I'd be back in Haven again. The thought had yet to occur to me, but needless to say... it brought me immense comfort.
"Yes," I reply, smiling fondly to myself, "I am."
Whistling a cheery Christmas tune, Horowitz holds the door open for me. We exchange our final goodbyes before parting ways. Professor Horowitz is now humming his tune. It's loud and comical and though he's already halfway down the corridor in the opposite direction, it causes me to laugh.
My laughter does not last long.
I am forced to halt in my tracks when a gurney rushes past me, with a pair of medics at either side manning the wheeled stretcher like it's a matter of life and death.
Something is wrong.
This wing rarely gets busy. And if I couldn't tell something was up from the way people were flying in all different directions, the snippets of their conversations that I am able to catch are enough to create some alarm.
"Young, male, white..."
"...Displayed evidence of abilities."
"Critical condition..."
"...Miracle he's still alive."
"Found onshore... Mainland... closest place with facilities."
"...Identification?"
"None at all... on any of our databases."
I remember Morgana saying they kept tabs on all those with abilities. And yet, no one was able to identify the nameless kid strapped to a gurney, being peddled down a hallway in a race against death.
Nameless.
Name.
Names.
And suddenly, the rest of the memory resurfaces.
❧
My face was still red and puffed. His was still stupid, smug and painfully impassive. In a moment, the lady at the front desk was going to intervene, but I couldn't let him win.
"FINE!" I declared, cutting off the rest of his taunting. "If you're going to call me Emma, then—then... I'm gonna call you..."
I falter. My mind was running blank — but he didn't need to know that. To stall for time, I repeat myself:
"I'm gonna call you..."
❧
Like Lazarus rising from the dead, the boy lurches forward, as if trying to free himself of his restraints. Hands push back against him, words are used as sedatives to reassure him, but it doesn't seem to be working. He had a wild look about him. Cold and feral.
But then for one second only, his eyes meet mine and he stops struggling.
In fact, everything stops.
My heart stopped beating, his mind stopped racing, the clock stopped ticking, the gurney stopped moving. Everything stopped. Maybe not literally, but in that moment, it felt like time slowed down.
All that there is, is me and the Lazarus boy who is staring at me. Something flickers in his eyes. Confusion? Familiarity? Both...?
Something is wrong. And he knows it too.
"I'm gonna call you..." I had said.
A word begins to form on his lips. It doesn't seem like a conscious action. The syllables flow off his lips like he's said them time and time again for years and years and years.
As he breathes it out, I realise it isn't just any word. It's a name.
"Emmy?" It's a whisper. His voice is low, quiet and unsteady. His words are almost impossible to pick up.
But I do.
All too quickly time speeds up again. Air flushes back into my lungs, and my heart resumes thrumming violently against my ribcage and the gurney is racing down the hall, taking a sharp corner and disappearing out of view.
All the while, a memory still plays in my head.
"I'm gonna call you..."
Nicolas.
Nicolas.
Nicolas.
Ni
Col
As.
And then something clicks. And I don't know why, but only one word comes to mind. He is gone and there is no one to hear me, but it plays at the tip of my tongue, like the tune of a catchy song that refuses to be silenced and restricted to the mind. It wants to be sang aloud. It wanted to be heard.
So alone, in a quiet voice directed at no one in particular, I utter a single name:
"Cole...?"
:: 💫 ::
I appreciate the fact that this chapter may be a little confusing to read to anyone who isn't me, so feel free to ask or leave suggestions if any parts seem off / too indecipherable.
So... On to the actual chapter. This is the last chapter of Part One. Probably not as dramatic as I've been making it out to be, but I'd like to think it's pivotal in a sense. This chapter was originally going to be called 'Resurface' due to all the references- Emma out of the water, memories that had been buried long again etc. However, I feel 'Lazarus' is also quite fitting. Emma has finally met someone from her past (and talk about coincidence, amirite?).
What secrets could the mysterious Cole hold for Emma?
Find out next time*... on Freaks!
(*expect 2 more updates before Christmas- hopefully!)
That's all for now...
♕ Carmen ♕