Bill

When I took her hand, I opened myself up to a small mental connection. It was instant, and I knew right then she was feeling a riot of emotions. It wasn’t fair; I knew that. But if ever there was a reason to use an ability to understand someone, it was certainly for moments like this.

Izabella was naturally guarded, and the bravado she had about bringing me to her place faded between my office and her front door. Once we were here, it had put her on the defensive. I immediately sensed that she’d never brought anyone here. Her business and apartment were a place she felt safe. That would certainly explain some of the security. The showroom downstairs was exactly that, for show, for passers-by, not for real buyers. The upstairs was her domain completely. I felt her mood shift as we reached the apartment door.

It did give me more questions than answers, and I wondered what she was going to show me other than her living space. There was certainly something unique about her, but I didn’t pry or look for that. The emotions were enough. Sharing was a large step for her. It would be a large step for anyone, really, but this seemed monumental to her based on the emotions I sensed.

I was willing to forgive her anger from earlier. It was understandable. Even her defensiveness made sense. Though if she had persisted with it, I would have left. I have feelings, and I wasn’t about to stand around and listen to excuses or half-truths.

People can lie to themselves, but I’m not fond of being lied to myself. The most painful things are in the truth. The easiest way to wound someone is to tell them the truth. Lies have to pile up first before they harm things. I prefer the clean, sometimes deep, cut of truthfulness rather than the stench of lies.

Don't be surprised about that. Need I remind you I have morals, and a code. I suppose there are more amoral demons, but I suspect they don't survive long.

She opened a door at the top of the stairs, and it led to a landing with an open space that should have been a living room, but it was devoid of furniture. There was a small nook kitchen, but it looked barely used. She held my hand as we walked past a bathroom that looked pristine and then down the short hall to two doors—one on either side of the hallway.

Of the two doors, one was open. It showed a tidy bedroom space and shelves of books. There were so many books and shelves that they took up the available wall space from floor-to-ceiling. I wasn’t even sure I could reach some of them myself without a step stool. The lack of electronics was stark. No view screen. Not even a clock or a computer. I knew she used them. Her break-in of the vault told me that much. They might be hidden, but I would bet a gold coin that her personal space lacked them for a reason.

Instead of going into her bedroom, we turned toward the closed door. She opened it, and there was a large bin of white sand. It was a very fine-grained kind that was bought instead of created naturally. It seemed clean. We stood there for a moment, and I looked at her.

“Um, you take sand baths?” It was the only thing that made sense somewhat. Call it an educated guess.

She laughed. It was like music, and it broke some of the tension between us. “After a fashion.”

Izabella let go of my hand and moved toward the hooks on the wall. She removed her coat, then followed it with her shoes and every other stitch of clothing she wore. When she was nude, she stepped into the box.

“It will be easier to show you. Don’t be scared.” She shook her head. “Nevermind about the scared part, I doubt this will bother you considering what you’ve had to deal with before. Understand that I’m okay. If you want, you can read my thoughts.”

“Alright.” I was perplexed, but not scared. She was right. I’d seen much stranger things more than likely, but I’ve been surprised by her before.

A moment later, she dissolved into the sand and spread across it like an oil slick. The colors were brilliant, and I stood there, astonished for a moment. It was surprising, but not scary, and quite beautiful. As the slick dissipated into the rest of the container, I could see it moving through the sand like a worm in a viewing farm.

I squatted next to the container and reached a hand in to see what kind of thoughts I could obtain from the entity that floated within.

“Izzy. Izabella, are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m me, more or less.”

Her voice came across as an echo. Normally it was very clear. I wasn’t sure why that was, but it made me curious.

“Can you take your form again?”

“Yes. I can do that. Remove your hand, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I did as she asked though I was curious what it would feel like to have her form around me.

Moments later, the oil slick coalesced, and she rose out of the sand like something from an ancient prophetic script. I looked up at her as she reshaped herself into the form that was familiar to me.

“Izzy, huh?” She asked.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she said as she stood there with her hands clutched in front of her and a soft, bashful smile on her face.

I canted my head to look at her. “You have no idea what you are.”

“You read that from my mind?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “What’s more shocking, though, for as long as I’ve been around, I’ve never seen anything like you either. I don’t know what you are. I wish I could tell you.”

She stood looking at me, and I offered my hand to her, and she stepped out of the sandbox.

“You’re a remarkable, unique person Izabella Gobel. And I’m very lucky to have met you.” I meant every word I said, knowing full well that the moment was fragile, and our relationship was fragile as well.

I brought her into my arms, and she pressed herself against me and wrapped her arms around my neck. She shook in my arms and looked at her. If I hadn't been holding her and keeping up the barest mental contact, I wouldn’t have realized she was crying. No tears came, no mucus. Only quiet sobs that shook her one moment, and caused her to draw air the next.

I picked her up and walked her across to the room that held most of her personality. From the books to the careful way the bed was made. Exact. Precise. Clean. I noticed she was clean too. Her skin felt fresh, and none of the sand had clung to her form.

I pulled back the covers and slipped her between them. It was the only thing I could think to do at that moment that might comfort her. I took off my shoes, shed my coat, and moved to the other side of the bed. She looked up at me as I sat down.

“I’m….”

“Izzy, don’t. Don’t apologize. I understand where you are better than you think. Rest. When you feel better, we’ll order dinner or go out, whichever you prefer.”

She nodded, turned away from me, and laid her head down. I picked up the first book neatly stacked on her nightstand. It was a well-worn copy of Octavia Butler’s “Lilith’s Brood.” As I read through the first few chapters, I understood her obsession with this particular book. Whether it was the characters themselves, or the themes around the book about survival and what the word human means, it wasn’t hard to see why she liked it.

I looked up and took in my surroundings. Books along every wall, from floor to ceiling, which only left two doors. One to a closet, and the one that stood open to the rest of the apartment. A scan of the titles told me that she read nearly everything. Poetry, fiction, non-fiction, prose. Subjects which ranged from women’s studies to theories of physics. I wondered what drew her interests in so many different directions.

The other thing this place of hers screamed was that it was meant to be temporary, not long term. Izzy never meant to stay after she acquired the item from me. The fact that she had, even without acquiring it might mean something, but I had no idea what. I had always considered her a mystery, but I hadn’t thought she’d be a mystery to herself as well.