Michael M. Jones

I am a shadow who once was a girl.

I flit through the hallways, darting from one dark place to another, leaping from person to person as they talk and laugh in the brief moments between classes. Every now and again, someone detects my presence, shivering despite the late spring heat and ineffectual air conditioning. Even rarer, one of them stops and turns, trying to figure out what they’ve seen out of the corner of an eye.

A bubbly gaggle of girls comes out of the bathroom, giggling over some shared joke. I linger on the nearby lockers and borrow one brunette’s laugh, trying it on for size. My attempt to join in comes just as the group quiets; they look around, baffled and just a little uncomfortable.

The laugh doesn’t feel right to me and I leave it behind as I continue my journey. The girls’ group disbands as they move along to their various classes, their shadows following obediently, nothing more than patches of darkness.

I duck through a door just as its closing, and for the next while enjoy a class on poetry while resting in the shadow of a young man who spends the period making obscene doodles in his notebook. It takes energy for me to move about on my own but I am rejuvenated by the lifeless shadows of other people. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to stay with a person, to live their life as they do, to be their shadow, instead of on my own. I often find myself “shopping” for people as one would a dress.

Robert Frost doesn’t move the boy in the least so when the class is over, I abandon him without a second thought.

And so the day goes, with me picking and choosing from everything the school offers its hundreds of students. I learn about the Great Depression in American History, listen to verbs being conjugated in French, and look over shoulders as students conduct weird experiments in Physics. The lectures echo inside me with odd familiarity, though today they feel new and interesting.

When classes let out for the day, I go to play in the shadows of the auditorium, where they assemble sets and rehearse for the spring musical. The auditorium is perhaps my favorite place in the entire school because its backdrops and catwalks, its curtains and dangling roles, create a playground of light and shadow, and who’d notice if something flickers and darts in a way it shouldn’t? The lighting designer keeps yelling for adjustments, causing students to scramble up ladders to reposition equipment. I probably shouldn’t tease him so.

But eventually, everyone leaves for the night. Lights are turned off, doors shut firmly, and I am all alone, save for the single light left on stage as part of theatre tradition. It creates the best shadows, and I dance through them until reality sinks in.

With the school empty, I can no longer distract myself.

I am a shadow that once was a girl. I play at fitting in by attending classes and listening to conversations, but I am alone.

I had a body once.

I remember it like a much-faded dream.

Something happened and the body and I parted ways. Was it dead or simply lost?

When I think of the body—of my former self—I conjure an image of a young woman who’d be right at home in these halls. Blonde and blue-eyed, with fair skin and soft features but when I focus on the details, they slip away like mist in the sunlight.

I think something bad happened. I think—NO!

When I return to my senses I’m far from the auditorium, pressed into the corner of a classroom with morning light streaming in through the windows.

This happens whenever I dwell on the unknown past too often. It’s taught me to avoid the hard questions as much as possible. And yet…the curiosity nibbles at my resolve, leading to moments of weakness. Perhaps if I try too hard, I’ll remember everything, or lose it all for good.

The next day is Friday and as soon as that final bell rings students stream for the exits, chattering about dates and parties and all the other details that make up their weekend lives. But when I try to leave the school, I’m stopped at the doors by an invisible barrier. I am tied to this building. I can stand at the door like a child with its nose pressed against the window of a toy store but I can go no further. I don’t even bother trying to push at the boundaries. They never budge. Instead, I aim, as always, for the auditorium where I know I’ll find people in rehearsals.

The sound of crying catches my attention. This is not an unusual sound in itself; school has a way of bringing out emotions one prefers to leave hidden. But this sounds different from the “I failed a test” sob of frustration or the “we broke up” expression of heartbreak. This is despair and hurt, and it sparks some instinct I can’t quite explain. I follow it into the girls’ restroom, ducking under the door and along the floor. I find the source of the crying huddled in the corner of the handicapped stall, a girl who has tucked her knees against her chest, arms wrapped tight around them as if to present the smallest possible target. A backpack is nearby, its contents strewn on the floor, papers torn and wet, books much-abused.

I know her, if only by sight. A freshman, a loner, not part of any pack or clique. She always keeps her head down, gaze fixed on her feet. She rarely speaks up, and sits alone at lunchtime. Sometimes, she seems miserable. Today, she’s wrapped up in utter despondence.

With an entire school at my disposal, I’d never given this girl much notice. I’d followed the bright, shiny ones, the noisy ones, the ones who I most wanted to be like. She had been in the background, part of the faceless crowd, easy to ignore.

Much like myself. I felt a sudden pang of empathy as I realized we’d both been invisible, though for different reasons.

I flit closer, as if I can comfort her somehow. Her shadow lashes out at me, and I retreat quickly, startled by its vehemence. It’s like an angry guard dog, fangs bared, and I can’t come any closer. There’s a puddle of shadows by the door, and I take up a wary position there. I’ve never encountered a shadow like hers before, active and aware and aggressive. It’s not like me. I don’t sense an awareness, merely a raw, seething mass of pain and anger.

The crying eventually stops, and the girl gathers her belongings and leaves. I follow her to the main door, where I can’t go any further, watching until she’s out of sight. Then, it’s off to the auditorium, but even there, I can’t get her out of my thoughts. Her shadow intrigues and bothers me. I must learn more.

Over the course of the next week, I make a point of studying the girl, though always at a safe distance. I attend classes with her. I’m under the table at lunch. I’m always watching but I never get close enough to risk her own shadow’s wrath. Its volatility fascinates and frightens me. Shadows are supposed to behave themselves. I was the exception.

As I pay attention to the girl, I learn several things. Her name is Madeline, and she always has the right answer when called upon in class, but never volunteers otherwise. She loves poetry. She has no friends. Sometimes she stands close to the theatre or art crowds, radiating silent longing, but she doesn’t seem to know how to get involved. She was homeschooled until this year, when her family moved to Puxhill and she still hasn’t adjusted. This last I learned by chance when she was called in to talk with the guidance counselor.I pay closer attention, not just to Madeline, but to those around her. I get as close as I can without her shadow snapping at me, even when it means I’m wrapped around a chair leg or squeezed into a corner. Then I see it, the way she stares at another girl, a mean-spirited queen bee whose soft beauty conceals a poisonous soul. Madeline watches her with a mix of desire and dread, and the gaze lasts just a little too long for it to be casual. It’s a little too frequent to be accidental.

Oh, Madeline, no.

It strikes me right to my core, the certainty brought by realization.

I know that forbidden feeling. These bullies know Madeline is different even if she doesn’t know herself.

I once shadowed the queen bee, attracted by her popularity and beauty like a moth to the flame. Unlike the moth, I recognized a danger and fled when I realized she thrived on tearing down others.

The queen bee and her swarm catch Madeline after school, crowding her into the restroom where they taunt and tease her. Words like dyke, lezzie, fag and freak stab into her, vile and poisonous. They accuse her of staring in the locker room, getting too close in the showers after gym. They tell her she’s ugly and no guy or girl will ever want her. As their words take on an awful droning, I shrink back into the shadows, reeling as though I am under attack, something dark and vicious stirring deep within me. Madeline wilts under the onslaught knees buckling under the unfair weight of the slurs and accusations. Her back finds the wall, and she crumples to the ground in a forlorn heap, head buried in her arms to block out the taunts. One girl draws back to kick her, the queen bee purses her lips as if to spit. I reach into the hallway where I find some passing jocks. I borrow one’s deep voice and enthusiasm, and cry out in protest. The queen bee and her friends are startled enough to stop, to leave before they’ve had their fill of abuse.

Madeline weeps. Her shadow snarls and lashes out at me when I approach. I wish I could say something to make it all better, but my attempt to help has exhausted me. Who listens to disembodied voices anyway?

Long after she leaves I remain in the restroom, lost in thought. My memories stir and swirl, bringing me dangerously close to the awful truth behind my origins. I smell aftershave and sweat, experience phantom fingers on my body and a soreness between my legs. Pleasure and pain. Satisfaction and guilt. Desire and shame.

I’m torn between pushing for enlightenment and retreating to safety. Before I can make up my mind, things settle back into place and the sensation is lost. If I could cry with frustration and relief, I would.

The next day, Madeline seems different. She walks in despair, her shadow fierce and angry. Her eyes are haunted and empty. Something has broken within her, and now she’s brittle, ready to shatter at any moment. I’m there when everything falls apart. It’s in English after lunch, and she’s already in her seat when the queen bee enters. They lock gazes, and the queen bee’s lip curls. “Just wait until I tell everyone,” she hisses so only Madeline (and I) can hear. She holds up her phone and taps it meaningfully.

Madeline flees, tears already forming. I follow as quickly as possible, ever mindful of her shadow, which lunges at everything in its path like a rabid dog on a chain. I hear the confusion of classmates and teacher in her wake, but I don’t leave her. Though what can I do?

Madeline ends up backstage in the empty auditorium, a wounded animal seeking a safe place to heal…or die. But as she climbs up into the catwalks, I finally see what I’d missed all along.

Her shadow isn’t protecting her.

It’s feeding on her. Her despair and pain has infected it, turning it toxic, capturing her in an ever-stronger trap. The harder she struggles, the tighter it becomes. It’s killing her spirit, destroying her will to live.

I throw myself at Madeline, diving right into her shadow. It tears at me with frenzied viciousness, ripping at my essence. Desperately, I reach out and draw from the shadows all around us, taking them into myself to replenish my form and gather strength. It steals from Madeline, and she gasps with a heartsick pain. I try to rip it away from her even as I struggle to keep it from doing too much damage to me.

As I wrestle with her shadow, we become one and the memories rise to the surface. First hers and then mine.

Madeline, at home. She gets a text from the queen bee, who claims to be sorry, apologizing for everything. Asking for forgiveness. Suggesting that she’s attracted to Madeline. Asking for… more. A cruel seduction. A terrible trap. All the right words to override Madeline’s wariness, preying on her weakness. Madeline makes a very bad decision. Regrets it immediately. Too late.

Me, once upon a time. Falling in love with the wrong person. Used. Discarded. Disgraced. Disowned. Heartbroken and so very foolish. I feel the sharp pain in my wrists, smell the growing pools of blood, embrace the coming darkness. Even so, part of me refuses to move on. I cling to life, even as it abandons me.

Madeline’s shadow takes on the shape of a frenzied wolf, jaws wide, razor-sharp fangs eager to rip into me. It goes on the offensive even as I batter at it with my recovered memories, pouncing at me, knocking me down, going for my throat. I thrust upwards with both hands, fending it off desperately. My shame and pain act as my armor; the fangs dig into my haunted past and tear away shadowy chunks. There’s a sharpness in my chest, but I feel better almost immediately, as though I’d lost something weighing me down and poisoning me. I gather up that dark part of me and feed it to the wolf, forcing it down its throat even as it recoils, weakening from the unexpected meal. As it devours my self-loathing and regret, my desperation and pain, all those things which broke me when I was alive and kept me tied to this place, I grow stronger. I gain clarity. I understand things I’d lost long ago.

As the wolf loses its strength, I see how it’s connected to Madeline, how it’s anchored within her. I see where it’s vulnerable. And I know what has to be done. I give it the last of my inner darkness, and it shudders, falling away from me. Between Madeline’s pain and my own, it’s simply eaten too much. It’s dying. It snaps at me as I wrap around it, but it’s half-hearted, ineffective. I stroke its head and whisper reassurances. I tell it that everything will be okay. Madeline’s shadow shivers, and as it fades, I’m able to sever its connection with her and draw it into myself. I’m strong enough to do this, now that I’ve been healed. It’s a dull ache deep within me, but nothing I can’t handle. And then I reach out to where the connection used to be, where a shadow should be, and I give myself to Madeline. I sink into place as though coming home.

I feel her heart beating, her chest rising and falling as her breathing steadies. I feel the immense weight of despair lift, and the flash of hope that comes with the passing of darkness. I tell her I’ll always protect her, that she’ll be fine. No, she’ll be magnificent. Together, we’ll overcome the things which destroyed us as individuals. I tell her I care. That she matters. That things will get better. “I love you,” I whisper, and I mean it. I tell her my name, a secret just between the two of us that she may or may not remember in her dreams.

When she walks out of the auditorium, she does so with newfound strength and confidence. Class is just letting out. How did all of this happen so quickly? It felt like forever while I was fighting her shadow. When Madeline sees the queen bee, looks her tormentor right in the eye, then sweeps past her to reclaim her backpack. She’s been through the crucible and is so much stronger for it. The bullies, thrown off-guard, do nothing.

That afternoon, Madeline heads back to the auditorium, to see if there’s anything she can do to help with the production. Yes, I might have influenced this decision, but she’ll need friends if she’s to survive this period of transition. I don’t know what will come of our new partnership, or of her battles with the queen bee. I don’t know what it will be like, to be Madeline’s shadow, whether we will remain separate or blend together or if I’ll gradually grow quieter until I can finally sleep. I suppose we’ll find out.

I was a shadow that once was a girl. Madeline was a girl consumed by her shadow. We’re both doing much better now.

 

 

E is for Eidolon