In Eternity, a tower stands infallible. Brick and clay reach to embrace a star sewn sky, the ground below embodied with blue and gold flowers. In her majesty the Moon’s luminescence, the spirits of the Departed and the Never Been find homes within the tower walls. Liberated within a never ending night; reveling in unbeing for time eternal. When word of Sunrise’s eventual arrival reaches them, they celebrate. A cavernous ballroom on the tower’s 876th floor holding repressed Departed spirits and their infinitely curious Never Been counterparts. The Departed strut the length of the dance floor in forms of their construction: muscles or wings, or gold plated skin, while The Never Been, clean slates of indomitable potential, float above in bodies made of iridescent light. A kaleidoscope of experience and, to Cassandra Knox, a sight she can’t help but envy.
In the same form she’d left her mortal life in, Cassandra sits alone, consumed, intentionally severed from the friends she’d never see again. When they ask her to dance, she placates them with sugarcane smiles and weak excuses, playing on the Never Been’s naïveté and the apathy of her fellow Departed to allow her to hide a little while longer. They in turn leave her with gentle kisses to the forehead, and a slew of affirmations. All except one. “You look like you’re having a great time.”
Cassandra startles and looks up to find Them before her. A Never Been, nameless in the way of Their kind but immediately recognizable to Cassandra as The Friend. She smiles, and for the first time finds it spreading effortlessly. “Was that irony? You’re evolving, Friend.”
“I have a good teacher.” The Friend floats beside her. “They’re tense, the Departed. They keep walking to the windows to see if they can see the Sun.”
“Anxiety. You’ll learn it soon enough.”
“Is that why you’re not dancing? Anxiety?
“Oh. No, I’m just taking a break between songs.”
“I see.” Under normal circumstances that’s all it would’ve taken; simple answers to grievous questions. Today though, with Sunrise imminent, something has changed. The Friend has trouble believing Cassandra, swallowing her words, and finds them unexpectedly bitter. Doubt is born to a Never Been for the first time. “Cassandra?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me. I feel as though you are not being completely honest. I feel like you’re hiding.”
Surprised, Cassandra finds her lips can’t form a lie fast enough. Nor do they want to. So, for the first time in death, she speaks the truth. “I’m not reincarnating.”
The Friend hesitates. “You didn’t tell me.” Cassandra can only shake her head, reflexively gnawing on the inside of her lip. The Friend pushes further. “Why?”
“I haven’t told anyone. It’s a day to celebrate, I didn’t want to bring everyone down.”
“No, you misunderstand. I mean, why don’t you want to reincarnate?”
“Oh. It’s nothing. I don’t want to bring you down— you should be celebrating.”
The Friend is earnest. “How can I celebrate when you’re not?”
Cassandra’s walls are breaking. “You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“Then come sit.” The Friend obeys, and as Cassandra speaks her truth they take in her words hungrily.
In death, Cassandra’s largest regret is how fleeting peace had been when she was alive. Though not particularly religious, she’d dreamed too often of heaven; gave into deep sleep and harp edges with the hope of waking up in paradise. And when it never worked, when she was brought forcefully back into the world, she screamed and cried for a dream deferred, cursed to live in a world— a home— a body that felt inescapable. In the strictest sense Cassandra hadn’t existed at this time, her skin merely a vessel for projections she couldn’t live up to. Not that she hadn’t tried. She would walk slow to keep her hips from switching, lower her voice in conversation with the men who’d claimed her. But even with her head lowered recognition always seemed to find her, bringing violence and fear until even the sound of her name, given to honor the father who’d never know her, became a curse. This would be her Old-Bodied life.
New-Bodied Cassandra gained, if nothing else, a sense of self. She buried her father’s name and stitched the wounds the world gave her, learned to pray and to love from the girls of her experience. When wickedness dusted her doorstep, she swept it away with her head high. And yet, even still, the pain remained. The fear. Recognition patrolled every corner, waiting to take her by the throat, and though she’d hoped of living long enough to hear a house full of nappy headed children calling her mommy, everyday another story arose to prove the contrary. Girls who looked like her, taken too soon by men who’d resembled her father. Over and over and over again until Cassandra became convinced she was made privy to prophecy. And though she had gained so much strength a familiar darkness unfurled in her chest, undoing her stitches, and leaving her bleeding. Hope became a commodity she couldn’t afford. She couldn’t breath. She couldn’t speak. And when the dreams of heaven returned, she no longer had the strength to deny them. So, she gave in. And she gave up.
The Friend breaks Their silence. “You were made disposable.”
“ I can’t go through it again, Friend. I won’t.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too. I’ve heard that Departed who don’t reincarnate get shipped to the top of the tower. If you still remember me when you come back, sneak up sometime.”
“I look forward to.”
Voices echo from across the room: “SUNRISE! SUNRISE! SUNRISE!” The Friend nd Cassandra look up to find wisps of light creeping through the windows. The spirits cheer— scream— cry— kiss, taking each other by the hand and pulling them out the doors. Disembodied jubilance and release. The Friend looks at Cassandra, and in the Sunlight finds his form different, more defined, almost human.
“I have to go.” They say.
“You do. Goodbye.” The Friend goes to float from the room, and freezes. Stuck. Cassandra looks at Them worriedly.
“Friend, you have to go…”
“I saw you before you came into the tower.”
“Huh?”
“I never told you. I know your people don’t like to be watched too closely, so I didn’t say anything, but I would watch the Departed when they arrived at the tower and imagine their faces were mine. It was boring, honestly. Your people are so dazed when they come, so inexpressive. But you were different. You came out of those flowers, you turned your head to the moon, and you sat there, crying. I had never seen that before. I didn’t know what it was. But I remember looking at you and thinking: this person doesn’t belong here. You deserved to live, Cassandra. And when I reincarnate I’ll do whatever I can to make the world a place worthy of your return. I promise.” And without waiting for a response, They leave.
Alone in the ballroom she sits, dazed, the joyful screams of the other spirits meeting her even here. She hears their conversations as though she’s beside them, managing to pick up even The Friend’s steady laughter. She can almost feel the Sun on the horizon, the excitement, and when the noise of outside is replaced with abrupt silence, she knows that they’ve gone, leaving only the ghost of The Friend’s voice.
You don’t belong here.
The Sun sits at its apex. Perpetual night breaking for the respite of day. She looks around her and stares at the ballroom, only now realizing its intangibility. Its emptiness.
You don’t belong here.
She wonders what is to become of Eternity. Undoubtably she’d meet new spirits— perhaps even some she knows. Or knew. She wonders if it is built like her dreams. If it’s Paradise. Thinking that it must be better. Praying that it is. And yet…
You don’t belong here/I’m going to make the world a place worthy of you.
Sunlight streams so gloriously through the windows, burning the edges of her deceptions and giving way to a rising impulsivity. She remembers summertime and the smell of air before it rained; the tender kiss of the ones who loved her. She remembers joy, and how hot it sparked in spite of her pain. And, in a moment she will never regret, she acts against herself. Feet moving through the ballroom doors and down the spiral staircase, running, rushing, clawing. Fighting her way to the front door and pushing her way outside.
The flowers are more beautiful than she remembers. And as she takes the daylight onto her face, she sends one final prayer: that it be twice as many lifetimes before she sees them again.
Ariadne Nova Night (she/her) isn’t afraid of spiders. Black, trans, and mentally ill she’s more terrified by the concept of dating or global fascism than she is Charlotte’s Web. The book slaps and spider’s eat mosquitoes, so. Ari’s work is centralized on breathing life into Black and Black queer people, presenting stories that cross boundaries of time and imagination to show that her communities are more than their traumas. When she’s not dying of anxiety, Ari can be found in Brooklyn in a mask and Timbs. Please don’t approach.