Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [66]
“You really think so?”
Brent didn’t answer. Instead, he left to retrieve another ball, and started whistling.
Chapter 12
My afterlife with Brent fell into a predictable pattern: every day we would train, and every evening we had the pleasure of reenacting my death. I did show improvement in not only moving objects and affecting the environment, but in controlling my temper, as well. It would have been almost boring if not for Thomas, who seemed to take a sick pleasure in watching me progress. I would often feel like I was being watched only to discover I was. He would mouth the word, “Soon,” and then blow me a kiss before leaving.
As for my death reenactment, it was like watching a movie for the sixtieth time—I knew every line, I had seen it from every angle, and nothing ever changed. I had even stopped being emotional about it; it wasn’t my death anymore, it was just an event that occurred and I was forced to watch.
I had just finished drowning again and was waiting for Brent to come in as Steve. He entered the room, really wanting to be outside kissing Cherie, but coming with her anyway. Cherie saw my purse and rushed toward it. Steve, following behind her, stumbled over a chair.
Wait, what? The tripping over a chair was new. Someone had left the chair by the pool earlier in the day and hadn’t returned it back to its place before leaving, and for some reason it had been brought back into the past. I sat up watching carefully, waiting to see if anything else new happened.
Steve turned, looking at the chair in confusion, rubbing his knee. I felt Brent’s consciousness shining through to the surface just then; Brent’s familiar twinkle swam in his eye before it got smothered by the role he had to play. Steve turned back toward the water, squatting, looking in, circling the pool; when he finally dove into the water, the tipped chair caught on his foot and clattered into the water with him. I stood up with an idea so impossible I was afraid to let it fully form. I began tugging on my earlobes as my mind surged in hope and waited for Brent to become himself again.
“Did you notice anything different this time?” I asked Brent as he strolled near.
Brent stretched out his shoulders, feeling the importance of the question. “No, not really. Why? Why are you so worked up?”
“Well, when you came rushing in this time you stumbled over a chair that was in the way.”
Brent scratched his head, nodding. “That’s right. That was new.”
“And for the briefest of seconds you were you, not Steve. Do you remember that?”
“Sort of,” Brent said cautiously, turning his head toward the pool. The chair was still there, slowly sinking into the water.
“That chair was from the present and it altered things. It was only a little change—but what if something more than a chair, something bigger was added to the mix? Maybe it could change the outcome. What do you think?” My hands were rubbing together like I was praying as I waited for his answer.
“Yara, I know it must be hard for you but—” he started, his voice soothingly gentle.
“That isn’t it,” I argued— without anger. “Okay . . . it’s part of it, but I just think there’s a reason why we keep reliving it.”
Brent dropped his head, not meeting my eyes. “I wish that were the case, but you die every night. Nothing changes.”
“The chair . . .” I corrected.
He reached out and took my hand, completely engulfing mine in his. “Nothing significant changes. I wish we could fix this . . . it isn’t just hard on you, you know? Every night I have to live through letting you die, knowing I was only a few minutes too late. Every night I fail,” Brent said his voice breaking. “I wish we could change it. I really do.”
In all the time times I had drowned I had never considered how hard it had to be on Brent, too.
“Brent, I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I’ve got a hero complex,” he said with a wink. “Let’s get out of here?”
“Please.”
As had become our nightly post-death habit, Brent steered me toward the fire escape that led to my old room. I still hadn’t climbed those steps, afraid