Sleep No More
Page 24
“It doesn’t work that way,” Smith says, and while I can tell he’s trying to calm me down, the frenzy inside me refuses to abate. “We’re not physically here; we exist only in your mind. Through your powers as an Oracle, you can affect this world, but not in the way you assume. You need to trust me. Please, keep rewinding.”
I draw a deep, steady breath and force myself to look down at Jesse. Jesse frozen in his struggle for life, only seconds away from death. I hate that I stopped everything here—a macabre photograph of almost-death.
I put my hands out in front of me again, and it’s easier to move the scene this time. Probably because I want so desperately to leave this moment. The story in reverse continues to tell itself. Jesse wanders in—barely visible from where I stand—and scarcely out of sight of the place he’s meant to die. His headphones are on and there’s a joint in his hand.
“Sneaking out to get high,” I mutter to myself. “Of course.”
“I imagine he’s been stressed, don’t you?” Smith says, and I hate the twinge of empathy I feel toward Jesse’s careless mistake.
“Okay,” Smith says when Jesse’s walking backward, almost at the edge of the development. “We should be far enough. You can let the scene stop again.”
Stopping it feels more like letting go than forcing the scene to my will. I’ve been given a brief reprieve to catch my breath and rub the trembling muscles in my arms, and I take full advantage of it.
“Are you ready?” Smith asks softly, and I realize he’s been giving me time.
I nod my head yes, even though I’m not sure I am.
“You’re going to go up to him. Command him to go home, the same way you’ve been doing with the scene, and then you’ll use your physical self—although technically it’s a form of energy—to push him all the way home. When the killer comes around, Jesse simply won’t be there.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, waving my hands in front of me. “Pretty much none of that is even possible. I can’t move in my visions. I mean, I can move my body, but I can’t walk. I tried two minutes ago.”
“You tried to move on your own. You need to use the power of the focus stone to move.”
“I’m wearing it—it’s not helping.” A desperate weariness is creeping over me.
Smith purses his lips and pushes his short hair off his forehead. “Shelby said she would filter all of her energies through the stone, and the stone would multiply them, and that’s how she would have enough power to break free.”
I grit my teeth and think it over. It does make a strange kind of sense, but the idea that I have an entirely new dimension of abilities that I’ve never had any clue of is hard to wrap my head around. I think about the little section I read about the focus stone from Repairing the Fractured Future and remind myself that—somewhere, somehow—Oracles have been using focus stones for a long time. “Okay,” I say, and I wish my voice were stronger. “I’m ready to try.”
“Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you’re moving in slow motion?”
“Yeah. I hate those.”
“This will feel like that. It will take every ounce of mental energy you have, filtered through that focus stone.”
“Okay,” I say, ready to make the attempt. I let go of the last bit of control over the vision that I was still hanging on to. The scene starts to play and I lift my foot, determined to get this over with.
But my foot rises a mere inch. Then freezes.
“You can do it,” Smith whispers when I pause. “Think of the stone making you more powerful.”
I focus on the warm feeling of the stone against my skin. Distantly I can almost feel the real one pulsing against my fingertips in my physical hand. And a surge of . . . of something rushes through my body. An entirely new kind of energy fills me. This time my foot moves.
I step.
One single step and I’m already tired. I look at Jesse. He’s coming my way. I lift a foot again. Two steps, three. Smith’s explanation was right on and I have the surreal feeling of being in a dream instead of a vision. I continue slogging through air that feels like Jell-O until I’m only a few feet from Jesse.
“Tell him to go home,” Smith whispers.
“Jesse, go home!” I shout with every ounce of force and volume I can muster.
“In your head,” Smith corrects. “It’s a mental thing.”
I close my eyes for two seconds, concentrating on the stone again. Go! I scream in my head. Go home!
Jesse stops. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thin joint. He considers it for a moment and then looks up at the light pole that’s dark on one side.
“Now push,” Smith says.
My hands won’t quite make contact with Jesse and, for a second, I don’t think it’s going to work. Then Jesse’s turning, shoving the joint back in his pocket, and starting to trudge home.
I keep walking and pushing at the same time and I know with absolute certainty I could never have done this without the stone. My arms and legs are shaking and I’m afraid to look beyond Jesse’s back to see how far I have left. I don’t want to know.
After what seems like hours, we reach his doorstep.
“That should be enough,” Smith says. “Rest.”
At his words, I let go of everything—Jesse, the energy from the stone—and lean over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air. My whole body feels rubbery. This had better be enough because I’m not sure I could go on for one more second.
I draw a deep, steady breath and force myself to look down at Jesse. Jesse frozen in his struggle for life, only seconds away from death. I hate that I stopped everything here—a macabre photograph of almost-death.
I put my hands out in front of me again, and it’s easier to move the scene this time. Probably because I want so desperately to leave this moment. The story in reverse continues to tell itself. Jesse wanders in—barely visible from where I stand—and scarcely out of sight of the place he’s meant to die. His headphones are on and there’s a joint in his hand.
“Sneaking out to get high,” I mutter to myself. “Of course.”
“I imagine he’s been stressed, don’t you?” Smith says, and I hate the twinge of empathy I feel toward Jesse’s careless mistake.
“Okay,” Smith says when Jesse’s walking backward, almost at the edge of the development. “We should be far enough. You can let the scene stop again.”
Stopping it feels more like letting go than forcing the scene to my will. I’ve been given a brief reprieve to catch my breath and rub the trembling muscles in my arms, and I take full advantage of it.
“Are you ready?” Smith asks softly, and I realize he’s been giving me time.
I nod my head yes, even though I’m not sure I am.
“You’re going to go up to him. Command him to go home, the same way you’ve been doing with the scene, and then you’ll use your physical self—although technically it’s a form of energy—to push him all the way home. When the killer comes around, Jesse simply won’t be there.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, waving my hands in front of me. “Pretty much none of that is even possible. I can’t move in my visions. I mean, I can move my body, but I can’t walk. I tried two minutes ago.”
“You tried to move on your own. You need to use the power of the focus stone to move.”
“I’m wearing it—it’s not helping.” A desperate weariness is creeping over me.
Smith purses his lips and pushes his short hair off his forehead. “Shelby said she would filter all of her energies through the stone, and the stone would multiply them, and that’s how she would have enough power to break free.”
I grit my teeth and think it over. It does make a strange kind of sense, but the idea that I have an entirely new dimension of abilities that I’ve never had any clue of is hard to wrap my head around. I think about the little section I read about the focus stone from Repairing the Fractured Future and remind myself that—somewhere, somehow—Oracles have been using focus stones for a long time. “Okay,” I say, and I wish my voice were stronger. “I’m ready to try.”
“Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you’re moving in slow motion?”
“Yeah. I hate those.”
“This will feel like that. It will take every ounce of mental energy you have, filtered through that focus stone.”
“Okay,” I say, ready to make the attempt. I let go of the last bit of control over the vision that I was still hanging on to. The scene starts to play and I lift my foot, determined to get this over with.
But my foot rises a mere inch. Then freezes.
“You can do it,” Smith whispers when I pause. “Think of the stone making you more powerful.”
I focus on the warm feeling of the stone against my skin. Distantly I can almost feel the real one pulsing against my fingertips in my physical hand. And a surge of . . . of something rushes through my body. An entirely new kind of energy fills me. This time my foot moves.
I step.
One single step and I’m already tired. I look at Jesse. He’s coming my way. I lift a foot again. Two steps, three. Smith’s explanation was right on and I have the surreal feeling of being in a dream instead of a vision. I continue slogging through air that feels like Jell-O until I’m only a few feet from Jesse.
“Tell him to go home,” Smith whispers.
“Jesse, go home!” I shout with every ounce of force and volume I can muster.
“In your head,” Smith corrects. “It’s a mental thing.”
I close my eyes for two seconds, concentrating on the stone again. Go! I scream in my head. Go home!
Jesse stops. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thin joint. He considers it for a moment and then looks up at the light pole that’s dark on one side.
“Now push,” Smith says.
My hands won’t quite make contact with Jesse and, for a second, I don’t think it’s going to work. Then Jesse’s turning, shoving the joint back in his pocket, and starting to trudge home.
I keep walking and pushing at the same time and I know with absolute certainty I could never have done this without the stone. My arms and legs are shaking and I’m afraid to look beyond Jesse’s back to see how far I have left. I don’t want to know.
After what seems like hours, we reach his doorstep.
“That should be enough,” Smith says. “Rest.”
At his words, I let go of everything—Jesse, the energy from the stone—and lean over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air. My whole body feels rubbery. This had better be enough because I’m not sure I could go on for one more second.
