Aaron

Deep gold lace curtains fell in large, sweeping arches, reaching towards the floor only to be swept up again to the domed ceiling; glimmering, golden half moons could be seen in them, rocking gently as though soothing a young child to sleep. Dark drops of red dripped from the lace ends, clinking against each other, as if they were wind chimes telling of winds that left the air still and barren. The small chimes echoed a stronger music, hidden in the fabric and gentle half moons and beads of nebulous red.

I reached out, as I had done so many times, and pulled away the first curtain. The beads sent out a shriek of protest, chiming angrily together. The half moons swayed unevenly and the lace seemed to become silk spider webs beneath my fingers. I kept walking, ducking through the curtains and sliding nimbly around half moons. Music shuddered through the lace, shaking it roughly, as the beads and curtain fell back into place behind me. I swallowed and concentrated on the destination in front of me, through the other curtains.

My boots made soft sounds on the glossed marble floor, much like the barely perceptible pad of cat's paws on a wooden floor. I reached the last curtain and pulled it aside, fingers tangling in the sticky lace. A tiny shiver of something ran up my arm; I stepped into the circular room, letting go quickly.

Roses were scattered across the marble floor, floating like they were upon water. Ripples scattered across the marble as they swayed and floated around amiss the white veins beneath the black sheen. My boots, at the bottom, turned a darker color from wetness.

He was here, somewhere, on the couch across the room. Thick satin blankets of violet and royal blue adorned arms of the couch, soaking into the floor where they touched. Plush black pillows filled the long part of the couch, all shapes and delightfully soft. Black pillows were the cushions; black cushions were the pillows, concealing the form within their clutches.

He must not be feeling well tonight.

I looked for some way to separate his form from the pillows, but found no visible way of doing so: even his skin had taken on a black hue to better conceal himself. A shift of silver brought my wary attention to the curtain behind the couch.

This curtain gave me the impression of heaviness, of despair. Empty wanting, longing, lust for something just beyond their grasp. It was a grey curtain, composed of more layers than the eye could see. A thin covering of grey lace was the first, billowing and stirring slightly in a nonexistent breeze. The curtain's layers thickened as they went. Lace, silk, satin – all growing a deeper shade of grey as they retreated from my eyesight. Not black. Not white. Grey, plain and heavy.

There were people behind that curtain.

I saw them.

Beckoned, two hands came from the curtain, melting through the lace. The lace, as though embedded or a part of the hands, melted together with the grey skin, and clung to them, giving me the impression of tendrils. Slowly, so slowly I could hear the butterflies shrieking to be free, the hands opened.

Gossamer butterflies erupted from them, seemingly endless in number, leaving a trail of glistening dust as they glided downwards, always downwards. The gorgeous, enchanting butterflies settled on the black cushions and pillows, flapping their dusty silver wings. One by one, the millions of butterflies sank, melted, became part of the couch – no, part of him.

Skin became apparent; a human shaped form was outlined by the silver robe he was wearing, sprawled on the plush blackness. I watched the chest labor for a moment, silver robe rising and falling harshly, before moving. In moments I was at his side, reaching down to touch the cold fingers. His arm lay as if discarded, as if it was not a part of his body; a thrown away, discard piece of flesh.

At my touch his fingers twitched. I curled my fingers around his hand and sat on the edge of the furniture. Wake up, Aaron. I ordered silently. Wake up and smile and tell me you're doing okay, tell me you'll survive, and that you'll come away with me again. We'll all be happy again.

But somehow that order seemed lost, floating off somewhere in my consciousness I couldn't reach. I watched the fingers respond, folding around my hand. A few stray butterflies escaped his robe and brushed against my cheek.

I surveyed him uneasily, the way he had tossed his head back into the pillows, raven hair splayed around him – a shadow sheathing his crown. His mouth was open and I could here the rasping breaths scrape his throat. I frowned.

His eyes were closed, eyelashes scraping against the curve of his pale cheek with a faint sheen of sweat upon it. I wiped a tear away. It crystallized on my finger tip and shattered into a million pieces, falling down to his skin and curling upwards in fragmented steam.

Aaron, wake up, I'm calling you.

Why couldn't I speak?

I tried again, but something held my jaw in place. Aaron did not want me to speak, to ruin his silence. Silence was a friend, and the hands behind the curtains were taking care of him. The gossamer butterflies were soft, and soothed the pain. Aaron did not like the pain.

My frown deepened; my eyes narrowed.

Aaron, stop playing, we must leave this place. This place of enchantment and sorrow.

No, a voice said, weak as a midsummer breeze, stop calling me, Aaron, I want to stay here, wrapped in these black pillows. They comfort me. Hold me tightly and bare me off into daydreams.

You are dreaming, Aaron, I shot back, hoping against hope that it wasn't only myself I was conversing with. Come back to me.

No, no, the voice sounded wistful, almost a pleasant sigh against my cheek. This is where I want to stay. If I leave, what will happen to the hands behind the curtains? They are so nice and gentle with me. Aaron, why do you wish to take me away?

I will take care of you, I insisted, smoothing down some of Aaron's wild black locks, I will take care of you and give you gossamer butterflies and silver robes. Come back to me.

There was another sigh and Aaron shuddered deeper into the black pillows. They did look so soft. I wondered briefly what it would be like, to lay in a bed of blackness that enveloped you and kept you cradled in a warm, soft place; with half moons playing a lullaby, and mercury chimes in the background.

Aaron, you don't understand, I pleaded silently, tugging his hand closer to me. The pillows seemed to groan in disapproval. You don't understand what it is like out there. I know you want to stay here, and I want to let you, but I can't and you must come back with me tonight. Tonight we'll be together again, Aaron.

But Aaron, the human figure protested, we are together. Stay with me here! No one will bother us here, Aaron. We are so deep within our self that no one could find us!

The idea seemed appealing to my confused mind. My arguments seemed to be disappearing, like steam through a fist. I couldn't find anything to hold onto, something rational. Aaron, we are dreaming!

No, I am living, you are visiting.

Don't play mind games, Aaron, I'm begging you.

I'm not, don't worry. When have you become so wary, Aaron? Please understand, I only want what is best for the both of us. Here we are safe.

With butterflies and half moons and lace! I wanted to scream at the absurdity. Living! How can one call this living?

I'm living here now, and I won't leave. Aaron, forgive me, but I can't leave this place.

Why not? I demanded. What is holding you here?

You are, Aaron. His voice was sad and weak, holding reminiscent notes of how strong his old voice was. This is where you are, deep inside. I came to find you so long ago, but you were gone. But you have found me again, and that is all that matters. We are finally together again, at one place, at one moment. Why – why would you want to destroy what we have here? Silence and acknowledgment!

We have nothing here but lace and fragmented dreams! Do you even remember where we truly are?

We are, the voice faulted, unsure. We are here.

No, you think we are here. Look, see, smell it, Aaron! We are in the White Room.

Terror seemed to grip the silver robed body and he convulsed slightly. N-no, we're here, with the butterflies and pillows.

Aaron, please, I need you to see! Look – the White Room is real! This is but an enchantment, and will fade as those butterflies faded into your robe. They do not exist

No, please, the voice begged.

They are not real. You know it. Can you feel them, touch them?

Aaron, stop it –

Listen to me! Fight it, fight the blackness!

Stop –

You can fight this, fight the hands behind the curtain, fight the gossamer and silver, and fight the silence

And the mirror we were on shattered into a million of tiny tear drops.

"It's amazing," the doctor said to the mother of his patient. "Truly amazing. We've never seen such quick recovery from a traumatized," he faltered slightly, "patient." He finished lamely. The mother was looking at him in disbelief, then her eyes wandered to her son, lying on the bed.

"He'll – he is able to get better, then?" She stammered, almost dropping her sewing onto the floor. "My Aaron will be alright?"

"Yes, he seems on the road to recovery. The schizophrenia he had developed was a defense system of the body, to try and relieve the stress of his," he paused again, "situation."

Aaron's mother collapsed into tears, hiding her face in the robe she had been sewing. The butterflies slowly soaked in her tears and shivered in delight. The doctor, with one last look at the black haired boy, left the mother to cry in the silent White Room.