The steady drum of raindrops dances along the car's windows. My mother, her boyfriend, and I sit quietly—all dressed formally in black. Her boyfriend, Paul—a tall bald man with dark skin—shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. From the back seat, I look up at the rearview mirror and catch my mother's wistful brown eyes, curtained by black curls, glancing at me—searching my expression. I turn away, rubbing my bandaged right hand.
I hadn't cried a single time since Ma died.
It's been a week since she passed.
I woke to the sound of the clay wheel spinning incessantly. I got up from bed, noting that she'd gotten up as early as ever to practice her craft.
Once I reached the doorway, I froze as my heart sank:
Ma lay collapsed on the studio floor; her apron covered in clay splatter.
I could tell immediately that she was gone, as if all the life had been sapped from her. I could almost hear my mind shattering, breaking apart like glass. The whirr of the clay wheel seemed to fade as I stood there for a few moments, watching over Ma.
I killed her.
I knew she wasn't alright…why didn't I do something?
I killed her.
I could've saved her!
I killed her.
Why didn't she get help?!
I killed her...
My thoughts settled, leaving an uncomfortable calm. I looked at the ceiling, letting out a deep breath. My next actions unfolded like a cassette tape. I called emergency services and my mother in an orderly fashion.
Waiting for their arrival, I walked over toward the clay wheel—still spinning in its own world. What might've been something beautiful instead lay ugly; a mess of wet clay, lying in wait to be transformed.
Slowly, I reached my right hand over the wheel—
and smashed it.
Blood and clay splattered from my hand as the wheel came to a halt. I winced as pain invaded my hand.
Then I smashed it again.
And again.
Warm blood trickled down my arm.
And agai—
"James!"
I look up at my mother, startled.
"We're here, James. Come on."
Grabbing the black umbrella beside me, I step out of the car. A stone chapel looms ahead, shrouded in gray clouds. It's a chapel Ma used to visit often—clear her head up with prayer. I wasn't much for religion, but I'd tag along sometimes out of respect.
I hadn't attended a funeral since I was a kid—when Dad passed. The brooding atmosphere was nearly identical, as if the world itself shifted gears when it came time to mourn a death.
A myriad of black suits and dresses lingers around the church's entrance. A perturbed lady with gray hair hushes the chattering child she chaperones. Nearby, a short man's cigar goes out as he fails to shield it from the rain. Closest to the chapel's entrance sits my Aunt Rosetta in her wheelchair, being led by her stepson Mike, a young man with chunky glasses. Her sorrowful eyes meet mine, and she gives me a small nod.
My mother leads our group as the chapel opens its tall doors. I keep my head down, following her brown flats. As we enter, the chapel fills with a cacophony of echoing footsteps.
Reaching the middle-left section, we fill in our three seats. A few rows ahead of us sit Mike and my aunt.
Paul lets out a sigh as he sits. "So how long is this gonna take?"
My mother slaps his thigh. "Watch how you speak. Show some respect, Paul."
"Right, right." Paul rolls his eyes, leaning his head out and turning to me. "Hey, kid, doin' alright?"
"..."
"Yeah, me too," Paul mutters at my silence.
I feel my mother's worried eyes on me as I rest my uninjured hand on my face, glancing around the chapel.
My eyes lock onto Ma's casket, lying in front of the platform. A dull pain briefly spreads in my chest. Once the funeral attendees finish settling, a man garbed in a white robe steps out from a side door, ascends the platform stairs, and faces the mourners.
He rests his hands on the lectern as his voice resounds in the vast chapel:
"We all gather here today to mourn the death of Nala Adeyemi..."
My nails claw into my bandaged palm as the priest's words wash over the chapel.
Beside me, I notice my mother shaking Paul awake, him having nodded off during the speech.
My fist tightens.
Catching sight of this, my mother's hand gently covers my bandaged fist. I relax my fist, pulling my hand away.
The priest continues his speech:
"Nala was a strong, faithful individual. She was a mother..." The priest's eyes trail over toward Aunt Rosetta. "She was a grandmother..." His gaze drifts over Mike, then settles on me.
I glance at Mike and find his head lowered in a grimace, Aunt Rosetta's hands resting gently over his.
"And she continues to be our light, in the face of darkness," the priest continued. "If anyone is willing to share their memories of her, please feel welcome to step up..."
The chapel door creaks open, turning the heads of us mourners.
A tall man in a trench coat steps in from the rain, water dripping onto the marble floor.
I can't make out his face from the distance, just the red-tinted shades hiding his eyes. Turning back, the faces of mourners greet me, searching for any hint of familiarity in the latecomer. A hum of murmurs fills the space, then—
A suffocating silence befalls the chapel.
The very air seems to vibrate as the man skips down the aisle, his soft whistling piercing the silence.
The man pauses beside our row, raindrops still falling from his coat. His whistling stops.
I don't turn to face him, or rather—I can't.
He walks into our row, past my mother, and stops in front of Paul.
Paul's eyes dart around, but he remains perfectly still.
The man removes his gloved hands from his pockets, tugging at each finger to tighten the fit. His hands, slowly, rise toward Paul's neck.
The entire chapel remains in a breathless silence, as if held by an invisible weight.
The man's white-gloved fingers close around his neck. I watch, entranced.
Paul doesn't resist—limbs rigid, like a puppet caught on invisible strings.
Horror glints the eyes of those who turned initially to face the latecomer, now forced to watch Paul's life being squeezed away.
His body slackens, collapsing like a discarded doll. The man releases his grip, letting Paul's body crumple in his seat. His gloved hands retreat into his pockets.
Then, he steps past my mother—stopping in front of me.
His red-tinted shades face me, head tilted slightly.
Up close, his face shifts and blurs, like a mirage. All that remains solid are those red shades of his.
He peers at me for a few seconds before breaking the heavy silence:
"James Adeyemi. Why are you smiling?"
***
Victory
"Alice."
Her voice was soft—like it'd been worn down by time.
She drops my hands, stepping back. "And you?"
I stare at her, still in shock from seeing a human face where I'd least expect it.
"A-Arin," I murmur, turning away from the girl.
"Arin...." she repeats.
Silence hangs in the air.
"...The water..." she suddenly speaks, her eyes trailing off toward the black pond.
I wait for her to finish, but nothing comes. Though I'm parched, I ask:
"What is this place?"
Her wandering eyes lock back onto me. She doesn't meet my gaze. "Everywhere and nowhere," she says, her voice distant.
How helpful...
At least she doesn't seem to be hostile.
I press on. "How long have you been here?"
Alice's gaze drifts away, settling on nothing. "Long enough." She pauses. "You must be new here."
"I don't know how I ended up here," I tell her. "It happened in an instant. Some voice in my head called me a prisoner, said I had to fight to live."
She turns toward me, her dreamy expression hardening. "You will."
Her words are heavy, sinking into the pit of my stomach.
"The Voice...did it speak to you too?" I ask.
Alice nods.
"I—I was somewhere else," I blurt out. "It told me by coming here I'd receive a weapon... or something of the sort."
"And have you?"
I shake my head.
"You will," she says again, her cloudy eyes harboring certainty.
She steps closer to me, extending her hand. The air around her palm shimmers as a glass bottle—sealed by a cork and filled with a clear liquid—materializes.
I jump, startled. "What the hell was that?! You some kind of freak witch?"
Alice purses her lips. "Don't call me that. Here," she says, handing me the bottle. "Drink."
My brain tells me not to trust her, but my hoarse throat drowns it out.
I hastily uncork the bottle and greedily drink from it.
Water.
The fog building up in my head clears with each gulp, and the dryness in my throat dissipates.
Having drunk my fill, I sigh, holding up the small bottle in front of me.
It's still full...?
"It was a reward for victory," Alice says, as if sensing my confusion. "Survive your matches, be granted spoils. A persistent rule of this place."
A dark expression briefly flashes across Alice's face.
I make the connection instantly.
'Survive,' and not kill, she says.
I guess they really are one and the same here...
My heart aches a bit as I hand the bottle back to Alice. It blurs in her hand—vanishing in an instant.
"And what of that trick of yours?" I ask her, perplexed by the disappearing and appearing act.
Alice hums, as if trying to figure out how to explain something to a child. "It's like a treasure chest, but it sits in your mind. I can move my possessions in and out of the chest as I please."
"Right..." I say, clueless.
"It will be accessible to you as well. As long as you pass the trial and receive your weapon," she adds.
"Trial?" I ask.
"They—" Alice starts. "The Voice, is not interested in the fighting of weaklings. You must pass their trial before being granted anything."
I sigh, digesting her words. Great...
"And what exactly does this trial entail?"
Alice shakes her head. "No one trial is the same. It could be a test of wits, physical might, or heart."
"Hmm..." Biting my lip, I try to make sense of all the information Alice has shared with me. "And if I fail?"
"Well then, your death is almost certain," she answers coolly.
My shoulders tense at the words.
I then ask the question that's been lingering on my mind since we started talking:
"Are there others here?"
Alice nods. "Though not nearby," she says. "They tend to stay away from here because of the dark. Light can't be produced in this space, so it's hard for them to navigate."
So, there are, huh? I should be grateful I ran into her instead of some psychopathic killing machine.
I doubt people who'd inevitably face each other in a death match could get along very well.
"Wait..." I start, gears turning in my head. "If it's so hard to be in this place, how come you're fine down here?"
Alice lets out a soft laugh, saying, "I don't mind the dark." She waves her hand across her eyes.
"I am blind, after all."
...Blind?
From the way Alice had been carrying herself, it was impossible to tell. But hearing the words now it clicked: her cloudy expression, and her gaze never quite meeting mine. Still, her confident movements left much room for doubt.
"You're blind?" I ask her skeptically.
She nods.
"Then how—how have you been living here by yourself, or even fighting?"
"Before the trial, I was completely helpless—afraid to take even a step. Overcoming the trial granted me my weapon—allowing me to... 'see.'"
"Uhh... right." I reply, mildly discomforted.
Her 'weapon,' huh?
Something tells me it's best not to pry into the matter. "So, about this trial, where exactl—"
"I can take you there," she interrupts me. "Not far from here."
Alice extends an open hand. "Come with me."
Wiping the sweat from my palms against my shorts, I hesitantly take her hand.
The blind leading the blind, huh?
Alice leads me away from the black pond, the encircling darkness thickening with every step. After a minute of walking, all I can perceive are three things:
The subtle ridges of the smooth, wet ground pressing faintly beneath my shoes;
Alice's soft hand, growing damp with my sweat; and the sound of our footsteps echoing through the darkness.
Alice twists and turns confidently in this maze of black, leaving me no room to doubt her earlier words.
I would've been fumbling around here for a lifetime if not for her.
"Almost there," Alice says.
Her words barely fade before a sudden, sharp light pierces the darkness.