Page 8 of Crystal Iris
“You guys haven’t proven you’re ready for them yet.” I try to stay calm. She doesn’t like my answer. I’m already sorry for whoever Mila ends up critiquing.
With the girls gone, I look up The Great Ring tale. I remember it vaguely—every historian has come across it at some point. It’s nothing more than a children’s bedtime story. According to the Russian legend, there was once a diamond ring capable of making its owner live longer; however, there was a price for the longevity. When death finally came to claim the body, the wearer had to give his soul in return. It was the previous owner’s soul that powered the ring and extended the new user’s life. Classic myth.
Now I have to think about how to reply to Elena. I’m not sure if I should mention a prism. With Darion and Akira already knowing about it, I need to be more careful. My stomach turns atthe thought of seeing Darion again, and I wish I had skipped breakfast. To my relief, he’s nowhere to be seen.
“We’re covering a Baroque painting today,Las Meninasby Velázquez. Remember what we talked about last week? About the highly ornate and dramatic style of the Baroque? This is a great example. Does anyone know who the main little girl in the center is?”
“The king’s daughter,” Becky answers proudly.
“Correct. Why is this artwork greatly known and discussed?”
“Because it’s a painting about a painting,” says Stella.
“That’s right. Velázquez was able to create different illusions, playing with the perspective. We are left unsure if the portrait subject is Margaret, her parents, or the painter himself. He uses light and dark to define the focal points. It’s often said that Velázquez meant this work to suggest that art, and life, are an illusion.”
I heat up my leftovers and carry them back to bed. My eyes feel like they might bleed after staring at the thick volume for hours. The only copy I could find of the book Elena mentioned was in Italian. With enough drawings and charts to fuss over, I brought it home anyway. Depictions of incantate—enchanted—necklaces, rings, and crowns fill the pages. There are also grotesque sketches of body parts, including organs. Nothing looks like my prism. I’m back to square one.
With Aaron gone on a business trip, I’m relieved to have the place to myself. I know I need to go back to my apartment soon; I’m running out of clothes again.I need to get my life together.I think to myself before deciding to actually do something about it.
It’s been ages since I’ve done a proper meditation session. They kept me steady in college, and later in grad school; I pretty much owe those practices my degrees. There isn’t a yoga mat here; Isimply push the coffee table aside and sit on the rug. I place a lit candle in front of me and begin the process.
A combination of inhales and exhales, and a focused stare at the flame. I was to acknowledge my body and the sounds around me and let them go.
I scan my feet, then an itch on my back lifts my attention, which I tell myself to let it go. I continue going through my entire body, from the bottom up, noticing the headache at bay.
I turn my focus to the sounds around me. There’s nothing besides my breathing and the hum of the apartment’s heat.
Before I can focus entirely on the flame, my tears start to fall. It requires no effort on my part. They wash away my makeup; I know my mirrored reflection would likely resemble a scary clown. But there’s no one here. No one I need to look pretty for. It’s a great feeling—being oneself, truly free.
And so I let myself cry. I cry for Dad, for my mom, for Aaron, for the wedding, for the prism… and then I cry for myself.
And then, once again, the prism lights up for me. This time, I understand.Water.The prism requires moisture to light up. First, the water from the bathtub, then the snow, now my tears, and the time at the club? My sweat.At last, some answers.However, something is still missing, something I don’t understand. The prism didn’t do anything when I showered. There’s more to it than just getting it wet.
I bring the candle closer to the violet light. The reflection of the flame enhances the prism’s inner glow, and the more I decrease the distance, the weirder I feel. But I’m done waiting. I need to know more. I push it closer and closer to the flame, defying what feels like nature’s law. The prism begins to spin uncontrollably, suddenly alive and agitated. I blink—and everything goes black.
I can’t see anything. Panic starts creeping in. I can’t control my eyes. I open and shut them—still nothing. I reach for my phone, but the darkness doesn’t relent.
Then, suddenly, the blackness gives way.
Somehow, I’m in another place. I can almost feel the ground beneath my feet. My brain fights the concept, knowing I’m still sitting in my living room.I’m not actually here, I tell myself. I scan the room, afraid that I’m losing my mind.I’m not dreaming. I’m stuck, imprisoned in my own eyes. I have no choice but to look around.
A fireplace casts a warm glow over the rustic room. Animal heads are mounted on the walls—far larger than I imagined they’d be in real life. My eyes dart around, frantically searching for a way out. Through the windows, I see mountains. It’s snowing here too. I’m still looking for a door when I see...him.
A handsome, dark-haired man sits on a leather chair by the fire. By the look on his face, he sees me too. I step back, though something inside me tells me I have nothing to fear. I try to open my mouth, but no sound comes out. His green eyes are wide with shock as they scan me.
Am I shaking? I look down at my hands and realize... I have none. I’m... invisible—at least to myself. Before I can glance back at him, it all goes dark again.
Five
“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” – Michelangelo
My head was pounding. I lift my hands to my forehead and feel a bandage. “Easy…” I hear Aaron’s voice, soothing but firm.
“What happened?” I struggle to ask, my voice a little weak.
I try to make sense of my surroundings. I’m in a bed—someone else’s bed.
Akira’s voice cuts through the haze.
