THE EQUALIZER: CHAPTER 1
Elizabeth S. (4/9/21)
In one crowded classroom there are hushed conversations, diligent pencils, and glazed eye contact. The teacher stands at the front of the room, working for a living. But the clock above her head has all the attention. My classmates sit in desks on either side of me, some writing, some half asleep. I doodle meaninglessly on a corner of my note page.
An Equalizer can never be too safe. I try to focus on my Opposite, sending shockwaves through the ground in search of familiarity. I am almost fully focused, but then—
A glimpse of light blinds my vision. There is a window on my right, and a classmate dozing next to me. I chance a peek.
I see myself.
Not a reflection, but my flesh and blood. I know those hands, the ones with the short nails and the freckles, hands that can never sit still. I’ve brushed that hair, sleek for a second and then immediately tangling, for seventeen years.
She speaks to someone in a business suit. I can hear them when I focus. I can discern each word. It’s a meaningless conversation.
I let out an audible tsk. For someone with the ability to witness everything, I still didn’t see this coming.
The window shakes for just a minute, the couple’s image shifting with it. It’s a signal.
I quickly move to hide under my desk.
Identical hazel eyes lock with my own.
She knows.
I wriggle in my seat, uncomfortable with both the eye contact and the idea that I’ve acted so carelessly. After all, only one may exist in one timeline.
She whispers to her colleague, so low that even I cannot hear. She approaches the window, and I tense further.
A bell tolls.
Class is over.
Jarred out of my trance, I try to focus back on the window.
Before anyone else in the classroom moves, I gather my things and rush to the door. My friends call out to me, but I have only one voice in my mind.
“Contact in progress.”
And that’s when I know I’ve been recognized, once again.
The voice echoes in my brain, “Contact recognition 70%.” I stop walking forwards. I’ve lived a similar timeline before.
I take one look at the woman a few feet away from me. She looks exactly like I thought she would, exactly like I would one day have looked if I hadn’t been so thoughtless. But she isn’t me. She does not hold my memories.
I calm myself, channeling all my energy downwards, to my feet and into the ground. Break away. Break away.
The ground begins to shake. My legs weaken, and I fall to the ground. The woman, despite her curiosity, reaches out to help me, aiming for my wrist. Possibly, it’s a reflex.
The very Earth I stand on ages backwards. Pavement lifts, leaving only soil. The soil peels away to rock. I count the changes slowly. One, two, three, four... I know my location well.
Water fills the area slowly. Everyone around me is frozen, a snapshot in time.
I know this cavern, because I have rewound these oceans before. I know how far down I am, and how nobody will find this school thousands of years from now.
The pressure is unbearable, both in my heart and above my body. I lay on the seafloor, waiting.
This time, the voice comes from above me.
You failed, number 662953384.
I sigh in resignation.
All Equalizers must master the art of escape. As you know, for the Opposite to make contact with their Equalizer implies immediate extermination. Once a contact is made, both selves disappear.
She must’ve touched my wrist, if just for a second. Even if she had died under the ocean’s pressure, I would’ve succeeded.
You do not exist. You both live on Earth, but your Opposite is the one true copy. Your task is to maintain balance. Each human has an Equalizer. An Opposite’s Equalizer must take form in the world, since a recognizable corporeal being cannot simply occupy space. The Articles mandate that this form must share attributes with an Opposite.
I rub my temples as I listen to this message for the millionth time.
With powers imbued by the Master Equalizer you have control over the physical domain. This endurance training must be completed before certification is awarded. Escape contact in any way possible.
You still have…
A set of glowing numbers materializes from the water in front of me, despite the gloom of the seafloor. They look as if light from the sun has shone from the surface, creating an eerie luminescence. The numbers shift, from 10293689498 to 1939569968, flipping through every digit hundreds of times in a millisecond. And then XXXXXXXXXX appears, as usual.
I have unlimited chances to reach my certification. I have completed millions of attempts, but it remains just out of reach.
It has been six thousand years.
Somehow, I always fail at seventeen years on Earth.
You still have XXXXXXXXXX attempts remaining to achieve your certification and maintain the contract. The new attempt will commence in three, two, one…
The world shifts beneath my feet, not an unfamiliar feeling. My form changes until my physical appearance is unrecognizable. I have been placed on a new Earth, in a new time.
- End Chapter -
INSANITY’S CRADLE
Roshini Adunoor (10/30/20)
I consider it rare for me to lose control. My discipline is impeccable, and I wear a mask woven with deceitful care. I’ve taught myself how not to react when people introduce themselves, to show indifference when my mother calls me by the label she forced upon me at birth. Because of all this, I found it very surprising when I felt a flash of hot anger course through me when the mother I had just performed a C-section on told me the name of her child. I’d specifically made sure to express my disinterest in hearing the child’s name in hopes the mother would avoid telling me, but appearing to be lost in the bliss of having her first born, she let it slip. “Emma.” She whispered into the room, a whisper that echoed through my head over and over again, getting louder each time. A snarl catches at my lips, one I force back before I swiftly exit the room. I lean against the wall to calm my racing heart. Boom boom. Boom boom. Em-ma.
The mother and daughter are staying for a week so the doctors can run some tests on them to make sure everything is okay. Emma is placed in a nursery while the mother is moved to a room that doesn’t stink of sweat, blood and other bodily fluids. Emma will stay here for a week. Oh, the poor thing. Her name, so sweet it tasted bitter. So smooth it felt sticky, like honey.
It’s midnight and I’m sneaking into the nursery to watch the baby. Maybe it’s wrong. But the mother is more of a criminal than I am. I gaze down at her tiny doll-like body. With arms made of porcelain and a heart of glass. Easy to break, beautiful to look at. My sense of time’s flown out the window and out of the corner of my eye, I see the sun peeking through the window. I better leave before I’m caught!
It’s the second night. As I’m looking at her, I notice something on her skin. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not just seeing things in the darkness of the room. I don’t know what they are, but some parts of her skin have a pattern of swirls and lines on her that are very faint but noticeable. I’m surprised the other doctors haven’t said anything about it. I spent the rest of the night focusing on the different patterns, trying to decipher what they could possibly be.
The moon shines through the curtains of the nursery, signifying the third mark of my nightly escapades. I had to resist the temptation of going to the nursery throughout the day, Emma is quite the mystery. How is she so blissfully ignorant to how torturous the rest of her life was going to be? The different patterns on her skin are darker tonight, yet I still cannot make out what they are. It’s driving me up the wall, not knowing what they could be. I pity poor little Emma, one with a name so awful who is already being forced to go through life with her miserable name. Now she has to go through it with these marks marring her smooth, pale skin. I shall watch over her throughout the week and if she doesn’t get better, I will confront her caretakers and the doctor. Why they haven’t addressed it even now is beyond me.
Four. I have been coming in for four nights to watch over poor, sweet Emma. I can now see what the strange patterns on her body are. They’re words. More specifically, her name. Her awful, despicable name. The words are still faint, but now legible. Emma, Emma, Emma. Written all over her tiny form. Oh, how sad, I must find out how to fix this. But how? I ponder this simple yet complex question throughout the night as I watch her.
My family is worried about me. They think something is wrong with me when really, it’s the complete opposite. I haven’t slept in six days, this one being the seventh and last day Emma will be here. The doctors had decided to keep her here for a few extra days due to some minor complications regarding her birth that they were still worried about, but luckily, this just gave me the extra time I needed. I worry about her constantly and am angered by the fact that those incompetent doctors have done nothing to help her. She shall not worry, though, for I am here for her! The writing on her skin has gotten darker, to the point of it being pitch black. The names cover her skin, concealing her pure, white flesh. I try washing them off her, rubbing at them, but nothing is working. Tonight is the last night and since no one will do anything about it, I must remove those marks quickly! With a rag drenched in soap and water, I slowly pick her up so I can wipe the marks off properly. I start by using a little bit of pressure and wipe her form down. Nothing. I use more pressure. I’m getting impatient; this is taking too long. I put her down and vigorously start scrubbing. Her skin starts to turn a dark, dangerous red, but the marks seem to fade a bit. That must mean it’s working! I scrub even harder, faster. Blood starts to seep through and covers the marks, but I push through that. The baby is awake and wailing a piercing scream. I distinctly hear footsteps coming towards the room but that doesn’t matter to me. The baby starts to quiet as more crimson flows out. The marks have faded even more; they're almost completely gone now! The baby goes quiet and stops moving. The marks are completely gone now, and I pick up her limp form lovingly. I hear gasps and screams from the nursery threshold. I look up with a grin that feels like it will never leave. I did it! I’m smiling even as I feel my arms being shoved behind my back and I’m pushed to the ground. It’s over. My Emma is saved.
WHITE WALLS
Suhayla A. (10/30/20)
The bed which belonged to my twin sister is now millions of kilometers away. My father sold it to a family of aliens who visited from Mars after she died. My bed is still here. What lies to its right is the baby’s cradle. He’s six months old, such a darling. I would go crazy if anything happened to him!
In this serene room with perfectly white walls, there is no blackness to be found. The whiteness is almost blinding, like hot flashes.
I put away this writing now as I am to start eighth grade.
* * * * * *
I have been colorblind since birth. I have not known color or why my art never seemed to receive appreciation by my teachers. “My, what an ugly color scheme!” every teacher would tell me.
* * * * * *
I have received surgery on my eyes. My father has always wanted me to see colors the way “normal people” have. “It was the way your sister saw,” my father says.
He gifts me a painting filled with colors “only those with normal vision would appreciate.” It’s an abstract array of reds, blues, yellows, greens, and purples laid in thick, skewed, overlapping lines.
* * * * * *
I see color. With color comes an array of wonder.
But with it comes fear. I see too much of something yet I am unable to pinpoint it.
* * * * * *
I cannot come to school anymore.
My teachers have been calling Father. They ask him what has happened to me.
“Nothing,” he assures them. “She is so excited that her eyes have received color that she is staying home for a little while.”
Technology is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? The world has progressed in such a lovely manner…
* * * * * *
With red, all I see is my sister’s blood. The red, curdled thickness seeps out of her heart and flows onto the earth.
With blue, all I hear are the wistful whispers of my sister. They’re soft, yet they cut my ears as if they are sharp swords.
With green, all I feel is the squelch as I step onto the green muck my sister lies. I sink in it. My sister sinks in it.
With yellow, all I smell is the rotten-egg, sulfuric odor that permeated the room.
My father tells me that if I continue barring myself from the outside world I’ll go crazy. But I’m not crazy. In fact, I’m so happy to be here. The colors in my room do not have to do with them. They’re perfect and pristine. They’re beautiful.
I know that colors only cause me to fear when they represent hateful things. But colors themselves are innocent.
The painting is like a lovely stain on my once perfectly white wall.
* * * * * *
I have lost track of time. I stayed up all night staring at the painting, assisted by the twenty-four-hour light in England. I am still staring when the alarm clock starts to scream. With the crying alarm clock follows the baby.
The alarm clock screams in my ears. I take the baby out of the crib. More screaming plagues my ears. I set the baby back into the crib.
I enter the closet for the first time since my sister’s death. She loved to paint.
I take out her colors, her lovely colors. They’re in a plastic case, each color separated perfectly by little square walls.
I dip my pointer finger in the bright red, my middle finger in the calm blue, and my ring finger in the grassy green. The screaming of the alarm clock continues to ring in my ears. The baby is oddly silent.
With my painting fingers, I come back to the baby. I paint his soft, porcelain skin with the colors.
What has happened? The baby’s innocence clashing with the innocent colors? I thought it would result in purity.
But now, all I see is society. I see the rush of the public come with the colors. I hear my father barge into the room. “What have you done to him?” But all I do is wonder.
What has happened?
* * * * * *
I do not fear color itself. I thought this was what it was.
But what I fear is the presence of others.
I am now in a foreign, serene room again without color. But the color wasn’t the problem.
They were the problem. The people who seemed to breathe down my neck and follow me wherever I went.
The pain I feel is when another being enters the room. I’m already one with the colors, one with the fact that they are so easily malleable by society, so easily bent against their will.
Now, every time the man in white comes in, I feel the pain sear at my soul.
I have not gone insane. Everything I feel must be real. I am happily shut away from society. I am happy to be isolated. I hope this continues for an eternity.
I just hope that the man in white will come in less and less. He calls himself a nurse, yet he somehow makes me feel less at ease rather than more so. The white he wears is so murky, so disgusting. It’s like he fell into dry dirt and never brushed it off.
I must put my writings away now. I’m not allowed to write anymore.
* * * * * *
I’m in my sister’s arms and she does not judge me for who I am. She forgives me for all my sins. My father does not think I am crazy. My baby brother is not painted. Everything is pure.
* * * * * *
The man in white no longer comes into this serene room. I am finally alone. I am content living surrounded by this empty canvas. I do not need anything from anyone.
Yes, I do wish that I was with my family. However, I know that all of them must be alive! Or could they be dead? I only know that they must be in a realm different from myself, safe from harm!
‘TIL DEATH DO US APART
Vaishnavi Srirama (10/30/20)
He woke up to the suffocating fingers of Loneliness clenching his throat, so tightly that it was hard to take a breath of air without the taste of guilt going down with it. There was nothing more brooding than the thought of simply speaking with others, the thought of friends, the thought of being more full than empty. He looked around at his room, the bare walls as silent and still as the tranquility in his own heart.
It was close to the 1-year mark of his stay at the hospital, where his disease thrived under the abandonment by his regular doctors. They said he had a repulsing energy to him, and only the bravest and fiercest of the staff attended to him. Everyone else who passed by quickened their pace until they crossed the room. By itself, the room had midnight walls and a heart monitor glowing a bright, neon green color. The incessant line had a wavering pattern that trembled underneath the monitor. Its constant beeping noise filling up the eerie spaces that occupied the room like music.
It was in this room, also, where his loneliness selfishly leeched onto him, and where it made him an outcast from the others. He had spent most of his days sitting on his hospital bed, in an erect, upright position, blankly staring at his monitor, whose infinite pattern resembled faintly the outline of a city skyline. It was at the most inconvenient times when he would uncontrollably blabber to himself. These conversations started off full, covering the topics of two distinct genres: pessimism and optimism. But as time went on, the pessimistic conversations became more abundant and plentiful. He bore a monotone expression on his face as he looked blankly at the wall ahead of him, letting his different masks show. It was at these times where the heart rate monitor shook on its own and the line fluctuated wildly, as if containing a wild beast inside.
Despite the fact, he had a sense of serenity to him. When anyone approached him, even if it was just his nurses and doctors, he went into a fit of hysterics, kicking his legs and flailing his arms, doing anything he could do to get away from them. But talking to himself was a different scene. He didn’t flinch when a hand was put on his shoulder, or even when he was spoken to. Instead, he simply looked across at the wall ahead of him, letting whatever figment of his mind control his body.
At times, he greeted his doctors with a wide smile plastered over a tangle of wrapped up nerves, but other times he wouldn’t even look at the door and he simply cried on his bed. He let these other sides of him take over when it was most unnecessary. This uneven behavior, as a result of his brokenness, was normal for him. As long as the line on the monitor fell back to its original level, he was considered safe.
The conversations grew more and more pessimistic by the day, as I have told; and his unusual behaviors grew more gruesome, more morbid, and more lurid. Pessimism encompassed more of him, chipping away at the surface of what was essentially him more every day.
In the soft, white glow of the moon, it may be well supposed that the hospital residents would be fast asleep. In truth he never slept, his conversations painting the picture of a beautiful death which kept him awake through the calamities of the night. It was on one of these days when the doctor sleeping a couple rooms past his own was awoken to the sound of a scratching sound coming from the room. He quickly ran to the man’s room and threw the door open in a fit of confusion and fear, only to find the horrifying sight of him simply conversing with himself. The scratching continued, becoming unbearable and deafening to anyone who was close by. It called the attention of all residents of the hospital, as they all formed a crowd outside of his room. The only source of light was the heart monitor, which was flashing a bright green and shaking out of control, generating a sharp rattling noise painful to listen to. There was a sudden flash, blinding everyone around momentarily with the sickening brightness of white.
When their eyes fell upon the appalling image of the man, they seemed to be shocked, in the first moment with an aghast expression; but, in the next, their expressions altered to those characterized by shock and disgust.
The man’s eyes grew wide as he looked at his bleeding wrist, rivers of dark red blood rushing from veins ruptured by the razor sharp knife clutched tightly in the other hand. The line on the heart monitor ceased to a straight line as he was disconnected from the realm of mortal medicine; however, the spirit inside of him prospered. His hideous grin spread out from ear to ear, shining a demonic yellow with blood red eyes the size of globes. A satanic cackle pierced the room’s silent state; his menacing grin never fading. When Pessimism finally left his body, his cackling stopped, his eyes immediately shut closed, and the man fell limp on the hospital bed.
His best friend, as well as his biggest enemy, was himself.
Inspired by: The Masque of the Red Death – Edgar Allan Poe
THE MANGO TREE
Suhayla Ahmed (8/21/20)
It was 1988. I was five years old, an age where maturity is far away, but annoyance is at its peak. School had just started. It was a time when the Florida summer was growing stale and autumn was starting to blossom. I came home like a thundercloud, angry and on the edge of crying. I had brought chicken curry and rice to school and everyone plugged their noses when I opened my box at lunch.
Abbu was on the sofa drinking chai when I came home. He smiled at me at first, but noticed the anger in my expression. “What’s wrong, mamoni?”
“I don’t want to bring Ammu’s cooking to school anymore,” I said. My hard expression dissolved into tears, and I started to sob hysterically. “No one will want to be friends with me.”
Through my tears, I saw my father’s shadow rise from the couch, put his teacup down, and walk towards me. I felt him lift me up and hug me. “How about I cut you some mangos?” I nodded and he sat me down on the living room sofa.
Within five minutes, he came out with a bowl of unevenly cut up mango chunks and a spoon. I gobbled up the mango happily, cherishing the sweet, tropical taste.
“The food of our country is delicious,” Abbu said as he sat next to me. “Those children know nothing about what good food tastes like, so they act like that.”
“Can I still take less smelly food to lunch? Like pizza or a hot dog?”
--
It was 1996. I was thirteen years old. Maturity was still far away, but closer than before. Annoyance was past its peak, but rebellion was starting to blossom. It was March, and spring was upon us. But I came home angry as the summer sun.
I said nothing to Abbu as I entered the living room. “How was school, mamoni?”
“Terrible,” I said. “My friends called me whitewashed.”
I felt like I was being angry for no reason, because they meant that as a joke. But I couldn’t hold my feelings back. I lived these past years by leaving my own culture at home and adopting on a new one at school. I was ostracized for being different, but now I was teased for trying to fit in? I was furious.
“Mamoni, it’s okay. I know you are proud of your culture, and you know it too.” He saw that I was barely comforted by this, so he changed the topic. “Come, let’s go outside.”
We went to the mango tree seedling in our yard. It was my father’s idea to plant one. It was tiny and almost feeble looking, having been planted only a few weeks beforehand. I could never picture it bearing any fruit.
“See this seedling? Since today is the slightest bit windy, it shakes since there are no fruits to weigh it down. However, when it bears fruit, it’ll stand strong against any winds. This tree is much like you, mamoni.”
“Like me? How?”
“You have yet to mature. You have much learning to do before you can stand firm in the face of torment. No matter how these people try to make you feel, you should not let them bother you. You love your culture, right?”
Of course I did.
“These people’s comments are the wind to your mango tree. No matter what these people say, you love your culture. And you should express that love, because that love is stronger than any fear you may have of what other people will say.”
--
It was 1999. I was fifteen. Maturity was starting to blossom. Rebellion was past its peak, as it seemed that all my anger had faded out by the time I was 14. The new year had just begun, and we had come back from a winter trip to Bangladesh.
We were all tired. It had been a long drive from the airport back to our home. I was in bed, about to fall asleep, until I heard a scuffling in the corridor. I sauntered outside of my room to see what it was, but I had a feeling I already knew. I saw my father’s shadow walk downstairs, and heard the backyard door open and close. I went to the backyard and saw him look at our mango tree. It was no longer a seedling. It was a bit bigger, and beautiful green leaves surrounded it. However, we didn’t see this green in the moonlight. Only the tree’s impressive shadow.
“A mango tree seedling takes years to bear fruit,” he said out loud, sensing that I was there. “Years,” he repeated, more to himself than to me. “I know that, but seeing the mango tree we had at home makes me want it all to happen faster.”
“Abbu, you’ve been patient with me all these years. You should be patient with this tree too. It will bear fruit before you know it, Inshallah.” I said to him.
“You’re right,” he turned to me, and I could hear the smile in his voice though I could barely see it in the nighttime darkness. “And I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, mamoni. I know you’ll only grow more from here, and you’ll always make us proud.”
We stood outside for a while looking at the mango tree before heading back inside. Though I knew my father understood to be patient, I could feel that he yearned to see the mango tree bear fruit. I couldn’t understand why at the time, but I know now that it was a connection to his home back in Bangladesh. He was used to seeing the adult mango trees in his Chittagong village. He planted this tree for a home away from home.
--
It is 2002. I am eighteen now. The concept of adulthood is new to me, frightening but liberating. The mango tree has reached adulthood too, but it did so a few months before I did. The fruits are sweet and juicy, a great escape from the sweltering summer heat. It’s a beautiful sight, but the one who would have loved this the most isn’t here to cherish it.
In 2001, Abbu was walking to his car after attending a meeting at work. 9/11 was fresh in everyone’s minds, and new forms of hatred had come alive. My father never made it to his car. He was killed because another man heard him speak to my mother on the phone. He took the foreign language he spoke and his brown skin as vessels of terrorism.
The mango tree, like me, took a while to mature. I never realized the danger in embracing who you are, whether it is your culture or heritage. I spent so much of my life thinking that the worst that could happen is people plugging their noses at your lunch or calling you petty names. I thought that, out of everyone in my family, I was the biggest victim of prejudice. I’ve cursed myself countless times for being so wrong. I’ve cursed myself for not treasuring our lives before the storm of September 11. And I’ve cursed the mango tree for choosing to bear fruit after the storm had already started. After the storm took away my father.
My father taught me to love my culture and religion unapologetically but was killed for doing the same. Lingering on the memory of my father these past months has caused me immense pain. But it’s made me realize that I cannot live my life hating myself for not knowing better, or else I’d disrespect the memory of his teachings.
So we eat these fruits in his memory, and I remember the significance of the mango tree. It was more than my journey to maturity. It was my father’s home. How sad it is that my father’s life had to end. Right before his home away from home finally came alive.
I won’t let hate take away my love for my culture. I won’t let hate take away my mother. I won’t let hate take away anything like how it took away my father. And this lingering thought makes the mangoes taste much sweeter.
--
Author’s Note:
Abbu - Dad
Mamoni - Affectionate word like ‘honey’ or ‘dear’ (literally means another word for ‘mom’)
Ammu - Mom
Shona pakhi - Affectionate word like ‘honey’ or ‘dear’ (literally translates to ‘gold bird’)
Inshallah - If God wills it (an Arabic phrase used by Muslims and Arabs)
My dad told me stories of how he was compared to a mango tree in his youth, as the tree is shaky and angry when young, but steady and calm in its adulthood. He also likened me to this tree. I wanted to deliver my own version of a story surrounding the mango tree. This story represents generations of my family, and it’s what makes us diverse.
I was born after 9/11, but my parents had already been situated in the US for years by then. They had made it their home, but that infamous day changed everything as they knew it. I dedicate this story to their strength and resilience during such troubling times.