Page 3 of Incarnate

I find that answer too nuanced, and even plausible, that I’m stuck in silence. What am I seriously supposed to do right now? I’m aware this might be real, and yet it means nothing to me.

It’s the strangest anesthetic.

The journey ends at a small wooden door that Margaret opens, and I squint when natural light streaks through. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust as it’s clearly very overcast, my brows furrowed as I walk through the grass before reaching stone. Large walls surround us with windows, and sleek, gray stones line the ground.

It’s a courtyard.

Black marble statues stand in the middle, surrounded by green shrubbery, and between them is a lush tree that perfect fuchsia apples hang from. A light fog binds it all together, the sun somewhere and yet nowhere all at once. In front of the apple tree is a pond of onyx water, with two stone chairs on the left side.

“An apple tree?” Margaret asks, tapping one as it gently sways on its stem.

“Is that surprising?” I ask, chewing on my bottom lip.

“Whenever someone enters this courtyard, usually something from their life appears as a form of comfort. Did you pick these as a child?”

Drawn to the color, knowing it should be red, I feel an odd connection back to Earth. I touch the fruit, imagining the way it tastes. I used to love fall and apple picking, didn’t I? “I don’t know.”

“Well, grab one if you want. You’re the one that conjured it. Perhaps eating one will make you feel better. Sit down with me, Penelope. We have something to go over.”

Once again, part of me is desperate to run and scream with incredulity, and the other feels as if I should just start humming. “I feel… odd.”

“There is a veil of magic over you that aids in preventing panic. It’s likely related to that.”

I touch one of the apples, plucking it from the tree as the leaves gently shake. I sit on the black marble chair adjacent to her, its coolness shocking me before the sensation dissolves away. “Did the chair go from frigid to nothing for you, too?”

“The brown garb you wear helps with physical sensations. You won’t feel it for long, even if you do at first. We discovered that removing the sensation entirely made it hard to ground yourself, but giving too much was overwhelming.”

I stare at my supposed docent, and it’s so much clearer how red she is against all this black and gray. “Alright, Miss Penelope, we will begin with the reveal,” Margaret begins, grabbing a mirror next to her chair. I can’t tell if it just appeared, or if I’m still struggling to grasp my surroundings. “I am not sure what you looked like on Earth, but it will be different here,” Margaret adds, holding up the gilded reflection.

I consume what I see, exhaling in shock. My free hand finds my face, touching and pulling, ensuring it belongs to me.

What… what is going on?

I recall who I am supposed to see. Last time I looked in a mirror, I was fifty-five years old, but this reflection shows someone in their lates twenties. My crooked nose is straight again, my overbite corrected, my stray grays and bad roots are all blended into a soft, pale blonde. My eyes are no longer hazel but a gentle turquoise. Fingers dig into my face, pulling at my cheeks. My throat burns, tears welling in my eyes. I have no laugh lines, no wrinkles, no gaping pores.

I am beautiful.

“Alright, dreams over. I want to wake up now,” I say, completely unnerved, standing and stepping away from the mirror. “I don’t know what drug I must have taken, but this is getting to be too much.”

Too real.

I have this trick to wake up from nightmares where I close my eyes and try to open them from my sleeping body in an attempt to connect my mind back to reality. I open my eyes. Nothing changes. Margaret raises a brow and just watches me do it again, and I hold my lids closed even longer. It still doesn’t work.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

“You are dead, Penelope. Now alive, I suppose, but in a different world. You can no longer get to Earth,” Margaret plainly says.

I glance down at my body, apple still in my right hand, lifting my long cloth bag to see naked flesh underneath with breasts that are perfectly plump. I roughly touch my skin, as if it will peel away. All it does is leave red marks. I drop the robe, not caring at all about the indecency.

Something is happening to me right now.

That much is true.

“Why am I here?” I demand, deciding to believe this for a moment. I have to take in all options. “You said there are Realms? I’m in Hell-not-Hell?”

“The reason for you being in the Underworld instead of in another pantheon is your secret, only shared with the high Seraphs. Why each soul chooses to come here, versus immediate reincarnation, is for them and them only.”

“This is all wrong,” I say, a hysteria rising in my chest, the anesthesia not working like before. I stare at the apple tree, wondering why I possibly conjured this useless thing. I glare at the apple I plucked and take a bite to see if it tastes like I know an apple should—crisp, juicy, sweet and tart. The flavor and texture permeate like it’s real, and not a dream.