12   blurring the fact and the fiction

Mercy doesn't remember the last time she was awake. Faintly, she knows that she isn't, but for Mercy it's getting harder and harder to tell. She's in her dream-version of Siken Lane, trapped in her bedroom. She can't leave, the maze of winding halls once again blanketed in shrouded darkness. Mercy can't risk getting lost in her own subconscious for the rest of her short existence. Outside her window, her blue truck sits in the driveway. Illusion waves from the driver's seat and her nose furrows. It's covered in vines, the arms winding through the tires and body, holding it close to the earth. She couldn't take it even if she wanted to. Mercy closes the window. It creaks beneath her fingers, white paint flecking onto her grey-stained hands. She sighs.

Across her room, resting against the white wall, there's a golden mirror. Mercy has never had a gold mirror in her room before. It's large: her entire body could fit within its reflection, the glass lined by bright yellow gold. At the top it rises, arching with vines and a figure at it's crown. Dionysus, something whispers quietly. He's curved with serpentine vines twisting around his ankles and up his legs. She laughs, approaching it without caution. This mirror won't harm her, Dionysus is of her kind. They are the same: Mercy and him. Both are intertwined with the unstable balance of madness and ecstasy, walking the line frequently. He is a part of her as much as she is a part of him. They are kin—built of the same broken marble, chipping as each moment passes. They are equally as underestimated, called by other names. Dionysus is more than just a god of wine, and Mercy is more than just a King. When Mercy stands in front of the mirror, there is no reflection. The glass swirls, revealing a fracturing image.

Ronan Lynch is slumping in the passenger seat of Kavinsky's latest Mitsubishi. Mercy sucks in a breath, unsurprised but still disappointed. He's surrounded by beer cans and green pills, Kavinsky in the driver's seat. She's familiar with the broken recipe that disrupts your usual grip on reality. Pill. Beer. Dream. It's simple, easy to grasp but harder than assumed to use. She thinks of white pills dancing in Kavinsky's fingertips, the first iteration of their kind. The green pills seem to be the new and improved version.

The scene shifts: a replica of Gansey's precious Camaro surrounded by a familiar forest. Ronan's blonde girl stands outside the door. He's there, in the front seat, blinking into the shifting sunlight. It morphs between shades of orange and pink. She's familiar with the relief on Ronan's face. The expression that says: it worked. The little girl shakes her head. Ronan puts a finger to his lips, and he's gone, taking the car with him.

Mercy's nose begins to drip. She looks around her room, but there are no tissues. Settling for pinching the bridge of her nose, she looks back to the mirror. It's Kavinsky and Ronan again. The former pops the hood of the Camaro. Mercy watches them bicker, mouths moving slowly but no sound coming out. She hopes that Ronan is leaving, but instead, they down more cans. Mercy finally looks in the hood of the Camaro—there's no engine. She curses lightly, something that loosely translate to fuck in Latin. Pouring a handful of green pills into Ronan's open palm, Kavinsky grins and Mercy pales. She bangs against the mirror but the glass doesn't break, nor does it change anything in the picture. The house shakes with each punch. It shakes five times before she finally stops. Kavinsky produces a red pill from his pocket.

The world loses its colour—only red glinting underneath the light. She remembers the taste: sweet strawberry on her tongue as it dissolved, pulling her into a deep sleep. Mercy remembers the feel: woozy and disconnected from her own body. She remembers the regret, the same look on Ronan's face that now says: wait, I changed my mind, rather than: it worked. Ronan's battling sleep, trying so hard to hold on but the power is strong. Kavinsky leans over him, the hood groaning beneath his weight and the sliminess of his fingers wraps around Ronan's body like an oil spill. Mercy feels ill, the pressure tracing the lines of his tattoo without consent pressing against her own back. Ronan tenses as he moves away. Kavinsky does a line on the roof of the Camaro. It's all so familiar it is sickeningly overwhelming. Mercy closes her eyes, willing away Mallory's warm body against her own, the flash of blonde in the edges of Kavinsky's photo. She's not here. She's dead.

Mercy opens her eyes and Ronan is back in the forest. She aches, body pulling taut while watching Ronan repeat her own grave mistakes. Again, the Camaro is parked amongst the trees. The blonde girl is crouching at its side again. She seems to look up at Mercy, fading like Noah. Mercy's heart breaks and Dionysus twists in his vines. The girl fixes her twisted skullcap and her eyes shift to Ronan.

          "Ronan," Mercy can hear her whisper. "Quid furantur a nos?"

Mercy's subconscious translates for her: Why do you steal from us? She draws her arms around herself, pressing her thumb into the throbbing bruises on her knuckles. There is no real answer. The girl is a smudge against the earth, fading quickly. Mercy longs to put her arm through the mirror, to pull her into her arms. To pull her into some semblance of safety, away from where she can fade into nothing. She strikes the mirror once, aching with despair. The glass remains solid.

           "Just one more. Please." Ronan whispers in reply. "Unum. Amabo te. It's not for me."

She wants to scream: you're messing with something you don't know about. The dream's walls rumble, shuddering around the careful fabric of reality. Mercy and Ronan both seem to notice at the same time from their different ends of the spectrum. He looks to the girl, and Mercy watches them both, an angel from above with her red halo. Ronan doesn't want to steal this, he wants to create something as real as him and Chainsaw.

          "Please," Ronan echoes. "Let me take it."

The girl purses her lips as he runs a hand over the roof. Don't take it, Mercy chants in her mind, but it doesn't come to fruition. Ronan slips into the driver's seat, flicking green pollen from his palm. Finally, the girl relents, and something inside Mercy breaks. The string snaps once again.

          "Call it by name," the girl says.

          "Camaro," Ronan says with meaning. "Pig. Gansey's. Cabeswater, Coedwig, please."

Mercy blinks and she's forced away. There's a warm hand on her shoulder, shaking her from her subconscious' iron grip. She blinks again, forcing the exhaustion and staring up into Monmouth's light. She doesn't know how long she's been sleeping. Ronan stands above her. Brow furrowing in confusion, Mercy looks around. To her, he was just with Kavinsky. But now somehow, he's standing here, hand pressed onto her shoulder and keys to the Camaro spinning in his free hand. She's a stranger in her own body, time messing up in a figure-eight. Mercy shakes her head, lifting the cloud around her.

          "Get up," Ronan says. "I've fixed the Camaro."

Mercy purses her lips, but follows him outside anyway. 

The Camaro feels the same as before, Mercy thinks as she forces herself into its passenger seat. Ronan Lynch is the brightest that she's ever seen him, fingers tightening around the Camaro's steering wheel as it nudges its nose in the direction of Gansey's Suburban stopped red-light. It gives it a light push, his hand pressing against the horn. Ronan nudges Gansey's car again, laying on the horn loudly. Mercy flinches, still sleepy. Her eyes are drooping, out of focus as they try to land on Gansey through the car's back window.

          "Hey!" Ronan crows, laughter slipping like honey from his mouth. "Old man!"

          "Ronan!" Gansey shouts back. The light turns green but neither car moves.

          "Pull over!" Ronan howls, laughter still gracing his tone. Mercy's mouth quirks as he continues. This was the Ronan who once graced the halls of Aglionby. "Mennonites! Now!"

          "I don't want to see it!" Gansey yells, still under the impression that it's wrecked.

          "Oh," Mercy shouts. "You really do!"

Gansey pulls through the light, making the right next to Henrietta Farm and Garden, a small complex of shops. It's staff is mainly staffed by the local population of Mennonites, filled to the brim with a plethora of opportunities. You can find anything from chili dogs to Civil War bullets and other antiques to vegetables and more. Ronan pulls in beside Gansey as he steps out of his Suburban. Mercy slips out the Pig, flattening her skirt into its usual pristine state. Realisation crosses Gansey's face as he studies the Camaro, finding not a single thing wrong with it's condition. A miracle. Ronan leaps from the car, grinning wider than Mercy's ever seen. It's a bewitching thing, to see a weapon smile. He latches onto Gansey's arm who looks between him and the Camaro. Mercy leans against it, arms crossed. She looks down to her ankles and purses her lips. They're bruised.

          "Look at it, man!" Ronan's crowing voice snaps her attention away from herself. "Look at it!"

          "What's going on?" Gansey asks, confused. "I thought it was wrecked —"

          "It was," Ronan admits. "It totally was." He lets go of Gansey's arm, punching it lightly. "I'm sorry, man. It was a shitty thing for me to do."

Gansey's eyes are wide. He's never heard Ronan apologise for a thing, he's not a man to admit his regrets openly. It takes him a moment to realise that Ronan is still talking. "What? What did you say?"

          "This idiot said," Mercy says, kicking herself from the Camaro's side, "that he dreamt this car."

          "I did this!" Ronan says excitedly. He grabs onto Gansey's shoulders and shakes them. "That's from my head. It's exactly the same, man. I did it. I know how my dad got everything he wanted and I know how to control my dreams and I know what's wrong with Cabeswater."

Mercy straightens. "Woah, woah, woah. You didn't mention that."

Ronan isn't listening to her, he's steering Gansey towards the front seat. "Sit in it! Tell me it's any different!"

Pushing Gansey into the driver's seat, Ronan leans his head in and drapes Gansey's arms on the steering wheel. Mercy opens the passenger door, slipping into the seat beside him. She watches carefully, Gansey's eyes shifting from left to right as he considers the image before him. It's the exact same. A copy. Slowly, he reaches in over the steering wheel and snatches a pair of sunglasses off the dashboard. They're white, plastic with dark lenses. Mercy swallows. Kavinsky. What she had seen was reality, but her dreams have never crossed that threshold before. Her hands turn into fists, nails pressing into her palm.

Ronan takes the sunglasses, slipping them from Gansey's fingers and onto his face. His expression flits from slightly somber to something else in a flash. Mercy's brain lags as she registers his laughter: free and joyous, something booming and wonderful. Gansey takes a moment too, but it doesn't take long for him to follow suit. Only Mercy remains deathly quiet, considering the car. She hasn't been in the original Pig enough to consider its likeness, but there's no denying that Ronan's forgery is a work of art. She leans back into the seat, pressing her palms into the material.

          "Okay," Gansey's laughter fizzles out, breathless. "Okay, tell me."

Mercy's quiet as Ronan tells Gansey.

          "Kavinsky?"

She pushes herself into the seat as he explains, expression dark.

          "And what's wrong with Cabeswater?" Gansey questions.

          "Me. Her." Ronan says, shielding his eyes, vaguely pointing between him and Mercy. "Well, Kavinsky, actually. We're taking all the energy from the line when we dream."

          "Solution?"

          "Stop Kavinsky."

          "I don't suppose," Gansey says slowly, "that we could just ask him nicely."

Mercy laughs, shrill and unsettling. It escapes like a monster, jagged in the air. The boys turn to her. "Nice isn't in Kavinsky's vocabulary."

          "Hey, Churchill tried to negotiate with Hitler." Ronan pitches in.

Gansey frowns. "Did he?"

          "Probably." Ronan shrugs.

Letting out a breath, Gansey presses his forehead into the steering wheel. Mercy feels like doing the same thing.

          "How was your party, man?" Ronan asks, kicking Gansey's knee through the open door. "How'd Parrish do?"

Gansey opens his eyes. "Oh, he brought down the house."

It's Mercy who laughs, loose and wondrous. Filling the space of the Camaro, Gansey and Ronan exchange a glance before they join her—a joyful moment amongst the wreckage. 

more of a filler-ish chapter :) next few are gonna be a lot