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Talia

The darkness suffocated Talia like a cocoon. At first, there was nothing. No sound, no form. A pool of vast emptiness stretching endlessly.

Drip.

A single droplet echoed in the void. Then another.

Drip. Drip.

A fluorescent buzz hummed overhead. A white light seared through her closed eyelids, sharp and artificial. A sterile white glow bled into the sides of her vision. Flickering shapes shifted in the periphery of her vision.

She couldn't move. Her legs, her arms— held down by an invisible weight. Muffled voices filtered in and out as though spoken through water. There was no way to tell whom they belonged to. Talia's head rolled to the side. Something beeped rhythmically in the distance.

Then— a scent. The thick and cloying stench of antiseptic burned her nostrils. Beneath it, however, was something else. Something bitter. Something. . . alluring. And yet, she knew exactly what it was: Dreamweaver.

She did even think about why that thought drifted through her mind like smoke— unformed, without context.

Her fingers twitched. She felt something cold and smooth press against her wrist— the touch too impersonal to be comforting. She felt her chest rising and falling. Fingertips pressed against her skin, feeling up her arm now.

A sharp pain. She let out a whimper. There was no time to fight the sensation. No time to fight her way through the fog.

Everything dissolved. Silence once again.

Before the void swallowed her whole— the slightest whisper. Something softer. Familiar.

"It is time to hold hands with the angels."

Talia bolted upright, her skin damp with sweat. Her sheets were twisted around her legs. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heartbeat thundering beneath her palm. Every second a gasp was caught in her throat.

She rushed to turn on the bedside lamp. She frantically ran her fingers up and down her arms, as if checking for marks. She shuddered once she confirmed no carvings or wounds were on her smooth, tan skin. Her hands trembled.

What exactly was that? Another memory she could not remember?

She tried to control her breathing. She looked up at her glow-in-the-dark-stars for comfort. This was the first time she had ever felt this terrified waking up from a dream/memory. This was not just fear. This was wrongness.

Why had she thought of Dreamweaver? How? She had not thought about the flower since her trip from Sweden. Why had it been on her lips like a desperate plea, caught in the grip of whatever that relapse had been? Out of all the things her brain could have subconsciously pulled out of?

Talia swung her legs over the bed. She moved rather quickly to reach the photo album and personal notebook she had stashed under her bed. Flipping through the photo sleeves, she stopped until she reached a particular photo: she and April wearing their flower crowns, posing for the camera in front of the maypole. Talia took it out from the sleeve, inspecting it. Her throat tightened. It took her a few seconds to piece it together: the indigo poppy she picked for her crown— Dreamweaver— was the same flower she saw in one of her nightmares.

How could she not remember? That flower was like the rare gem that stood out in her headpiece.

She moved on to her notebook, flipping to the page she last wrote on; 'Crossroads'— circled and with a question mark above it. A horrible, unshakeable feeling sank in her stomach. It was nothing more than her gut, but whatever had sent her spiraling into that waking nightmare— it had something do with this. With Crossroads.

She scooped up her things. She did not feel like going to sleep just yet.

Sliding into her slippers, she left her room and crept as quietly as she could to the kitchen so as to not wake her father. As she approached, however, she stopped in surprise. Her father sat at the table, sipping a cup of coffee while flipping through what appeared to be medical notes, the kitchen dimly lit by the soft glow coming from the overhead stove light. Talia tried to make her steps light, but her father still noticed.

"You are up late." He glanced up.

"I could not sleep," Talia admitted softly. "I am guessing you could not either?"

"These days, only sleeping pills do the trick. I would offer one to you, but I know how you feel about that."

Talia hummed. Any medication that had to be swallowed whole warranted fear in her book. Like all phobias, it was an irrational fear. She had tried to get past it, but it seemed like the more she tried not to think about the pill that would slide down her throat, the more she thought about it. The more she thought about it, the more she would feel anxious and be prone to choking. It was silly, to say the least, but it made taking useful medication a little more difficult.

"How about some coffee?"

"You forget, Dewdrop— it has caffeine in it. As your father and doctor, I do not recommend it so late."

"Does that apply only to me and not you?"

"You are still growing. You need all the sleep you can get before you reach my years. Stick with tea. It's more beneficial."

Talia smiled. She set her things down on the table. She rummaged through the drawers, rummaging for tea packets. She was able to find some— chamomile, ginger, peppermint. She decided with chamomile. She moved to the cabinet, grabbing a tea kettle and putting it on high flame after filling it with water.

For a moment, she stood there, fingers tracing the countertop. She wanted to tell her father about her dreams, the investigation, everything. Even though she was not sure how he would react, he was her father. It did not feel right keeping this from him.

She returned to the table, sitting across from him. Her father took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her for a long moment before speaking again.

"What is it, Dewdrop?"

Talia looked up. She did not know what to say first. "I should have told you this from the start, but I also know you are under a lot of stress lately; we both are."

Her father's head tilted slightly. He set his mug down.

Talia glided her notebook to her father. "Inside are my notes— everything my friends and I have discovered about Imma. I also have it down on a whiteboard, to make it more organized, but the notebook offers more simplicity."

Her father went through the pages, his expression becoming more troubled as he flipped further. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I do not know what to say," he expressed with overwhelming shock. "Why. . . I mean. . . how did you come to possess this knowledge?"

"My friends and I. We are trying to figure out what exactly Imma did for Shredder," Talia explained. "We think we may have found it."

Her father turned the page. His eyes followed the written lines, eyebrows creased with concern. "This mystery drug you mention. . . it is to be raised with worry. No one has ever managed to create such a combination before."

"I believe that is why Imma was killed. Maybe she had her reservations and decided to hide the formula. Shredder wanted what was rightfully his and his business partner's, probably got suspicious of her, and when she refused to give it up, Shredder killed her. It makes perfect sense."

"I know what you are trying to do, dewdrop. I understand your reasons. But what you are doing is dangerous. You already know what those. . . spooks are capable of."

"I know, Abba. But this is the only way to find out the truth. Even if Imma had skeletons in her garden, she is not here to defend herself. So I wish to find the truth she probably wanted to share with us, but could not. Do you not wish for this to be over?"

"Of course I want this to be over. But I do not think you are going to accomplish that by not seeing something that is already there."

Talia frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Her father let out a slow breath, looking like he was choosing his next words carefully. "That even a parent can mess up. Your mother loved you more than anything in the entire world; but the answer is simple." He leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter. "She chose to live dangerously, and she paid for it. That does not mean you have to overcompensate for it. You are the only innocent in all of this."

Talia sat frozen, letting his words slice here. The amount of times she combed through every memory she shared with her mother to find any trace evidence of darkness. . . what if it had always been there? What if Talia had just refused to see it? Out of ignorance? Childish wishes?

Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. "How did we not see anything? You two practically stayed in the same room; you loved each other."

Something in her father's movements indicated hesitation— Talia saw a flicker behind his eyes, like he had been searching for that answer this whole time.

"Love is blind, Talia." Her father's voice surprised Talia a little. The way he talked was quiet, almost remorseful. "Even knowing what she did—" he caught his voice "—that she kept so much from me, I still love her."

Talia swallowed hard. She felt the sting behind her own eyes. "She should not have gone out like this."

Her father nodded. "You should not have been the one to witness it, either."

A thick silence settled between them. The only sound was the whistle of the tea kettle.

Her father exhaled and leaned back. "You should go get that."

Talia blinked. She had almost forgotten about her tea. She went back to the kitchen to pour the steaming water into a mug and place the chamomile bag inside, waiting for the water to absorb the flavor. She returned to the table with the mug. For a while, neither she nor her father speak. They just sit there, clinging to a lost ghost. Then, finally, Talia shifted in her seat, glancing at her father.

"Have you ever dreamt of something so real that you think may have happened to you, but you can not seem to recall any of it?" Talia asked.

Her father furrowed his brows. "I do not believe so. Why?"

"Lately, I have been having these. . . dreams, but I believe they are actual pieces from my memory; I just cannot remember them for some reason. The one I had just now— which is the real reason why I cannot sleep— involved sounds and touches that were so vivid and corporeal."

"It could be anything from stress and anxiety to sleep deprivation."

"No, I do not think so. This feels different. It feels so familiar— like my body had already went through the experience— but I cannot pinpoint it to a certain location or event. It is like time has gone missing."

Talia flipped the pages of her notebook and showed the page she had scribbled the word 'Crossroads' on. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Crossroads? No. I have never heard of it. Why?"

"I saw that word in one of my. . . relapses. It was all I could figure out before I woke up in my room. Remember when I had that amnesia spell last year?"

"Yes, your mother told me. But Talia, what does that have to do with—"

"I know it sounds crazy, but I think figuring out what 'Crossroads' means might help me sort out my missing memories."

Her father let out a tired sigh. "'Crossroads' could be anything. A warehouse, a billboard. . ." He paused, like something came to him. "I only heard your mother mention it once— several years ago. She and Priya collected DNA from patient databases from several hospitals in upstate and the five buroughs in New York for their genetic studies. I believe one of the hospitals was named Crossroads Hospital."

At the mention of Priya, something tugged at Talia's memory— flashes of cold metal, sterile air, and distorted voices. "Right. . . I will go ask her."

Her father watched her carefully. He reached out and gave her hand a light squeeze.

"I do not want to see you get hurt," he said. "Even ghosts can be a dangerous thing."

Talia did not respond. She stared into her tea. Now that she knew what 'Crossroads' meant, that it was not a ghost, she may just solve her little puzzle.