Ethereal
Well, I knew which bus station to avoid trying to spend the night at next time. The security guard had rudely shaken me awake, asking me how old I was.
“I’m just on my way home,” I said. “My mum knows I’m out. I was meeting some friends.” He let me off with a warning as I hefted my backpack and made my way towards the nearest exit.
Maybe I could foot the trip to Victoria coach station later. They probably wouldn’t bat an eye at a girl on her own at night. I checked the time and saw that it was almost 8 o’clock. The day centre would be open.
I pulled the scarf around my neck and wiggled my feet to see if I could get some circulation back in my toes to prepare for my walk there. I was cold from having spent the night walking through Hammersmith Bus Station, hungry for a full meal and longing for companionship. Not that kind, sicko. Though I had my fair share of offers.
I trudged up the street, mentally counting how many doors it was until I reached the day centre. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I was at the Queen’s Court. The high slope had done a number on my feet. No lie, Ididn’tthinkI’dbe able to walk all the way here after how frozen my feet felt.
The door flew open at my first knock as usual which was something I was beyond grateful for. The reliability of it all. From Monday to Friday, the doors of Queen’s Court Day Centre would always be open from 8 to 5:30.
“Elle, it’s so nice to see you!” A perky blonde girl in a tartan mini dress ushered me in.
“How are you?” I asked as I took my coat off slowly, very slowly. My arms were now as frozen as my legs.
“Same old, same old,” Freya said then took out a thermometer from a box. They didn’t do this all the time, just during the winter months or when there was a renewed emphasis on public health. I didn’t really care to be honest. I was one of those weird kids that liked going to the doctor and not because of the lollipops. I liked the clinical coolness of the stethoscope against my chest, the needles going into my skin, and the bright lights flashing in my eyes as if I was at my own mini music festival. It was a good thing, with the number of times that I had to go to the doctors as a kid: asthma, eczema, bowel problems, you name it. I drove my mum crazy with worry. Sometimes, when I was alone in dark places, I’d think that it was the worry that eventually killed her two years ago. And don’t go saying “It’s not your fault”. I’ve heard it all and frankly, I don’t want to hear it again. It might not be true but the stinging sensation in me that always remained proved otherwise.
“Woah, you look really cold,” Freya said as she made a note of my temperature on the sheet.
“The heating was out.” It was sort of true. I doubted Hammersmith Bus Station turned their heating on at four in the morning. Why would they?
“That’s unlucky,” she muttered and then gave me a big smile. “Well, you’ll be happy, you get porridge today.”
I hummed. Porridge was one of my favourite things to have for breakfast, next to custard of course.
“I’ll see you later.”
Then I went downstairs to the dining room. This thing used to scare me the first time I found this place. I wasn’t too keen on basements. The last place me and my mum lived was a basement. It was mouldy and damp, and the landlord refused to do anything about it. Then we eventually lost the place and shortly after, mum died. I used to think about suing for death caused by poor living conditions but who would listen to me? We were refused the move even though they saw my throbbing skin at the GP.
But this basement was different. This basement was nice. It had warm food and the possibility of getting some to take home. A woman with locks was in the kitchen placing some bread into the toaster.
“Hi Madge,” I called out. She smiled brightly.
“Hi sweetie, how are you?”
“Alive,” I said.
“Are you here for some breakfast? We’ve got porridge.”
In life, you get thankful for small pleasures like porridge.
“When am I not here for breakfast?”
She let out a slight chuckle and then turned her attention to the eggs on the cooker.
I made my way to the seats and lit up when I saw him in the corner.
“Good morning, Matthew,” I said, pulling up a chair beside him.
A middle-aged man with greying brown hair and a bear-like face sat reading a newspaper with tats along his arms and a book beside him.
“Is it a good morning, Elle?” he said with his usual sullenness.
“I don’t know,” I huffed but still grateful for another thing that was familiar. “What’d you find out?”
I looked up at the line art piece we had done together last month.
It was of a mountain range and I insisted we add a river because everywhere is better with a water source. Matthew said it reminded him of his home in Poland. It reminded me of a place I wished I had visited with my mum.
“Another has been found,” he said, looking at his newspaper. I blinked rapidly.
“Another what? Another cocaine stash? Another MP caught breaking the law?”
“You know,” he whispered, leaning closer to me while taking a long sip from his black coffee.
He took a deep breath as if he was announcing who was going to be the next PM. “An Ethereal, another one.”
I rolled my eyes.
“There’s always going to be another Ethereal,” I said, then went to collect my breakfast. Madge looked a bit on edge too, as if she too had heard our story about the Ethereals but it wasn’t our story, it was everyone’s story. The words on everybody’s lips these days. Ethereals were in other words, superheroes. Okay, I know what you’re thinking: Elle, superheroes don’t exist, and I guess you’re right, they don’t, but that’s the only word I can think of for people with powers that no one else can understand. Apart from the abominable word ‘freak’ or the more pretentious sounding, ’superpowered human’.
They just started showing up in workplaces, and schools, on the street. A person did what a person was not supposed to do and now everyone was all over it. Studies showed that those who could develop abilities, were born with a special node on their brain. There were people who could control water, move objects with their minds, see accurate visions of the past, and many others. I had never met one personally ,but I do remember being in a shopping centre and nearly getting set on fire by a woman who could apparently harness the power of the sun. She was carried away to be quarantined.
There were other Ethereals who could go out on their way but only those who were useful to society. Like the woman who could speed up time, she was an asset in food production. You could only use your ability for work. People who used their ability for their own gain got prosecuted, like put in prison. If you asked me, I thought the ones who were enlisted (forced) were worse off compared to the ones with the more unusual powers, the volatile ones that got sent to labs for mandatory testing.
I didn’t know why but if I had powers, I would rather understand them than be put to work like an ox in a field, probably against their will. Modern-day slavery at its finest.
I blew on my porridge as Matthew lectured me on the dangers of letting the Ethereals go around unchecked, and I agreed with some of his points but at the same time people with powers, shouldn’tbemonitored24/7.
“Of course, but only the dangerous ones.”
I nodded, taking a bigger spoonful of porridge.
“But what do you think dangerous is?”
Matthew looked up at the ceiling slightly. I liked that about him. He didn’t rush into his explanations like other adults. He took his time to think things through before he replied. Not many people did that. It was a dying art.
“Anything can be dangerous,” he said taking a bite out of his eggs. “Beware the monsters that look like men, they remind us of what we can so easily become.”
I leaned back and took a couple of bites out of my toast. Bliss. I’d have to find somehow to top this at lunch wherever that would be. I hadn’t decided yet.
“Did you get that from a book?” I asked. Matthew was an avid reader and not just of the news.
He sometimes lent me books. He was generous. If I was in his position and someone was asking for my book, I’d probably make them sit in front of me for twenty-four hours straight and read my book cover to cover. I liked my stuff kept clean since I had so little these days so I had a lot more reason to than most people.
“No, I can be original you know, and speaking of books, what did you think of Primeval and Other Times?”
I pulled the book out of my tattered backpack and handed it to him.
“It was really mind-trippy,” I said.
He burst into laughter as he took the book out and flipped through the pages lovingly as only a true book lover would do.
“Mind-trippy?” He repeated with a laugh. “What does that mean? I think I’ve heard my daughter say that, but I can’t for the life of me imagine what it means.”
“It’s like something that messes with your mind. That makes you question reality or the reality that author is trying to present.”
He hummed in thought.
“I suppose it’s true. They don’t call it magical realism for nothing.”
“I’m definitely going to read it again,” I said. “I’ll find it in the library.”
The library was my other safe place apart from the daycentre. It was the perfect place for re-reading books at least when they were in stock but that wasn’t a problem; I just went to the library in the next borough over if my feet didn’t hurt or somehow, I had transport fare.
A man in a farmer’s hat, almost six-foot tall, came through the door. Matthew rose up to kiss both his cheeks and they spoke to each other in Polish. That was Alec, he was another one of our regulars here and a good friend of Matthew’s. Then the rest of the group of us arrived for breakfast.
Another one of Matthew’s buddies came in and talked about the Ethereals with him. I heard the name Ryan Coleman mentioned in their conversation at least 50 times already. Ryan Colman was one of the first Ethereals that appeared in London. He was unanimously the most popular one, the freest one, and according to Matthew, one of the least dangerous ones. How could he be dangerous? His power was just the opposite of violent; he could heal people with a single touch.
There was a video on Matthew’s laptop playing another one of Ryan Coleman’s many tours around the country and around the world. He had just got back from a tour and was meeting a crowd of people coming to be healed.
To say he had taken the pressure off the NHS was an understatement.
I watched him touching people and scars healed, limbs came out, blind eyes and deaf ears opened. Just your average everyday miracles.
Looking at him now, with his windswept golden hair, shining blue eyes, and gentle manner, he looked like a saviour, a poster boy for why the Ethereals should be left free out in society and not kept in labs and experimented on or forced into work but like Matthew said he was one of the useful ones, the safe ones.
Alec mused about going out to see if Ryan could heal his arthritis. I wouldn’t go near that man if you paid me. He was just so moist, despite his impossibly pretty features. There was something off about him, something I couldn’t place if I thought about him too much.
Maybe deep down, it was because a part of me resented him. How easily he could cure the sick and heal the injured everywhere he went. But on the day, he came to heal my mum, he failed. He couldn’t heal her. And no matter how hard I tried to deny it, I couldn’t help but think that it meant one thing: mum had had a power that resisted being healed by Ryan Coleman. A power she never told me about. Not even on her death bed.
I took an apple from the communal fruit bowl, and went to get a carving knife from the kitchen. I took the knife and the plate and began cutting the apple into slices. My ears were attuned to the conversation about Ryan Coleman’s latest exploits and the escalating situation with Ethereals. Apparently, there were protests against the specialised labs for the Ethereals and people were calling it inhumane. I rolled the thought around and around in my mind until something pierced my hand.
“Oh no,” Matthew exclaimed.
I felt a jolt rush through me and sure enough, my hand was cut and bleeding out. Matthew got up towards the kitchen.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” he said.
I was starting to feel a little light-headed and nearly slumped into my chair. I was no stranger to blood but damn, that was a lot of blood for such a tiny cut. Maybe I should just go to the bathroom and wash it myself, I doubted I was going to need stitches or anything. As I manoeuvred myself out of the corner by the window I looked down at my hand. What had just happened?
My hand was back to normal. I know it’s crazy but it was true. There was no cut, no scar, no mark, no blood. My skin was as smooth as when I came in.
I looked it over. Nothing, nothing at all. It was crazy. How could that happen? It was almost like something that would happen to an —
No, no, no, nope, not happening. It was impossible. I couldn’t be an Ethereal.
