Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 21



The bridge rumbles as we approach it, clattering up and down as if its old boards are shivering.

This may be your final chance. Say it.

I turn to him, ignoring the crush of fear in my head. “I love you, True.”

“I love you, too. You know it, don’t you?” His eyes mirror my desperation.

“Always.”

He thrusts out his hand, and I wrap his fingers in mine, cherishing every second of his rough skin. We bolt forward, up and over the apex of the bridge. The flexuous door is sticky as we step inside.

Darkness. Spinning.

Then a burst of light so bright, I feel the barbs of it sticking in my eyes. His hand…it’s squeezing mine, tighter. Tighter.

His hand slips down and desperately clutches, crushing my fingertips.

Suddenly, the feel of its gone, and I’m alone. The hornets roar in exultation and I’m weeping.

The fear’s reborn; a live, writhing serpent, waiting to swallow me whole.

The air liquefies at once, as it did the day I first entered his world. The first day of my real life. Streaming visions of rippling colors appear and disappear at ticking intervals. My hands cover my soaked cheeks and shield my eyes.

Gunfire, women screaming, wailing infants, overlaid with shouts of joy, and sighs of adoration assault my ears. A whirlwind of emotive sound. And under it, the steady drone and buzz of my terror.

My mind is bloated, as if one more sensation enters, it will burst into a million fragments.

My hands burn and I can’t stop crying. I bend them into tight fists, clenching the snow. The Salem cold immediately penetrates, sending stinging pangs through my palms, all the way to my fingertips. I will myself upright, but vertigo smacks me back down. I try again, more gingerly, and scan the cornfield. My eyes confirm what my heart refuses to admit.

I am alone.

Anger races through me at the stark hopelessness of this place. It matters not how hard you work, or what good you do. I am sewn into my place in society, with no hope of rescue. I curl into a ball in the snow.

I see John in my head, waiting for me. Hands outstretched. I will just close my eyes for a moment, I lie to myself.

Tears stream, freezing immediately to icy pellets on my cheeks. “Truman? True? Where are you?”

My boot strikes something hard as I struggle to stand.

Truman’s journal. I reach down and hug it to my chest as I stumble through the corn, reaching its mouth.

He is nowhere.

But Salem is—the Putnam farm stands before me. Now that I’ve seen a film, my whole world, and its grim reality, appear black and white to me.

The color of Truman’s world is already a distant memory, or a page ripped from someone else’s story. Perhaps a story I told myself.

The fear is crippling me, weighting my chest, as if I am the one being pressed to death.

Behind me, I hear the girl, Judy, singing. I see her face plainly, not much older than I.

“No. He is here. He must be.”

Mercy stands, stock-still on the porch, shaking her head in disbelief. She wrenches open the door to the house and bellows, “Goody Putnam! It’s Verity! She’s returned!”

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