Page 126 of Florescentia

As soon as I accepted that the forest was gone, it shared itself again.

A light in the distance, something busy.

A dreamlike illusion peeked through the trees, shifting with every silhouette that moved in a crowd. As I neared, the light took shape as a blue flame, an ambient white in the center that cut across the scene.

Tables draped with taffeta, harvest foliage, and melting wax candles. A bonfire celebration, with eccentric characters dancing into the scene like some storybook vision from the Middle Ages. Fine silks and glassy jewelry. Most wore expressive theater masks of all facial contortions and silhouettes. There were simple shapes as well as more elaborate, like a moon with a long nose, or a sun with sharp edges. Some wore black masks, a circle that surrounded the center of the face, only the eyes visible as their mouths held the floating masks up.

This place was already alienating, even more so with elaborate scenes such as these.

A prickling skated across my skin. I glanced at my arm, the fine hairs raised as if I were about to be struck down by lightning.

I smoothed my hand over my skin, unable to escape the exigent anticipation.

I felt something at my temple, a bead of sweat, but then it stopped.

With my fingers, I picked at it. What I pulled off my face was not sweat at all.

An irregularly cut diamond, small as my fingernail, pinched between my fingers.

I stared at it until I felt more beads.

The goose bumps along my bare arm rose, more and more until they separated, crystallizing along my arm into a sleeve. My clothes began to melt and stretch, the cotton fibers spreading until they became translucent, crystals filling the spots in between. Some became larger, condensing until they’d formed crystal teardrops along the dress.

In the blue light, they shifted in color, white and blue, symmetrical blotches down the middle and around my hips. A pattern resembling my vitiligo.

My head became heavy, then these drops fell from my scalp over my face. A veil of the tiniest dewdrops was cast in front of me, and then it began to lift.

Sprouting from under my arms was a pair of two more limbs, clear like ice and postured as if about to lift the veil from my head, affording my face more room to breathe. On the front of the veil, a four-pointed star. Like the one on my chest.

My petticoat and corset cover had now melted into a gown, fitted to my figure. If there was such a thing as being fully covered yet feeling fully naked, this would be it. The neckline of the dress was low, enough to proudly display my chest marking.

Which only gave away the puppet master.

I swept my hand along a table. The cold dew on the lustrous surface collected and turned to glass beads, rolling along the table even when I stopped.

The table was laden with herbed, aged cheeses, equipped with novelty silver. There was a jar of honey, a comb sitting on the bottom. A large cooked goose rested in the center, garnished with potatoes and carrots along the rim of the serving tray. The smells came after I’d gotten a good look, as if the illusion was trying to guess what scents I was expecting as I went.

The fruits had been cut and piled in a large bowl, a decadent grazing board for any poor soul who was fool enough to take a bite.

The mistake was making the trap too good to be true.

My father wandered the grounds, lost but lucid. I hadn’t seen him move about in a way that was so sure with every step in a long time. He was focused, searching. But at the very least, he did not look scared.

A far-off voice: “Salvatore?”

My father turned, his expression soft enough that it looked as if he may melt. It was an expression like no other. The softening of the face that came in times of deep comfort. The face of sleeping newborns or a man laid to rest.

My mother ran to him.

My father took her in his arms; he showered her face with firm kisses and an embrace like he was clutching riches.

She looked younger like that, when she smiled. Her curly black hair was swept back, a couple of pieces tickling her face.

They looked like a perfect portrait of how I wanted to remember them. Happy, peaceful.

As I stepped forward, something stopped me.

My heart ached from wanting to see them so badly, to speak to them, to say goodbye. But knowing how this place worked, there was a good chance seeing me would be nothing but distressful. I feared the guilt of seeing me here could make them stay, stuck and fated to suffer in a loop instead of finally finding peace beyond this place.