Transcend by Christine Fonseca Page B

meaninglessness. Memories played through his thoughts, every moment with Kiera warping until day and night, reality and illusion, were indistinguishable and his hunger for her, insatiable.
    Images of the fire continued in his dreams. As did his memories of the revulsion in Kiera’s eyes. Worse, Erik continued to invade his thoughts with promises of a better life, one unbroken, beyond the reach of Mother. One that could include Kiera.
    A lie.
    Ien pushed against the visions and the chaos, refusing to concede to the madness threatening him. Every night he reached into the haze of his thoughts, determined to yank himself free from the ever-changing images pressing against him.
    My name is Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.
    His mantra, a new defense against the encroaching insanity, oriented him.
    I survived the fire. I survived Mother. I am alive. The phrases continued to circulate through his thoughts, soothing his fragmented nerves. I am not insane. I can control my thoughts. The phrase stuck in his mind and jammed against his fears. Part of him screamed ‘liar’ and clung to the doubts consuming him.
    He pushed through the noise, repeating the mantra again. My name is Ien Montgomery. I am seventeen years old.  Over and over the words continued, each phrase offering its own shelter of sanity. Some days it took more than thirty repetitions to chase away the nightmares and the madness.
    Today was easier, only nineteen.
    Ien sat up, slowly breaking free from the loop of contorted thoughts that lingered in his subconscious. He shook away the last of the fog and mist, the fire and ash, the screams and horror.
    Ien’s feet hit the floor with a light thud. Cold and hard, it was just like everything in his life now. He stood and stretched, thankful for the lack of bindings. Sister Agnes had ignored Mother’s warnings, despite his previous episode. Ien worked hard to make sure she never regretted that decision. He did not leave his room, nor did he violate the sister’s rules about keeping his face hidden. He remained a free prisoner, bound only by the guilt of her blind trust and the walls of his room.
    He paced the small room, covering the distance in a few steps. The room was dank despite the white walls. Thin ribbons of light streamed through the tiny slit of a window in the corner, bathing the room in the orange hues of sunrise. The bed, nothing more than a cot covered with a scratchy woolen blanket lined one wall. A small writing desk and basin covered the entire section of the adjoining wall. Nothing adorned the walls now, not since Ien broke the mirror after seeing his reflection. The nuns ensured there were no more reflective surfaces of any kind. No pictures or linens. Only books and paper—a gift from his mother. Nothing else remained from his previous life.
    Nothing except his thoughts.
    He fingered the heavy paper, thinking of his Mother’s words to him when she left him to die. “Take this with you, son,” she had said. “Maybe you can write down your thoughts. Read them back to keep yourself occupied while you’re there.”
    Why did you bother, Mother? Why?
    Ien pondered where he actually lived now, a convent, a hospital, some other dismal facility? The presence of the nuns suggested a convent, while the never-ending supply of medicines suggested something else.
    But it was the occasional screams that made him ask the sister for the truth, something she never supplied, no matter how relentlessly he questioned.   
    Heavy footfalls outside of Ien’s room signaled the start of another day. The routine was always the same. Meals. Prayers. Solitude. That was the sum total of his life. It aged Ien, making him feel more like a man in the twilight of his life, not one who should be embracing a vibrant future.
    “Mr. Montgomery.” Sister Agnes’s rough voice cut off his thoughts as she pounded on the door. “Mr. Montgomery, are you decent?”
    A younger man, a different man, would have smiled and