Sacred Soul

I’m too young to know the ugliness of the universe or the spectres that haunt the hearts of men. Yet I know them well—their violence, their masculinity, their dominance, and their control. I’m not sure what a good man is or what he might look like. I know I’ve never met one.

Mother says—said—the spectres choose men because the luminosity nestled within the hearts of Sacred Souls can’t contain wickedness without obliterating it. The spectres choose their targets well. The bodies of Sacred Souls do not produce enough testosterone to sustain the spectres’ ravenous appetites. At least, that’s what Mother says…said…why is it so hard to remember that she is gone?

Moisture seeps into my blouse from the tears cascading down my face, my neck, my chest. I’m holding Mother’s hand tighter than ever. The machine’s beeps are slowing; it won’t be long now. I kiss her hand, tell her I love her, and stroke her silky, black hair one last time. The machine flatlines and I unclasp Mother’s pendant from her neck, fastening it around my own. I run my left thumb around its deep blue stone three times, as I’ve seen Mother do so often, and I focus my mind on my desired timepoint. I’m transported back to yesterday…before he took her from me.

Yesterday’s me is sitting in the garden, knees tucked up, head hidden behind a curtain of curls. I crouch beside her, tucking the wayward locks behind her ears.

‘She won’t survive this time, Arna,’ I say softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her head jolts up and her ice-blue eyes meet mine. I see the moment her shock turns to acceptance. Yesterday’s me knows I couldn’t possess the Portal Pendant if Mother was still alive where I’d come from. We cling to each other—two terrified children; one and yet separate. I know what is coming before the sickening crack that is Mother’s head yielding to our marble bench. I’ve heard the wail of the monster-masquerading-as-a-man before it begins, a beastly roar of undeserved grief. I cover the ears of yesterday’s me and hum. I remember it didn’t block out Father’s charade, but it soothed me enough to do what had to be done next.

‘Go, brave girl,’ I whisper. ‘She’ll be taken to Taledaga Hospital. You’ll have one last day to spend with her.’

I push the comb of my veil into my hair and my hands shake as they smooth wrinkles from the cream tulle of my wedding dress. I touch the blue stone at my throat and my eyes well with tears which threaten the longevity of my flawless make-up. I wish Mother was here to see this day. I wish she could have known that there are good men who fought their spectres and won; men whose hearts house light as bright as ours.

I’ve known Levy only three months, but I know he’s my soul mate. He’s loved me fiercely since we met. It’s too late for Mother, but I need to give my younger self hope. I swipe my thumb around my pendant and return to the broken thirteen-year-old me in the garden.

One of us has just left for the hospital, the other sits with her back against a tree, eyes dry, gaze strong and determined. Police cars and an ambulance haphazardly adorn the front lawn and driveway. I remember this moment and know we don’t have long. I catch my younger self’s arm as she reaches for her pendant. She pauses, takes in my dress, and my heart aches at the flickering flames of betrayal and anger that dance in her eyes. She blinks them away, chastened by her momentary loss of control.

‘How could you marry one of them?’ she says.

I smile kindly at her naivete, reminding myself of the pain we were in this day and our hatred for all men.

‘They aren’t all like him,’ I say. ‘You’ll meet and love many like Father. You’ll also recognise them for what they are, and you’ll be strong enough to leave them. Levy’s special.’

I kiss my younger self on the forehead, knowing I cannot prevent what she’s about to do but comforted by the knowledge that I don’t need to. She can skip the painful years because I’ve lived them for her. She’s me and I’m her; separate but one, existing simultaneously in different time loops. This severing of the selves is the price we pay. But perhaps it is a fair price seeing as our family’s Portal Pendant comes with only three rules:

1. You cannot prevent death or bring the dead back to life;

2. The Portal Pendant only passes to the next generation when its holder dies; and

3. If you move forward in time, memories of the skipped years are forfeited to the self who lived them.

A thirteen-year-old girl in a woman’s body isn’t the smartest idea I’ve had, yet it feels justified. Mother’s gone and I refuse to surrender any more control over my life than that terrible price. So, here I am, 23 and married if the ring on my finger and the visit to me in the garden is anything to go by. The squeal of tires on bitumen yanks me from my reverie and my breath quickens as a car door slams. The older me downplayed his goodness if he’s always in such a rush to get home to us.

Levy pushes through the door and I’m stunned by the likeness to Father in his cold grey eyes and threatening demeanour. I struggle to hold back tears. How did older me get this so wrong?

‘What’s for dinner?’ Levy says.

‘Um, one second. I need to use the bathroom,’ I say, hurrying up the hall and locking the door. I grip the pale blue porcelain sink and take a deep breath before facing my reflection. A firework-like bruise of aqua, purple, and green adorns my left eye and fading, fingerprint-sized bruises peek out the top of my red turtleneck. Perhaps Mother was right—men are no match for the spectres.

A soft knock on the door pulls me back into the present.

‘Sweetheart? You okay in there?’ my husband asks. ‘We can get takeaway if it’s too hard for you to cook. Want the usual from that Chinese place on the corner?’

I flush the toilet and splash water on my face, convinced there must be a simple explanation for my injuries. After all, this is technically the same day Mother was murdered—a mere few hours later—I’m probably seeing red flags where there are none. He’s likely just had a rough day at work. It’ll do no good for me to make it harder on him.

‘Uh…yeah. Sure honey. That’d be great,’ I say, opening the door.

I see nothing but warmth in the concerned eyes that meet mine. I mentally berate myself for my lack of faith. I would know the red flags of an abuser. I literally travelled back to the past to tell myself as much.

We are snuggled on the couch, a half-eaten container of lemon chicken in my lap and some ridiculous rom-com on the TV, when a godawful snore erupts from Levy. I stifle a giggle and take the tartan throw from the back of the couch, tucking it around him before clicking the TV off. I watch Levy’s sleeping form and niggles of doubt begin clawing at my mind again. I need to know.

I close my eyes, press my right palm over my heart, take a deep breath, and, as I exhale, a familiar warmth surges up my arm. I place my hand, now glowing sapphire blue, on Levy’s rhythmically rising and falling chest. Thick, shiny black cords writhe from his heart like the worms of Vegemite that once wriggled through the holes of my Jatz crackers. They snap around my wrist as Levy’s eyelids flick open, revealing inky black pools, whirling with more spectres than I’ve ever seen. Father was possessed by two—Narcissism and Sociopathy—and Mother said even two is rare. The spectres don’t ordinarily share their food source. I press firmly and blue sparks shoot from my hand, injecting neon light into Levy’s cords. I smile triumphantly. Sacred Souls can only wield this power over their soul mates.

Mother said there is a lot of misconception about soul mates, much of which stems from mortal folklore. She said the mortals believe a soul mate is a destined perfect match, a happily ever after akin to the endings of children’s tales. Mother said this is a lovely but incorrect notion. Our soul mates are the opposite of perfect. They teach us. They help us to grow by challenging us. They force us to look within and identify the unhealed, immature parts that continue to accept poorer treatment than we deserve. Perfection is stagnant, safe, limiting. A soul mate is so much more.

‘Name yourselves!’ I command the spectres, pressing a fresh spurt of blue sparks into Levy’s cords.

The swirling spectres circle faster, then one by one, come forth from Levy’s temporarily lifeless eye sockets to declare their presence:

‘Narcissism.’

‘Infidelity.’

‘Rage!’

‘Deception.’

‘Jealousy.’

‘Selfishness.’

‘I know there are seven of you,’ I say. ‘I sense your presence. You’re subordinate to the Sacred Souls. I command you to name yourself!’

‘Sssociopathy,’ an oily voice exactly like Father’s says.

The voice sends a flurry of goosebumps prickling across my skin and I involuntarily recoil, wrenching my hand back. The cords retract and Levy’s eyelids robotically flick over the spectres. Within seconds, it’s as though they were never there and Levy’s raucous snoring resumes.

A sense of depletion and exhaustion weighs heavy in my being as I undress and step into the shower. A sigh of pleasure escapes my lips as the warmth soothes my tired muscles, pulled taught by the stress of calling forth demonic entities. As I massage rosewater shower gel across my chest, I realise in alarm that something is wrong. Hastily rinsing the remaining bubbles away, I shut off the water, and fling open the shower screen. My worst fears are confirmed as I lock eyes on the mirrored image of my naked body. Completely naked. My hand flits subconsciously to my bare throat. No, no, no…

Yes, yes, yes. My Portal Pendant is gone. I spend the entire night searching the house with all the desperation of Gollum relentlessly seeking his precious. As the sun rises and pierces the fog of my anguish through the windowpane, I accept defeat. I collapse against the wall, letting my sobs claim their bounty. Losing the Portal Pendant makes real the only loss that matters—my ability to visit Mother in the past. I grieve, not for a necklace, but for a pain that should’ve never been mine. I’m a Sacred Soul. We don’t grieve; we visit. Until now.

I know now why Mother refused to skip forward.

‘The cost is too high,’ she told me. ‘Losing time poses too many risks. Especially for a Sacred Soul.’

Maybe if I had more time with her…or if I didn’t inherit the pendant so young, I could’ve been wiser and less impulsive; more willing to accept motherly advice. But now it’s done and I’m trapped.

‘What’re ya whinin’ about?’ Levy says. His eyes are bleary with sleep, an expression of annoyance and confusion on his face.

‘It’s gone,’ I say quietly. ‘My necklace is gone.’

Levy’s annoyance and confusion give way to a look of genuine incredulity. ‘You’re joking,’ he says. ‘All this mess because ya can’t remember where ya put ya stupid necklace? I don’t have time for this. Some of us work and can’t sit ‘round feeling sorry for ourselves all day.’

My sobs abate and tears fall in silence as I watch Levy—more monster than man—dress in his suit and tie and stuff a wad of papers into his briefcase. He slams it closed and leaves without even a backward glance, let alone a kiss goodbye.

As I tidy the house in the aftermath of Hurricane Me, I realise I must leave this marriage. Mother was convinced she could save Father and how well did that work out? She had the gift of all past wisdom within our Portal Pendant. If this couldn’t save her or Father, what hope do I have?

Without the Portal Pendant, the only thing separating Sacred Souls from mortals is our ability to call forth the spectres of our soul mates and demand their names. We can’t make the spectres leave. The only way to save our soul mates is to travel to their past and prevent traumatic events. This stops the spectres attaching to them. Mother wasted the final fifteen years of her life trying to do this for Father, without success. Even if I still had the Portal Pendant, I’m not sure I could follow in her fatal footsteps.

I need to plan my exit from this life of my other self with meticulous precision. This much I learned from observing the trainwreck that was my parents’ marriage. The spectres of Narcissism and Sociopathy are dangerous forces. Coupled with five other spectres, they will be ruthless.

Weeks have turned to months and my plans to leave are in motion. The price may seem too high to some, but it is my price. With this choice, I’ve taken back my power. A self who isn’t me chose Levy and I would pay my chosen price a thousand times to get to where I know I’m going.

I set aside $20 out of the weekly allowance Levy gives me for groceries. I stash these savings in a slit that I’ve cut in the bottom of our mattress, hidden by the fitted sheet. Yesterday I finally had enough money saved to buy a prepaid phone from the supermarket. I activated it immediately and stopped at the newspaper headquarters to place an advertisement:

Busty Brunette Beauty

Let me bring your wildest fantasies to life!

24 years old, size 8, blue eyes

Text: 0469 564 132 with service requests and address (NO calls)

Minimum 72 hours’ notice required; confirmation texts provided ASAP.

I keep my phone turned off in the mattress with my savings. When Levy leaves for work, I clean the house first and check my phone when I’m done. It’s in my interests to play Happy Home until I can escape. Most days I have at least one client.

The spectres that haunt my clients are incomparable to Levy’s and Father’s. I’m frequented by Loneliness, Depression, Timidness, and Inadequacy. Pessimism, Desperation, Weakness, and Hedonism. I respond to my clients, not with judgment or disgust, but with empathy and compassion. They come to me at the mercy of their spectres, pain turned inward rather than projected onto others. Their determination to survive their tormentors without perpetuating their traumas is a special kind of gift. A strength Father and Levy cannot know.

I’ve saved $10,000 and added psychotherapy into my routine and plan. I pay for my appointments in cash. I dare not claim Medicare for fear Levy will learn what I’m doing. I’ve become my own kind of spectre. My disappearing has begun long before I’ll physically exit Levy’s life.

I’ve been seeing my psychologist, Kandy, for around three months. We’re deep in the trenches of trauma work, using a method called Parts Therapy. Kandy describes this treatment as a means of merging conflicting elements of my mind and reprocessing painful memories, such as Mother’s murder.

‘Why do you think it took ten years for you to begin grieving for your mother?’ Kandy says.

My mouth opens and I quickly close it again. You can’t tell a psychologist you skipped ten years of your life. Are you crazy?

‘I, um…I think I blocked a lot of it out for a long time,’ I say. ‘It was like, while I had her necklace, I still had her with me, you know?’

A brief flicker of green embers dance in Kandy’s eyes, but she blinks and whatever I thought I saw is gone. I convince myself I must’ve imagined it.

‘Tell me about your mother’s necklace,’ Kandy says. ‘What made it so special?’

I swallow and the lump in my throat makes me gag. ‘That necklace was everything to Mother. A family heirloom, handed down through women in our family for centuries. But I lost it. I couldn’t keep it safe. Just like I couldn’t keep Mother safe.’

‘You blame yourself for her death,’ Kandy says.

I nod.

‘Arna, you were just a child. It was your parents’ job to protect you. You’re not responsible for your father’s choices, just as you aren’t responsible for how poorly your husband treats you. You know this grown version of you deserves better. It’s what brought you here. It’s the reason we’re formulating a staged plan to get you out; to make you safe. Don’t you think that little thirteen-year-old version of you deserves the same?’

I shrug.

‘Okay, let me rephrase,’ Kandy says. ‘Will you trust me to help her? To show her it wasn’t her fault. That she deserves to be free?’

I close my eyes and nod, too tired to protest.

Six months have passed. My clients come and go. Some are regulars, others I never see again after the first time. Through my Parts Therapy with Kandy, a strange thing is happening. Memories are resurfacing, memories that don’t belong to me, at least not to this self. This isn’t supposed to be possible for Sacred Souls. I’ve been thrust back into the therapy room gasping and spluttering from experiencing Levy choking me. I’ve also come back giddy with lust from being wooed with flowers, fancy wines, and expensive dinners in the love bombing phase at the beginning of our relationship.

Each memory that’s not mine births emotions that feel just as foreign. It is becoming more difficult to detach from Levy and remain true to my exit strategy because I’m learning to understand versions of myself that I am not; reclaiming memories I’ve never lived. The connection that exists between Levy and I is as exquisitely palpable as it is toxic. I find myself instigating frivolous arguments in hopes of inciting the passionate lovemaking the follows such squabbles. It’s strange. I’ve no such connection to my clients, yet I empathise with them. It puzzles me how the man who treats me so badly is the same man who makes me feel alive. I’ve become a walking, talking, breathing contradiction.

10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1…happy new year! I shout in unison with Levy and his work colleagues. I spin on the heels of my glossy red pumps to initiate the traditional new year’s kiss with my love. Instead, my gaze locks on him kissing his nineteen-year-old receptionist, Ruth. The fairy lights strung from the ceiling tauntingly reflect off Levy’s wedding ring. It flickers like a beacon alerting me to his grasp on Ruth’s buttocks, barely concealed by her flimsy dress. My jaw drops as I watch Levy slide his hands under the green silk folds to clutch her bare skin. I look around expecting to see the other guests as horrified as I am. This is a corporate event for Christ’s sake! Nobody is even looking in our direction, despite the now eye-catching display of the lower half of Ruth’s pristinely spray-tanned arse.

Thick, tear-streaked eyeliner marks my face like war paint as I run through the city streets, pumps in one hand, floor-length gown held up in the other. I don’t stop running until I reach my front porch where I collapse, gut-wrenching sobs echoing in the stillness of the slumbering neighbourhood. Feelings of guilt and betrayal wrestle inside my heart. Do I have a right to be hurt when I’m whoring myself daily to leave him? Does he know? Is this his sick way of getting even with me?

‘Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhh!’ my primal, unchecked roar of grief sets off a chain reaction of lights flicking on down the street. My cheeks flush with embarrassment and an overindulgence in wine. I hurry inside, locking the door behind me. I don’t wash my face. I don’t shower. I lie in bed, ensconced in my fancy gown, staring at the ceiling. I’m unsure what’s more humiliating…the infidelity, or the fact Levy’s co-workers were entirely unperturbed. How long has this been going on?

‘Let’s give the Parts Work a rest for today,’ says Kandy. ‘You’ve come so far. Let’s revisit some topics and see if they’re easier to talk about now. Let’s start with the necklace. Can you describe it?’

‘It was magnificent,’ I say wistfully. ‘Its chain was four thick strands of platinum braided together, fastened at the back with a large lobster clasp. The pendant had a teardrop shaped blue stone about the size of a fifty-cent piece. It looked heavy but felt light as air to wear. If you looked at the stone closely, it was like galaxies were in there, swirling constellations of stars, planets, and celestial beings. It was the most beautiful piece of jewellery I’ve ever seen.

Kandy reaches into her handbag and pulls out a set of keys. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Uh, sure,’ I say.

Her metallic purple stilettos click-clack across the wooden floor to her filing cabinet and she pushes a chunky, rusty key into the lock. The key looks too outdated for such a new fixture, but the top drawer nonetheless springs open. She reaches in and pulls out… ‘Mother’s necklace!’ I say. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Is it?’ says Kandy. ‘Look closer.’ She dangles the necklace from her right index finger as she click-clacks back to her chair.

Sunlight shines through the window and glints off the stone. I realise it isn’t blue but a mossy green. I’d forgotten the flicker of flames I thought I’d imagined in Kandy’s eyes. But as I look from the stone of her necklace to her face, there is no mistaking the emerald flames this time.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘There are more of us?’

‘Not exactly,’ says Kandy. ‘There’s only one family of Sacred Souls. But my mother? The Guardians killed her for the abomination they saw me as. They deactivated our Portal Pendant after her execution. They blamed her for leaving me vulnerable to what they called spectre corruption.’

‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘We’re untouchable. Our hearts are basically spectre Kryptonite.’

‘Yes,’ Kandy says. ‘But did the non-existence of magic on Earth in the 1690s stop the mortals hanging their fellow humans in the Salem Witch Trials? Did doing God’s work but rejecting conformity and the church prevent them burning Joan of Arc at the stake for heresy? The Guardians sent us to a failing world where a species’ demise was imminent long before anything supernatural was introduced. The Sacred Souls never stood a chance here.’

‘But that doesn’t explain how the spectres got to you,’ I say. ‘Or how that was your mother’s fault…’

‘Mother didn’t know who my father was,’ Kandy admits. ‘Sex was like a drug to her. Of course, she could’ve stopped at any time. The spectre of Addiction holds no power over a Sacred Soul. She didn’t stop because it was what made her happy. She was living life in this world on her terms. The Guardians wanted her to find her soul mate and marry, as they allege is our destiny. Mother refused.’

Noticing my mortification, Kandy hurries on. ‘Please don’t judge her,’ she says. ‘She was a good mother. But when The Guardians found out what I am, they claimed Mother’s womb was tainted by the spectre of promiscuity. They believed she was to blame.’

‘What are you?’ I tentatively ask.

‘Well…according to Mother’s chargesheet, I’m afflicted with the spectre of bisexuality.’

‘That’s not a spectre. Come to think of it, promiscuity isn’t a spectre either,’ I say. ‘Just as there’s no spectre of whoredom for me to be afflicted by. Bisexuality is a sexual orientation, promiscuity is a lifestyle preference, and whoredom is a job, a transactional service. These categories aren’t in our Spectre Syllabus.’

Kandy smiles sadly at me. ‘Does it matter?’ she says softly. ‘We’re different. We shattered the illusion of what Sacred Souls are supposed to be.’

In that moment, I know undoubtedly that everything I’ve planned is the right choice for me. I owe nothing to The Guardians. Their name tastes bitter and acidic on my tongue. Guardians indeed…guardians of every species in the galaxy but their own. I can live with Mother dying at the hands of a spectre-ridden mortal. But Sacred Soul on Sacred Soul warfare? It’s unthinkable. Kandy cups my face in her hands and wipes a tear with her thumb. ‘Don’t cry,’ she says. ‘Truth is power and there are beautiful lessons in even the most heinous circumstances.’

I pretend to be asleep when Levy kisses me goodbye on his way to work. He split my lip last night and I’ve tolerated his insincere apologies and grovelling for what I know is the last time. As the sound of his noisy car exhaust fades, I yawn, stretch, and retrieve a pink and white striped duffel bag from the closet. I thrust my hand into the slit in the mattress, pulling out bundle after bundle of plastic notes in uneven, rubber-band-bound piles. I’ve misjudged the size of my nest-egg; it’s more a nest-omelette fit for a giant! I cram as much as I can in the bag, stuff some stacks into my handbag, and pocket my phone. I carry the remaining few piles to Levy’s nightstand. I take out a ballpoint pen and a stack of fluoro post-it notes.

Dear Levy,

Sorry it must end like this. I

know you may not believe it but

I really do love you and wish you the best.

Goodbye, hun.

~ Arna xo

I tuck the note under the top rubber band, square my shoulders, and walk out to begin the rest of my life.

‘You know I can’t be your therapist anymore, right?’ Kandy says. ‘The professional lines have well and truly been crossed.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping you can be something more special: a friend.’

Kandy beams at me. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she says and takes out a sharpie to scrawl an address on a small square of paper which she hands to me. ‘My lunch break is in an hour. Meet me at this address—my home. Bring your luggage with you,’ she says, nodding at the duffel bag at my feet.’

I laugh. ‘Kandy, what if I’m a serial killer or a thief?’

Kandy gives me a sceptical look. ‘Arna, please. You’re a Sacred Soul. We’re family. And besides, Murderousness and Covetousness are spectres which, as you know, have no claim to our hearts. See you in an hour,’ she says, opening the door and gesturing for me to exit.

‘I’m grateful for Kandy’s friendship,’ I say.

‘I’m grateful for my home,’ says Kandy.

‘I’m grateful to be free of The Guardians,’ Millicent says.

‘I’m grateful for fellow Sacred Souls to share this new journey with,’ Cadence says.

‘Um…I…I’m grateful to be alive?’ Crystal offers.

I smile at Crystal. Each of us uttered similar expressions of gratitude in the first Thanks Circle of our healing journeys. What Kandy and I are trying to create for our Sacred Soul Sisters goes against everything our species was taught for most of our lives. It takes time but I know Crystal will come around just as Millicent and Cadence did.

Kandy’s turned her home into a wayward Sacred Soul commune. The two of us have made a pact to find the rest of our kind and give them the choices many don’t yet know they deserve. Some choose to stay with their soul mates. We know this was inevitable and is as much their right as any other. But they deserve to know they do have a choice.

Kandy’s receptionist went on maternity leave the day we moved in together. She offered me the job and has promised to promote me to office manager when her receptionist returns. I still have a long way to go to fully heal from Mother’s death, Father’s, and Levy’s abuse, and all I endured in my quest to be free. Healing is complex and messy and emotional. But it is worth it. My Soul Sisters and I are family, and nobody will ever take that from us. Not our trauma, not mortal men, not the spectres, and certainly not The Guardians.

A true warrior leads by example; a true god protects and loves unconditionally. The Guardians, I’ve learned, do none of these things. Just as I will no longer set myself alight to keep a lesser species warm, no longer will I bow to an authority that would sooner kill its own than admit that they were wrong. But wrong, they were.

The Sacred Souls are not responsible for the exorcism of the spectres. This responsibility lies with their hosts, the homo sapiens. It is time for the Sacred Souls to invest the love we’ve given to undeserving hearts for centuries, into ourselves and our Soul Sisters. It is our turn, and it is our right.

Kandy and I will live the lives our mothers never got the chance to. I do wish Mother could have met Kandy though. She has taught me so much about our universe, our people, and perhaps most importantly, our right to choose.

I’m old enough to know that the universe and Earth aren’t ugly. Sure, horrendous and disheartening things happen here but so do bodacious and wonderful things. Wonderful like Kandy, our commune of Soul Sisters, and the turning away from a cruel and archaic deity that no longer serves our species in the ways we need and deserve. If The Guardians ever come for us, we will not go quietly. We are the Sacred Souls and we have taken back our power.