The World is Mine

By Jane Ally

This story raises the curtain on a world which most of us can only imagine. People are used to denying what cannot be explained, and only some of them experience the other side. Such travels can change us forever, as happens with the main character of this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483520933

Book preview

9781483520933

Every one of us has a dream. And regardless of whether, in the end, it comes true or not, sooner or later it becomes replaced by another one. Usually this happens smoothly, almost unconsciously, like the change of seasons. For example, in winter you dream of a new pair of skies, but then the spring comes and all you want is to buy a new pair of shoes. Somebody dreams of world peace and tells it to all his friends and colleagues. And then, his car gets stolen; now he dreams of a new car, and catching the thief, stuffing him in the boot and giving him a good bumpy ride.

Often the dream depends on the circumstances, of people and even on the time of day. Sometimes it also happens that you stop dreaming of something, and the new one doesn't come. Late in life, forms a pause during which some begin to think of the meaning of life or get depresses, yet others have no time to think of such trifles or fall into emotional crises because they are not just moving along with the flow, rolling up the hill backwards without looking back or without thoughts, without any doubts.

I was eighteen and everything in my life was changing so fast that I didn't have time to properly sort out my dreams, neither new nor old ones, so I just picked up the pace and was rolling along with it. Hobbies, university, friends, acquaintances… I fell into a mad whirlpool and just couldn't work out what I actually wanted in life. Or rather: I wanted it all, and I wanted it now.

Once, by chance, I was visiting two student guys. They had a flat in the center and the parties they used to throw were famous throughout the city. Getting invited to one of them was considered especially cool, because, as rumor had it that was the place where you could try anything. Usually the mayhem would start on a Friday night, and last until Sunday, inclusively. The flat in question was on Bolshaya Morskaya and looked more like an old pawn shop. A sweet old lady used to live there, but two years before she met a charming old gentleman in the park and moved in with him. She decided to give her flat up for rent. But she didn't want to give it just to anybody, well maybe if only her best friend's grandson, and, well, his messy mate. The rent was also quite friendly. But the thing was that the old lady, in her long and eventful life, had accumulated a lot of precious items. She was afraid that the young people wouldn't be able to keep them safe. So it was decided to put all the stuff in one room and lock them up. This when the cunning students managed to proficiently explained to the old landlady that if one room was locked, the flat couldn't be considered two-bedroom any more, and consequently the price should be lowered as well. As a result, they paid mere peanuts.

Although the guys had to put in some work to finally expel the spirit of the old landlady from the flat. They approached the process with plenty of creativity and cost-effectively. Now the middle of the kitchen table was occupied by a tall hookah, the giant soup pot got converted into a mulled wine vessel, and the hole in the wall they covered up with an ambiguous poster depicting a train crashing full-on into an airplane.

All this I found out from my university class-mate. Always very busy, very hip and out there, she invited me to this party, not only because they asked her to bring a girlfriend but also because I had money to buy booze, and booze was a kind of an entry fee there. All the way to the party she kept chatting non-stop about what super-cool guys they all were, and as soon as we arrived she immediately forgot of my existence. I didn't know anybody here, apart from that girl, but decided to stay calm and act confident. I had to quickly start talking to someone fun and cute, before someone boring and ugly decides to start talking to me.

I looked around the room and spotted a guy. He seemed quite confident, yet at the same time relaxed. He kept looking at everyone with that mysterious smile on his face, joking and laughing. Anyway, he seemed quite friendly. I came up to him and asked What's up?, he said Everything's cool. So we started chatting, as it usually goes – about everything and nothing in the world. But soon I began to realize that the guy must have been a bit of a nut. He probably already had a go at the hookah, and it was definitely not filled with apple tobacco – he was laughing at his own jokes way louder than I did out of politeness. Probably from the outside it looked like we were really having fun and talking about something awfully interesting, because people started coming up to us.

They would come up, listen for a bit, maybe giggle if they guessed what was going on (the guy was talking complete bull-crap); others would just silently stare at both of us. But soon enough I was already fully keeping up with him and his mad babbling. I don't know how it happened, it was as if I started playing along and now we were both at the same level, as if we had both taken a puff from the happy pipe. Now almost every other word from my mouth would make everyone around roll with laughter. I loved it. Loved being the center of attention, loved making them all laugh.

But suddenly my eye caught a strange girl. She wasn't laughing, just grinning like a Cheshire Cat and this bothered me. I decided she was one of those cynical bitches just waiting for a chance to spoil all the fun! The girl was looking at me with unconcealed genuine curiosity and coming nearer and nearer. It looked like she either couldn't believe her ears, or was just waiting for the moment to say something awfully smart and smite me down with it. And in spite of her, I just kept rolling with it, I kept on bantering. The guy was keeping up. She was listening. And when I quite clumsily quoted Oscar Wilde, saying that it's not certain who's imitating more: life imitates fantasy or fantasy imitates art, the girl suddenly laughed and exclaimed:

– Incredible!

Whatever that meant, it annoyed me and I decided to retaliate:

– Nothing so incredible. We're just having fun! That's all.

The girl held a pause, then asked:

– I've never seen you before. You…

– Came here with a friend.

– Oh, please don't tell me you are doing Psychology!

– No, I'm doing Journalism.

She gave out a laugh:

– You're joking?! Which year?

– First.

– How interesting! And you like it?

– What exactly?

Silence.

I was probably meant to guess what she was on about, but I again felt uncomfortable under her stare.

– Well and you? – I asked sort of with a challenge, – which year are you in?

– I'm third-year.

– Studying to be a psychologist?

– I'm studying in the Department of Psychology, – she corrected.

– Cool!

All that was needed was just a knowing silence, but this fool word jumped out of my mouth by itself. The girl giggled:

– You think so?

Thankfully, I didn't have time to answer. In that moment my new acquaintance came to life, he sort of woke up, looked at me in surprise and asked:

– Are you a journalist then?

– Something like that.

– Would you interview me when I'm famous?

– For sure.

– Cool!

They looked at each other and laughed. That got me. I couldn't allow some half-baked psychologist and a baked idiot upstage me just like that.

– Well actually I'm not going to be a journalist, – I quickly blurted out, – I'm on my way to becoming a rock-star, I've my own band and all!..

– Really?! – the girl was surprised, – and what are you called?

– I haven't thought of one the name yet.

– Oh, so you're the leader?

– I sing, and I write songs…

– Are you any good as a singer?

– People seem to like it.

– And do you like it?

I didn't answer.

– You and your band, do you ever perform?

– Yea, of course!

– Can we come hear you?

– Well, I can't forbid you to come, can I?!

She grinned and shrugged her shoulders:

– Well, I feel awkward in front of the audience too…

– I don't!

– Oh really?!

– Yea, I like it. Let them tear me to pieces! I'm not afraid.

She gave me a sarcastic look:

– You know, when I was little I also wanted to be an actress, and then it passed…

– Well I never wanted to be an actress. Even when I was little. I always wanted to be the director.

– You don't say!

– Yes. Actors are dependent on literally everything! On their character, on the screenplay, on the director. I don't like to depend on anything, I prefer to control.

– But the actors are free to choose their roles, just as well as their director or the screenplay…

– There's a word around that on the most part they are quite simple and egocentric.

– And journalists are pushy and insolent.

– I'm not a journalist; I'm a rock-star!

– Most definitely rock-stars are the nicest people out there! – She declared mockingly, – especially those who haven't even thought of a name for their band!

– Oh let me assure that by the time my band and I become famous and earn our million we'll have a name alright.

– Hm, sounds familiar. Where have I heard this before, about a hundred times?.. Ah yes, usually from the simple and egocentric.

I didn't answer. I took a break. Took a breath. Then asked:

– Well how about you? How did you end up at the Department of Psychology? Trying to learn how to use people? Or is it more like self-help?

The girl gave a distorted smile:

– If I were you I'd give it another thought!.. I think you might end up being quite a good journalist!

– I know. And I'll give it a thought.

However, the unbelievable part of all this was that we became friends after that. She left me alone with her questions. Offered to have a drink and a smoke. Then we left the party together, wandered about the city, joking, laughing, and talking endlessly. We parted when it was already almost morning. Back then I was still living with my parents and was dreaming of breaking free, of moving out and beginning my new independent life. I felt weighed down with their care; dad's advice and mum's ardent wish to control everything. I had no intention of building my life on the example of theirs. I had other aspirations. Besides, I felt grown-up and independent enough – I had my own rock-band! We were performed in clubs, getting paid for it, but that wasn't enough to get even a room, let alone a whole flat by myself, as this income was very unstable. Sometimes we would play four concerts a week, sometimes just one. In other words, I needed an insurance buffer. I calculated that if I rent a room together with someone it could work. I just had to find the right person.

My new friend fit that role better than anybody else. She was already a third-year, earned quite well, even though she refused to tell what exactly she was doing. She just mentioned that sometimes she was writing course works and essays for the rich and the dumb. I knew that you couldn't really earn a living from that. Nonetheless, she would buy clothes in the shops where I would just come to stare at the windows, and have dinners in places where I could only order tea. And in general, she seemed all a bit strange, somehow unfathomable, and dubious. I had known her only for a month; I didn't know anything about her! Well, all in all I had my doubts, but I also didn't have any other friends potentially ready for independent life. I didn't even expect her to say yes, but asked anyway. She loved the idea! We found a room in a shared flat. Not expensive and close to the center. On Vasilievsky Island. I gathered my things and after a week of arguing with my parents, finally, I was free. Bingo!

The room we took looked like a curiosities museum. Long, narrow, a window at the far end. This window was so high up that the window-ledge was on the level of my shoulder and to see out the street you had to really stretch your neck, and still all you can see was the sky. The light switch looked like a door-bell which, on the contrary, was positioned so low that you had to do a strange sort of curtsy to find it. All the furniture was somehow low and squab, apart from the wardrobe. Standing in the corner, tall, dark, covered in shiny varnish, it looked like the gates of hell.

Yet the strangest item in the room was the staircase. It went almost all the way up to the ceiling and looked quite steep. Its steps were as if growing from the wall and there were no railings. We could only guess who would build such a strange staircase and what for. At first I thought that in the ceiling is probably a door, a small hatch leading to the attic; and from there to the roof. This could have been an emergency exit. Maybe before this flat housed the secret headquarters of the communists or a hide-away for the exiled royals – could have well been in such an old house! But, having climbed the stairs, I didn't find any ceiling hatch. But from the top step you got a pretty good view from the window. Tree-tops, house roofs, tiny people, small cars, and above it all a huge, endless sky. This, however, didn't resolve the question of what the staircase was in the room. Clueless, I called it Stairway to Heaven, like in the Led Zeppelin song.

By the way, the previous inhabitants used it as a bookshelf. Some abandoned books sat on its steps, covered in dust and cobwebs. Yet it was doubtful that the staircase was built just for decoration. Its sturdy steps supported not only my weight, but also the big guy who helped us move our stuff and, of course, immediately climbed to the very top of it.

– Craziness, staircase in the room! – he laughed, sat down on a step, looked down, scratched his head, – I wonder who lived here before?

– Some nut, – said my housemate indifferently.

– A disappointed dreamer, – I corrected her, leafing through a volume of forgotten works of Lenin.

She looked at me in surprise:

– How would you know?

– I don't know. I just said the first thing that came to my mind looking at his books.

– Hm…

– What's with your hm?

– Nothing.

– Just don't tell me that you can cure me, because then I'm moving out!

– Dream on, I've no intention of curing you!

We looked at each other. Laughed. And went on unpacking in silence.

I knew it won't be easy with her. That was sure from the first day we met. But she wasn't a stupid girl, she was mature and confident. I hoped I could learn something useful from her. In any case, hanging out with her was always interesting. She never left me bored, and back then that was most precious. I've finally broken free from under my parents' wing and I wanted to live full. Without any stupid rules, without stuffy traditions, without excuses and promises. I've never been a domestic child, rather a family rebel, but I lacked strong sensations, freedom, adventures. And now that I was finally free the last thing I needed was a person who would hold me back. And I believed that my new friend was not one of them.

At the same time I felt like she wanted something from me. Maybe, she was looking for a guinea pig, a potential client or a patient, and I attracted her attention by my foolish banter at that party. To tell the truth, I found it a bit disconcerting. I was always quite suspicious about psychologists. But I was curious to see if she could see through me, and how soon. I considered myself a good pretender. I could easily play the part of a cute idiot, or a complete bitter bitch. Usually people would buy it. But I knew that it won't be that easy with this one – at least because we had to live together. I couldn't keep playing a part of someone all of the time, like I'm paranoid?! But still I really wanted to confuse her! In the end I decided that I'd have to think of a really complex, multi-faceted character, as well as an appropriate story to go with the character, and then I could change depending on the reactions and the circumstances. Another question was: how long would I last? But I decided not to think of it too much.

In the evening, after dinner and a bottle of wine between the two of us, I suggested we change names. That would make it easier for me to play my make-believe role. In general, I had loads of names for every situation. My new friend didn't know about that and agreed with my idea. She found it quite funny. Why not?! Going through the options in my head, I was rubbing my hands: game on!

– While you're grinding your gears, – she said jokingly, – I'll throw you a couple of ideas.

– Go on!

– You can call me Indie. From Independent. You get it?

– Miss Independence?

– Aha.

– Independence from what exactly?

– From anything.

– Just like that: from anything?!

– Yes. Read into it all you like. But, I hope, you get the gist, and your imagination has come up with some next cringey bullshit, eh?

– Well… – I hesitated, blushing more and more.

– Let me guess?! You want a pretty name? You like pretty names, don't you?

– Isabella.

– Wow! I did guess right. Wouldn't that be too much for a red-head devil like you?

– And for you, Statue of Liberty you, not too much? Indie?

– At least tell me why precisely Isabella? Anything personal?

– The name of my favorite chocolates when I was little.

She looked a bit discouraged:

– You disappointed me! I was hoping for something like it's a woman you want to be like, or the one who stole your guy…

– No. Nothing that dramatic. The only woman I want to be like is my mum's cousin. She was so neat, petite, with dark curly hair and dimples on her cheeks. And me… Well you can see for yourself!

– Yea, tall, red-haired, skinny. No dimples.

– Thanks. I was kind of looking for some support!

– I wouldn't hope if I were you.

– Well, doesn't matter. That was a long time ago, in my childhood. Since then I've had so many of those I wanted to be like!

– It's pathological. I knew it!

– Who's talking?! The person who wants to be completely independent!

She just dismissed that, took a sip of wine and declared:

– OK! You can have it! I'll call you Izy!

– Eh? What now?!

– Izy, short from Isabella.

– Oh dear! I didn't even think of that!

She laughed:

– Be careful what you wish for, Izy. Wishes tend to come true!

So I got my first smack around the head. I wanted to be a mysterious Isabella, but all I got was Izy, just Izy. My own fault! I'd already had time to study a bit that girl who wanted to be called Indie, and I knew that with her you couldn't let your guard down even for a second. I had to always pay attention to what I was saying, for the fear of making a fool out of myself again. Yes, life was awfully interesting with her, but it was as if she was constantly testing me! Sometimes I used to find it quite tiresome.

The first two weeks I tried keeping up with her, pretending to be an outright bitter cynic and was trying to find her weak spots. We were only getting used to each other, but the competition was already full on. She pretended like she knew everything about me, and I was pretending to be a completely different person. But then I began having problems. I lost my grip and my weak spot began showing.

I argued with the manager of the club where my band was playing. We got thrown out. And didn't get into another one because I didn't manage to promote myself and my guys well enough. They asked me if we're any good, I said we're not bad. After that nobody even bothered to listen to our records. Just said: come back when you're good. My damn modesty had let me down. All I had to say that we're simply awesome! In any case, soon it all got better. We found another club. But I couldn't forgive myself for the previous blunders, even if my musicians had forgotten all about it. Anyhow, I told Indie everything.

She, by the way, never ever came to hear us even once. I wasn't really inviting her, but only because she herself never really asked. Indie didn't show any particular interest to music at all. To be honest, I couldn't work out what were her interests and passions. Among her things were no DVDs, no books with catchy titles. No sketch book, no photo-camera. No PlayStation, no yoga mat. All in all she didn't seem to possess a single object that would suggest a hobby or leisure. At the same time, Indie wasn't a geek. Like most students, before the exams she would make scribble little cheat-notes. Before sleep she preferred to go through a glossy magazine rather than a text book.

As for her friends, among them were some who looked down on me, but you couldn't say that Indie was particularly close with any of them. They would call each other; drop by for coffee, swap notes and books, gossip, but nothing more. No group trips or sleep-overs. These were all superficial, easy friendships, mates. Indie didn't make friends; she was just pleasantly passing time with them. Nonetheless, I found it strange that she decided to share a room with me, and not with one of her mates. As well as how she didn't think of doing that before. I asked her, Indie answered something vague with a mysterious smile. We never touched this topic again.

She didn't have a boyfriend. She would sometimes go out with this one or another, but never anything serious. Indie kept saying that she didn't want to tie herself down out of principle. I wonder what kind of principles?! I could only imagine that maybe she had some bad history, a broken heart, but she would not discuss it for anything. She would joke about it, laugh and in every way try to avoid the conversation. That used to upset me because I was always sincere with her and was hoping that Indie would do the same in return. But she was in no haste to open up, while at the same managed to pull all sorts of confessions out of me.

Now we were sharing a room where we lived. Or rather – where we came to sleep. Before falling asleep we would lay in our beds, talking, discussing the news, making plans for the next day, joking and laughing… In these moments I would relax, lower my guard and could easily say more than I wished to. I think Indie knew that perfectly well. She just had to ask the right kind of questions and I would, most probably, give away all my innermost secrets.

But in any case she didn't have any curiosity about my secrets. On the other hand, she was much more interested in other things, and at that rather strange ones. Even for a professional psychiatrist. She didn't ask about my childhood memories, whether my parents used to punish me or if I ever spied on them together at night. Not at all, she was only interested in my fantasies. Dreams. Sensations. It seemed so peculiar! With sincere attention Indie would listen to how, when I was little, I used to hide under the blanket because I thought there were ghosts dancing around my bed. She was all ears when I would tell her that I used to think that behind my wardrobe was another world, full of marvelous creatures. And, finally, she was completely over the moon when I told her that I used to make up names for those creatures. I, by the way, was quite surprised myself. Suddenly recalling this strange childhood episode to mind made me shudder. Whom, the hell, was I giving those names to?!

Indie never analyzed or made any conclusions or anything like that, but these conversations still made me nervous from time to time. I liked telling tales, but not digging inside my soul – not at all. In the end I found a decent compromise. Some things were memories, the others I would just make up as I went along. Sometimes it was even difficult to remain within the limits of credibility and common sense. Mixing fantasy with reality, I would often go a bit too far. But Indie never stopped me and even on the contrary, encouraged even further. And I would console myself that it's just harmless make-believe rather than blatant lies.

– Well, and apart from giving names to outlandish creatures, – she kept interrogating, – what else did you do?

– Well, more or less, nothing.

– So you were just a little girl with a wild imagination?

– No, I was also a natural born killer.

– What did you say?!

– Exactly what you heard.

– So whom did you kill?

– A crow. Once I massacred a crow.

Indie seemed quite disappointed:

– Ah, and I was thinking!

– Don't be so hasty! Just imagine, I killed it with a stone. In the head!

– Yea, that's impressive. But why?

– To be honest, it was accidental. The crow was sitting on the fence and was looking at my dog with a very bad eye. She probably confused it with a rat; it was a very small dog. I watched how the crow sat there, looked at it, measuring it up and getting ready to fly down and grab my puppy with its claws! I swear it was like that! So I picked up a stone and threw it at the crow. I just wanted to scare it off, but I got it! In the head. The crow gave out a horrible shriek and fell down. Dead.

Indie laughed and said:

– Turns out, you're a dangerous person!

– Oh yes, I am! And you know, it wasn't even the first crow to die at my hands.

– What?! You killed another one?! I hope at least this time it was intentional?

– I'm ashamed to say, it wasn't. It happened unintentionally. I was seven years old and my parents took us to the countryside for the