The Last Light Companion [Chapter 2.2]

Rachelle complained about the Business Study assignments they needed to do. She wrote that she did not understand why the subject needed to be difficult, and that she would not be a businesswoman anyway, or any other job that was related to business. She blamed the Ministry of Education for putting her in Arts. The chosen subjects were frustrating; she hated all of them, especially Business Study. Manisha ended the conversation by saying it was time for them to go sleep, although Jannah suspected she meant differently.

Jannah went to her study table, switched on the light, and grabbed her diary at the edge of the metallic table. It was time.

Today proved itself to be interesting, she wrote, and read it. It did seem a bit formal, but she liked it. Dafina stopping to give the supposedly lethal stares were odd and convenient, as I barely escaped from having my clothes attached to the chair as Manisha warned me there was glue spread at the seat. It was caused by Hairi, a small guy I was sure I had done nothing wrong at. My theory was that Dafina forced him to do this to me (Dafina and I are not in the same class), though I could not figure out what did she threaten him with.

There was a part of me wishing her to fear me instead of loathing me, as I was sure she remembered the last time she tried to touch me, a glass hovered over her head and poured water at it. It seemed to me her suspicion of me being the cause of her seemingly problematic relationship with Zafiq erased whatever fear she should inhibit. Jannah hesitated. But, knowing her, this was not surprising.

She did not want to write any further, seeing the direction of her writing was towards Dafina, or rather, her relationship with the girl. She bit her lips, and realized her worry was unfounded. It was not like someone would read her diary; its existence was entirely for her pleasure to read when she wanted to recall the past. But the reason for its creation itself was ironic to what she was going to write. She did not want to remember her past with Dafina. The pencil laid on the notebook.

And then its butt moved upward as if it was being pulled by an invisible force, making the tip of the pencil pointing to the paper. Jannah’s eyes widened; she froze. Her focus to it was intense; a part of her urged her to jump on her bed and shielded herself with blanket, while the other insisted her to observe, to find out what would this unusual event be. They, like demon and angel, fought each other, until Jannah decided to just watch, and if something bad happened, to run and seek shelter under the thickness of her blanket.

The tip made contact with the paper, creating a black line, and stopping for a moment to made another. It was making words. The letters were badly written, but readable. The tip pressed to make a period, and fell.

Why is it not surprising?

Oh my god, she thought idly. I’m speaking to the dead.

Well, so far, the tip was not pointing at her, which meant she would be safe from being pierced by it for now. What would happen if she played along? Jannah reached for the pencil before holding back her hand. What if that was what the force wanted? To suddenly spun and punctured her hand once it was close enough? But then again, had she not conclude already whatever it was was of protective nature? Curiosity won over doubt as she picked it, and sighed in relief as nothing happened.

She decided it was too time-consuming to ponder whether she should tell the truth or not, and so avoid making up a lie that would waste certainly waste more of her time. I have known her since primary school, she wrote. She was my best friend - she felt a pang of longing - and so, I know her well. She has changed, of course, but some of her personalities remain.

She put the pencil the pencil on the table, and waited expectantly. After a few seconds, the pencil moved by itself - or by outside force - again.

Yes. This is interesting. Can you tell me why you broke up with her? I saw what she did to you in the school. Thank goodness I intervened. The pencil dropped.

Jannah’s eyes widened and focused on the last word. ‘Intervened’. Whatever it was that made the pencil move was the same thing that made the glass pour its water onto Dafina’s head. At least, that was what she inferred from what it wrote. She took the pencil and wrote.

I can’t tell you - it was too painful to write it down - but there is a reason. What I think we need to focus right now is you. What are you? Why are you doing this to me, and how?

The pencil laid on the table a little longer this time, taking a few minutes. Jannah glanced at her clock, and saw it was past eleven. She really could not get to sleep early. Father always mentioned it when they - including Mother - ate dinner. She was reminded to the one she had tonight. Mother was quiet. It had been so since he died. She heard scratches and turned to the paper. The pencil was writing.

I am one of the others who are here to help you. You are in danger. All of you. You need to understand this.

One of the others? Jannah thought. Does this mean there are more? And what does it mean about me being in danger? How was she supposed to understand when she was not given enough context?

Elaborate, she wrote. I am not sure what to make of you, but I know you are not evil. At least, what you have done cannot be deemed so. However, I am not sure I can believe you. You have to prove yourself.

Very well.

A bright blue light appeared on the book, brighter than the study lamp. Jannah squealed and retreated from it, forcing the chair to fall. The light was spherical - it seemed to illuminate a portion of the room. But that was not the point. It was floating.

‘Do you believe me now?’

It speaks, she thought, gulping to the sultry voice. Ya Allah, it speaks. This. This might be a good enough reason to rush under the shelter of her blanket, to shake her head and think this was all dream. This would disappear, be forgotten, when she woke up and went to school. That would be nice - that would be wonderful.

‘You’re not real,’ whispered she, and went slowly to her bedroom, her eyes fixed on the light. She realized she had not finished today’s entry, which she had never done. More proof this was a dream. In a normal circumstance, she would not be satisfied if she did not finish. Once she was on the bedroom, she threw the blanket over herself, and looked at the light. ‘You’re not real.’ She then put the fabric over her head, shutting her eyes tight, her back against the study table, and forced herself to sleep.

She could not, of course.

Her minds were reeling. Had the light gone? Was it - was it behind her, being silent so that when she turned around to check, she would be freaked out to see it still there? What had happened to her mind? This is a dream, she thought firmly. This thing is normal in a dream. Clinging on that, she let her head out of the blanket and looked at the study table.

It was dark. The light was gone. She sighed in relief. It dawned on her the window was still open. She She went hurriedly to it and closed it then went back to the bedroom in the same speedy state. She tried to sleep. Her fear had gone, but her mind was still functioning. It went back through time, to the moments of unusual events, playing them over and over. She could not stop it, and after half an hour, it tired itself, allowing her to sleep.