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The house is quiet.
A ghost unwinds a muddy cloth from around its right hand and offers it — palm up — to a silent, watchful horse.
***
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack —
Damon pauses and tilts his head, fingers poised above the keys of his braille writer.
He strains his ears and waits. Nothing but the usual white noise of his home hums around him. Perhaps he was imagining it? He resumes typing. But as soon as he starts, under the tap, tap, tapping of his keys, he can hear the faintest thud, thud, thudding of footsteps drawing closer.
There is someone in the room with him.
His skin prickles when the figure stops in front of his desk and the surrounding air goes cool and unfathomably quiet.
He knows who it is, but he asks anyway. “Who’s there?”
An amused sigh is the only warning he has before warm fingers wrap around his wrist and bring his hand up to rest upon an all too familiar face. Damon brushes a fingertip against a cool metallic bar on the bridge of a nose before sliding down and forward, past a warm cheek to thread his fingers between thick, wavy hair. He brings his other hand up and rests his palm on the other’s shoulder. Using his thumb, he gently strokes the man’s throat, and he wishes he could see the tattoo again. Even now, he can still see the way the delicate lines of the bow would flutter like the wings of a butterfly with every sensual swallow.
He wonders if the ink has or will fade over time.
Damon’s voice is breathy and reverent as hope and heat and blood swirls in a slow, transmutative dance inside him. “Is it time?”
“Yes,” whispers his Saviour, his God.
***
The grand marble steps seem to glimmer under the harsh light. A shining sea of white in this desolate, never-ending space.
He just wants it to end.
He wants everything to end.
He keeps his head down, hiding his face from view under the wide hood of his cloak as he ascends the steps. By now he has no doubt caught the attention of the palace guards. People outside of the highest echelons of society rarely ever come here unless summoned. Even fewer of them ever leave.
The smooth stone feels cool against his bare feet.
He shrugs off his cloak, the white fabric melting away into the white marble, and he raises his arms, extending them out behind him.
Light glints off his daggers, summoning the guards around him in an instant, and the tension in his triceps nearly cause his hands to tremble with excitement. He grips his daggers tighter in anticipation and leans forward, bending at the waist. He inhales steadily, then exhales through snarling teeth.
He runs forward and flings himself into the air, arms and daggers raised like the wings of a raptor descending on its prey. A clang rings through the air as his blades clash against a spear. He spins and stabs and jabs, and his eyes close in rapture as his body dances through the percussive cacophony of clinks and stomps and grunts and screams.
The smooth stone feels warm and wet against his bare feet.
He rolls his head and then his shoulders one at a time — first the right, then the left — and feels the tension dissipate from his neck and shoulders. He bends his elbows, raising his arms just enough to give his daggers an appraising glance. Underneath the dark blood, he catches a glimpse of his reflection.
His reflection smiles back.
He extends both arms out with a quick flick and two more dotted lines of black paint the marble floor.
“Well, well, well,” says a new voice. “What do we have here?”
He turns and sees a figure, shadowed by a shimmering light pulsing from behind him. He watches warily as the man saunters towards him. The man is wearing a black and white checkered robe made from a strangely stiff and heavy cloth, but he walks as if nothing weighs him down.
His eyes widen when he sees the man’s face.
“Who are you?” he asks. “Where did you come from?”
The man glances meaningfully at the sigils scrawled across his skin and the blood pooling around their feet. “You are the one who called me.”
He, too, glances down and his breath catches in his throat.
At their feet, the blood shines a vibrant and visceral red.
The man reaches out towards him, towards the dagger in his left hand. He watches as the man confidently places a finger on the tip of the blade and drags it down towards the hilt. He watches their distorted faces in the cool glint of the blade as heat encircles his wrist.
He doesn’t put up a fight when the man pulls.
—
Damon stumbles into a dark, bare room of stone and gloom.
Within seconds the sheen of sweat on his bare torso turns clammy and cool. His body jerks violently from the unexpected drop in temperature.
The hand around his wrist squeezes once, gently, and then lets go.
Damon watches the man attentively as he slowly unbutton his large blocky robe. He shivers as the man drags his eyes down the length of Damon’s body. He disappears from Damon’s view when the heavy garment is flung at his face. Damon catches it and gives the man a questioning look.
“You look cold,” he says. “Put that on and follow me.” He doesn’t bother to wait for a response. He simply turns around and walks down a dimly lit corridor, trusting that Damon will follow.
Damon quickly slips his arms through the stiff sleeves and wraps the thick fabric around him.
It’s warm.
He scans the barren room quickly and rushes after his new … companion. He doesn’t notice his reflections in the three mirrors behind him, still filling the entire frame even as he walks farther and farther away.
***
He smiles softly as he slowly, but confidently, twists the strands of straw together. Each pass under and over transforming the little loop into a lovingly crafted ring.
He remembers when she had asked him, once, why he always sat outside when it rained.
He didn’t know how to tell her that the soft muddy earth in his palms felt like a balm on his soul when it seeped into his seams and crevices. The way the mud, caked like clay under his nails as he molded the wet dirt into small ephemeral figures, was proof that something like him — something artificial (not human not real not worthy) — could create, too, and bring beauty and joy to life (not violence not destruction not pain) .
Sometimes, when the rain was a reprieve from the sweltering sun, he would sit beneath the pouring skies, watching his little figures melt into unrecognizable clumps of mud. And sometimes, he would return them to the flowerbed himself, patting them gently back down into the earth.
“To keep the flowers company,” he had said instead. In response she had merely titled her head, curious, and gave him a bemused smile before she resumed writing on her tablet.
He had asked her, once, what she was writing. What she was always writing. After a pause she had murmured, almost too low to hear. “Nothing. Just a story.”
She had always been too shy to share her stories with him, but — he rubs his thumb along the finished ring in his hands — he hopes she wants to create a story with him.
He hopes she wants him. Not like—
His hands drop down to his lap and he squints up at the afternoon sky. How many days have passed since he was allowed to live this civilian life?
“You are to remain here for now,” they had said.
For now.
How long is for now?
The ring in his hand feels so small.
***
Damon screams until even the air that passes through his throat flays him open from the inside out.
He sinks to the ground, surrounded by tubes of paint and shattered glass. He barely registers the shards of glass from the broken jar digging into his hands. He doesn’t notice the blood dripping down his fingers to join the murky pool of paint water around him. He kicks angrily at the collapsed easel and jerks his head from side to side until he catches sight of the damaged canvas half-hidden under the desk it slid under.
His anger melts along with his shoulders as he slumps forward. He gazes at the unfinished painting until the blacks and the whites and the grays disappear under a blurry haze of tears.
This is it, then.
It has started.
Damon lets himself fall backwards and stares unseeingly at the white ceiling.
He thought he would have more time.
“There were complications with the surgery, Private,” they had said.
What was the surgery for?
“We will have to keep you here for observation,” they had said.
What was the surgery for?
“Given the circumstances, you have been excused from carrying out the remainder of your military service,” they had said.
What was the surgery for?
“Don’t you remember, sir? Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” they had said.
What was the surgery for?
“Best take your medicine. We will have to keep you here for observation,” they had said.
What
was
the
surgery
for?
—
Eventually, he learns to come to terms with his fading vision. He learns to listen. He learns to read braille.
He learns to paint with words instead of colours.
***
The days drag on. Passion is only aware of the passing of time through the shadows that dance through the metal bars on his window.
He paces the room.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He flew too close to the sun, as they say.
This wasn’t part of the script — reason makes for such a boring story.
He paces the room.
It’s been days and days and weeks and months, and he still has not heard from neither Sunshine nor Black.
He comes to a sudden stop in front of the chessboard and in a fit of anger knocks the table on its side. Chess pieces skid across the concrete floor and the response he received from Reason that he had tucked away under the chessboard flutters next to his feet.
He pulls out a lighter and burns the pages.
From the corner of his eye, he sees his reflection in the mirror. He’s hunched over a small pile of smoldering ashes, desperate and angry and pathetic.
The image in the mirror doesn’t change.
It’s just him.
Only him.
Alone.
The mirror shatters under his fist with a satisfying crash. He ignores the stinging cuts on his knuckles and sets fire to the empty frame.
***
No.
No, no, no. They’re here. Why now?
He can hear the door shake behind him as he throws it open with a frenetic force and rushes out of the house. He stoops down to pick up an axe as he strides towards his unwelcome guests.
“Leave!” He snarls and raises the axe above his head, but the soldier to his right grabs his arm and pivots behind him as the other soldier grabs his other arm. The two soldiers slam him to the ground. He can hear the scientists behind them barking out orders to hold him still.
It’s when he looks up and sees Him hugging Her that he feels the prick on his neck.
The last thing his eyes focus on before his body shuts down is the metal band on His finger, gleaming under the sunlight.
—
He wakes on the floor of the study.
The first thing he registers is the thrumming currents of electricity pulsing in and out of his body where four thick cables have been plugged into the ports on his back. The second thing he registers is the weight of the cool, thick handcuffs wrapped around his wrists.
He struggles to push himself up into a seated position on his knees and scans the room listlessly. The study is filled with scientists and soldiers. In the span of hours (days? How long was he out?) they have transformed the room into a makeshift lab. Scanners and monitors and charts cover every available surface. Two large industrial lamps on either side of him shine bright and hot — his own personal spotlights — and he can feel his skin dampen from the intensity of it.
The chatter in the room stops.
He lifts his head and sees Him. The real Him, he’s told.
The Commander kneels down in front of him and caresses his cheek. The look in his eyes are filled with child-like wonder and the smile on his face seems out of place.
He thinks this is the first time anyone has ever looked at him like that.
The reverence with which the Commander’s thumb softly skates its way towards his lip stirs something inside him, but all he can focus on is the press of the cool metal band resting against his jaw.
***
The table shakes when he slams the knight down onto the chessboard.
In the mirror his glare gives way to a coy grin as he leans forward closer and closer and closer until his face shimmers past the smooth glass, and the red feathery shirt turns white, caged by wide black diagonal stripes, as Black steps into the room.
Passion quirks an eyebrow at the feathered coat.
“Do you like it?” Black’s lips curl into an annoying smirk. “It reminded me of you. A pretty little bird, caged in.”
Passion’s lip curl in disdain. “If you want to wear a harness, I could help you with that.” Black’s eyes fill with promise, annoying Passion even further. He snaps, “Finally decided to visit? What do you want?”
Black glances around the gloomy concrete building, more an old forgotten storage facility than a place to call home. His eyes glint with amusement when they fall on a skull and half face drama mask on a table across the room. Black leans down, crowding into Passion’s space until they can both feel the other’s warm breath upon their lips.
“It’s show time.”
***
The Commander hangs his black tie in the closet along with his uniform.
He stares into the mirror on the closet door for a little too long, searching for non-existent freckles.
He thinks he sees his eyes flash an icy blue, but when he focuses on his irises, all he sees is a familiar brown. A trick of the light, then.
He had met a god with his face, once, during one of his first dozen trips to space. It had been the start of everything.
“Oh, you arrogant little thing. You are the one who looks like me. You were made to look like me. ”
No.
No.
He’s not one of—
He needs a drink.
***
Damon follows the man up a spiral staircase and unlike the barren stone walls and dark cavernous rooms below, everywhere he turns he sees white and gold. The ostentatious architecture and decor is so bright, it’s almost painful to look at.
He sees lines and lines of people dressed in black shirts and black pants. Every single one of them hiding their eyes behind tinted black glasses.
Servants, perhaps?
None of Black’s people pay any attention to the two of them as they stride down a never-ending hallway.
Damon studies the figure ahead of him. It’s remarkable how similar they look.
“Who are you?” he asks.
Just when it starts to feel like the hallway had swallowed his words, the other man replies, “You can call me Black.”
Black.
Damon flicks his gaze down to his own loose white pants and huffs in amusement.
“Are we related?”
Black turns his head just enough to peek over his shoulder and gives Damon and narrows his eyes in consideration. “In a way, yes, I suppose you can say that.”
Before Damon can reply, Black makes an abrupt turn down a narrow corridor. Damon hadn’t seen it at first glance, the bright lights glinting off the white marble walls had made the exit nearly indiscernible from the rest of the hallway.
Black stops to open a white door and steps aside, gesturing for Damon to enter the room.
Like the rest of the hallways on this floor, this room is wide and bright and cold.
In the center of the room sits a desk. And on that desk there is a bottle of wine, and empty wine glass, and some sort of metallic box.
As they step closer, Damon feels the room tilt violently to the side, and his head fills with static.
He feels Black’s hands guide him gently into a chair.
Damon stares blankly at the braille writer in front of him as Black curls a hand around the back of his neck. Black squeezes once, gently.
“I need you to write.”
***
He loves his wife, he does. But he resents that she got to spend so much more time with his creation than he did. He knows that this is not her fault. He knows that this is his own damn fault.
He was the one who made It and it was he who decided to leave them here, together.
But … he’s not sure who he’s jealous of.
It?
His wife?
He peeks into their bedroom and watches her read the letters she thinks he doesn’t know about and wishes he had gone against the head researcher’s advice to leave It here, in his place, for further observation.
He should have taken It to space.
She has barely been able to look him in the eyes for more than a minute at a time since she helped It escape.
The guilt that stretches between them grows like the weeds in It’s garden.
He doesn’t blame her. A part of him resents her for it, but it pales in comparison to the regret that drowns him in every corner of this house.
On the dresser, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and the lost look in his eyes reminds him of the last time he saw It.
There are echos of It everywhere.
***
He tenses when he sees a human-shaped shadow on the floor, cast from the sunlight filtering in between the long wooden slats of the old barn door.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding, little ghost.”
He turns and tenses.
There is a man with his face, but it’s not the Commander. How many others are there like him, he wonders.
This other him looks comically out of place, but the confidence in his relaxed posture is magnetic. The fuzzy, feathery red shirt and shiny black pants look hot and uncomfortable in the humid air around them. The intricate silver rings, like vines and spines wrapped around unmarred fingers, the string of black gems glistening around his neck, the golden dagger with a single red ruby dangling from his ear — all of it so luxurious and indulgent and so far removed from the usual garb of the scientists and soldiers and simple country life that he’s known since he had first awoken.
The man walks towards him slowly, hands open in a gesture of peace. The man offers a friendly smile and extends a hand towards him and plucks the hat off of his head. He tosses the hat to the side.
Eyes, framed in a smokey black, go half-lidded as the man glances down at his cheeks. The words that pass his lips come out low and heady. “Well, aren’t you cute?”
He can feel his cheeks flush, just a little, as he takes two steps back. “Did the Commander send you?” he asks warily.
“Commander?” The other’s eyes lose their flirtatious edge as they narrow. “No. I’m here on behalf of someone far more interesting. Now come, little ghost. You don’t need to hide anymore.”
He spares a glance towards the stack of letters tucked away in a box under a bale of hay. It’s time he let her go, he thinks.
“Okay,” he nods at the man. “But I need to bring my horse.”
“Your what? ”
On cue, he hears Spicy neigh loud and clear from the stable.
***
“I don’t understand.”
The thumping of his heart reverberates so loudly in his head, he’s positive Black can hear it too.
Black pushes Damon slightly, and the chair rolls back easily, giving Black enough room to settle against the edge of the desk. He threads his legs between Damon’s.
“You wanted a new beginning.” He raps his knuckles against the side of the braille writer. “Here’s your chance.”
Damon shakes his head. “I wanted everything to end. I wanted things to go back to how it was before. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, you poor, beautiful boy.”
Damon closes his eyes, unable to bear the pitying look in Black’s.
Fingers curl under his jaw.
“If you want to live, this is the only way.”
He feels Black’s thumb glide slowly towards his bottom lip, where he taps softly. Purposefully.
. _ _
. _ .
. .
_
.
W R I T E
***
The Commander sets a lantern down on the floor and strips, dropping his clothes in a messy pile next to a white bathtub. He climbs inside and stares out the window. The only thing he can see in the darkness is his reflection, superimposed on the vertical posts of the porch railing.
He wonders where It is.
He knows It hasn’t gone too far. He’s seen the letters his wife tries to hide. He’s never read them, but he’s seen the envelopes. There’s no postage. It must have delivered each letter Itself. Like clockwork, once every thirty days, on the night of the new moon.
He could have easily set up a trap to capture It, or follow It to It’s hideout and bring him back for good.
But he didn’t, and he doesn’t.
His wife had forgiven him the night he burned everything. He’d wiped all of his digital files, too. Years of research and schematics transformed into nothing but smoke and ash. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the sparks and embers flying like comets across the dark starry sky.
He should have taken It to space.
Outside the wind picks up, and he can see the tree outside shaking from the force of it. His head in the window snaps to the side, following the curve of the branches in the wind.
He jerks up in surprise, back straight from where he had been slouched, unmoving against the side of the tub. He brings his hands up to the side, his fingers curling around the cool ceramic rim of the tub when a warm weight lands on his torso, pinning him down.
All he can see is dark wavy locks and a long coat made out of delicate black and white feathers. It feels soft where it brushes against his skin.
“I’m glad I’m not wet, but why are you sitting naked in an empty bathtub?”
He inhales sharply when the man between his legs looks up at him.
His eyes dart first to the man’s brown eyes, then to the piercing between them, and finally down towards the man’s neck. He relaxes a fraction when he sees the tattoo peeking out from behind the collared dress shirt.
The top half a bow tie.
Not letters.
Not SUNSHINE.
The man tilts his head back, putting his neck on display. “Where you expecting someone else?” he asks.
“Did Sunshine send you? Are you like him? Are you a…” The Commander swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
The man — being? God? — drags a hand through the Commander’s hair and pulls him even closer.
“Sunshine does not send me to do anything. But he did tell me about you.”
“Why are you here, then?”
The hand in his hair slides down his neck and past his shoulder. His skin lights up where warm fingers trail down his bicep and forearm. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Warm fingers wrap around his wrist and the manbeingGod pulls.
And Damon gasps awake.
He’s cold and wet and he can hear the drip, plunk, drip, plunk of water droplets as they fall from the faucet near his feet in the tub.
***
“Mr. Cillian, can you hear me?”
“Mr. Cillian. We are just trying to help you.”
“Mr. Cillian, where are you? You have to stop hiding.”
“It’s no use. He refuses to respond. We’re done here. Lock him back up.”
***
The three of them arrive at an old train station, run-down from disuse. The train tracks are half obscured by gravel and weeds.
Up on the platform, among the debris and crawling vines is a lone bench.
From it, he can hear whistling.
As they approach the platform, he sees a figure lying on the bench. Arms bent behind their head, one leg up, bent at the knee, and the other stretched out along the seat.
He hears a quiet “Go on, little ghost” from behind him, so he dismounts Spicy and gives her a reassuring pat before he walks cautiously up a creaky staircase.
The whistling stops as soon as he steps onto the platform, and a voice asks, “What’s your name?”
He pauses. “I don’t have one.”
There is an inquiring hum. “Passion called you a little ghost.”
This time, when the figure sits up, he’s more surprised at their differences than their similarities. Silver-blue hair. Icy blue eyes. Paler, unblemished cheeks. SUNSHINE tattooed across the neck.
They gesture to the spot next to them. “Come, Ghost. I’ll only bite if you give me a reason to,” they say with a playful lilt.
Ghost.
He wants to protest. Ghosts aren’t real. Ghosts aren’t alive.
“Who are you?” he asks instead.
Their face splits open with a wide, coy grin. They bring their right hand up, fingers splayed in an exaggeratedly delicate manner as they tilt their chin up and to the left and drag their index finger down their neck to slowly trace the curve of the stylized S.
“Sunshine.”
Without pause, he asks, “What are we?”
They laugh, delighted. “If you want to know, you have to come with me.” Sunshine stands up, pulling him with them to the edge of the platform. In the distance a train whistles. “If you want to know what you are, you have to take a step into the unknown.”
The grip on his arm tightens.
“Come, little ghost. Take a step.” Sunshine steps over the edge, pulling him, pulling him, pulling him.
Damon jerks in his chair, the unsettling sensation of falling pulling him to the present.
When his ears stop ringing, he hears a kettle whistling.
***
Damon drags his fingers down his face, pressing down hard enough he can feel the pull of his skin from his eyes.
“Who am I?” he asks.
He runs frantic fingers through his hair. The smooth, thick strands stop just above his ears, the sides and back cropped short and buzzed close to his scalp.
But he can still feel the brush of hair against his nape. He can still feel the way it curled and stuck against his skin under the confines of his space suit’s helmet.
“Who am I?” he asks again.
He tugs on the earring on his left ear, and rolls the flesh of his right ear lobe between his right thumb and forefinger — feeling for and failing to find any signs of a piercing.
But he can still feel the weight of the golden dagger as it brushed against the side of his face.
“Who am I?” he asks again.
What he really wants to ask is What am I?
***
“Is it time?”
“Yes,” whispers his Saviour, his God.
There’s a shift in the air as Black leans forward, resting his forehead against Damon’s. “Stop that. I know what you’re thinking. But this was all you. Everything was you.”
***
The house is silent.
Damon steps outside and tilts his head back. Everything is an endless expanse of black, but he can still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.
He unwinds a bloody cloth from around his fingers and extends his hand forward – palm up – an offering to the sky.
***
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Ding!