10-07-2018, 10:41 PM
His first memory - a memory that was wholly his own - was that of lying on the floor, cold concrete, and the sensation of sticky membrane pulled tight across his body. For the first few moments he heard nothing, only felt bubbling liquid in his ears.
The membrane tore as he stretched, moved, shifted away from the other body crossed over his. The concrete grew slick underneath him. He opened his eyes; his vision was blurred with fluid. When he rubbed the wetness away with the back of his hand, he looked and saw red everywhere. It ran from his ears, and he could hear (louder than the whispers, louder than the soft cries of the circle of onlookers) the beating of his own heart, reverbrating.
He knew, then, that blood was his purpose, his birthright, his true and only destiny. He knew what blood was and what it was meant for, the beginning and the end. It came to him so clearly and simply that it shook him still, when he woke in the night, remembering it.
Now he much preferred the rain.
He liked to be places where it rained. He liked all kinds of rain - hot rains, cold rains, sun showers, lightning storms, but most of all he liked the steady downpours, the ones where it rained for hours with only the occasional rumble of thunder, and the wetness that ran down his nose and the back of his neck and filled up his shoes was water, only water, not blood.
He remembered looking out at the rain from one of the largest rooms in the house, set aglow with geometric cage lamps. He was ten - he was told he was ten - maybe eleven, holding his sister's hand. They were always holding hands if they were near one another, and they almost always were. Their governess had walked away to get them something to drink, and he was left standing by the floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, watching the rain.
He did not know where he was, precisely, though he recalled the chauffeur joking that they were going to 'the furthest reaches' of Washington. There were always parties like this, every so often, when his family would gather all together and caravan to some chateau or villa, and the family would talk with strangers for hours, and eventually they would all regroup and ask him and his sister strange questions until the strangers looked tired or afraid or both.
The rain was very beautiful there, pouring down through the pines and hemlocks. Beyond the cathedral window, he felt those woods would be a good place to disappear, to get lost.
His governess came back with juice. His left hand still with his sister's, he took the cup with his right. He looked into the cup. His reflection looked back at him, in blood red.
The Farr Reaches - he had remembered it wrong. Or, he had remembered the punch line correctly, and forgotten the joke.
The taxi dropped him off at a randomly determined point on the highway. He paid cash, and the driver's memories would come up hazy as early as the next morning, the truth buried in the encrypted location data of his cell phone. It was hours of walking from that spot, but if, somehow, one of the family found that one driver, they would be somewhat delayed in locating their lost son. He would be able to see them coming.
It did not rain for most of his walk. After sunset, he used his red flashlight to trace his way through the woods, pausing sometimes to close his eyes and visualize the house. He drew the pictures in the front of his mind - the memories, the newspaper scraps, the glossy pictures from society magazines printed alongside fluff interviews. This way. That way. His flashlight bobbed in the dark.
How easily he could have been a whiskey dream, a lean figure emerging from the safety of the treeline, a shadow moving across the lawn and toward the house. His pace slowed as the rain came down; halfway across the lawn, he stopped entirely, turning his face up to the sky and closing his eyes. At last.
Furthest reaches. End of the world. Everett had probably planned to be alone out here, but fate had other plans.
The membrane tore as he stretched, moved, shifted away from the other body crossed over his. The concrete grew slick underneath him. He opened his eyes; his vision was blurred with fluid. When he rubbed the wetness away with the back of his hand, he looked and saw red everywhere. It ran from his ears, and he could hear (louder than the whispers, louder than the soft cries of the circle of onlookers) the beating of his own heart, reverbrating.
He knew, then, that blood was his purpose, his birthright, his true and only destiny. He knew what blood was and what it was meant for, the beginning and the end. It came to him so clearly and simply that it shook him still, when he woke in the night, remembering it.
Now he much preferred the rain.
He liked to be places where it rained. He liked all kinds of rain - hot rains, cold rains, sun showers, lightning storms, but most of all he liked the steady downpours, the ones where it rained for hours with only the occasional rumble of thunder, and the wetness that ran down his nose and the back of his neck and filled up his shoes was water, only water, not blood.
⛈
He remembered looking out at the rain from one of the largest rooms in the house, set aglow with geometric cage lamps. He was ten - he was told he was ten - maybe eleven, holding his sister's hand. They were always holding hands if they were near one another, and they almost always were. Their governess had walked away to get them something to drink, and he was left standing by the floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, watching the rain.
He did not know where he was, precisely, though he recalled the chauffeur joking that they were going to 'the furthest reaches' of Washington. There were always parties like this, every so often, when his family would gather all together and caravan to some chateau or villa, and the family would talk with strangers for hours, and eventually they would all regroup and ask him and his sister strange questions until the strangers looked tired or afraid or both.
The rain was very beautiful there, pouring down through the pines and hemlocks. Beyond the cathedral window, he felt those woods would be a good place to disappear, to get lost.
His governess came back with juice. His left hand still with his sister's, he took the cup with his right. He looked into the cup. His reflection looked back at him, in blood red.
⛈
The Farr Reaches - he had remembered it wrong. Or, he had remembered the punch line correctly, and forgotten the joke.
The taxi dropped him off at a randomly determined point on the highway. He paid cash, and the driver's memories would come up hazy as early as the next morning, the truth buried in the encrypted location data of his cell phone. It was hours of walking from that spot, but if, somehow, one of the family found that one driver, they would be somewhat delayed in locating their lost son. He would be able to see them coming.
It did not rain for most of his walk. After sunset, he used his red flashlight to trace his way through the woods, pausing sometimes to close his eyes and visualize the house. He drew the pictures in the front of his mind - the memories, the newspaper scraps, the glossy pictures from society magazines printed alongside fluff interviews. This way. That way. His flashlight bobbed in the dark.
How easily he could have been a whiskey dream, a lean figure emerging from the safety of the treeline, a shadow moving across the lawn and toward the house. His pace slowed as the rain came down; halfway across the lawn, he stopped entirely, turning his face up to the sky and closing his eyes. At last.
Furthest reaches. End of the world. Everett had probably planned to be alone out here, but fate had other plans.