Rogue Alliance

FORTY-EIGHT



As he crossed over the Sundial Bridge, Brennan spotted Shyla sitting at a park bench not too far off the trail from where he’d seen the doe and fawn with her earlier that summer. Though he knew she would have heard his approach, he noticed she kept her back to him. Her long, dark braid trailed down her straight back. She wore jeans and a blue rain parka.

As he rounded the bench she looked up at him pensively.

“Good morning, Brennan.”

He didn’t like the way her lips were pinched together. Glancing down at the small manila envelope that sat under her folded hands, he suddenly felt like he had walked into some sort of trap. Snapping his gaze up to meet hers, he skipped greetings.

“What’s going on?”

She held his gaze for a breath of a second then, without saying a word, slowly opened the envelope and pulled out a thin layer of papers. Setting them on the park table, she turned them his direction so he could see them straight on. His heart rate quickened as he stepped forward and looked down at the top sheet.

Nothing could have prepared him for seeing his own face staring up at him. He was younger, more vibrant, with a hint of defiance in his eyes, but it was unmistakably him. A flash of memory passed behind his lids; the sound of a woman’s laughter, the smell of stew cooking in the crock pot, and him rushing down the stairs of a two storey house which felt like home. Recognition was clear. His house. His mother. A thousand breaths of history blurring together. A chill ran down his spine.

Reaching down, he picked up the flyer. It felt as if he were in slow motion, moving through thick molasses as the world around him ceased to exist. Only the photo held between his thumb and forefinger existed. Scrolling down, he focused on the text below the photo.

“Brian Miller,” he whispered, his cold breath coming out in plumes, “Brennan Miles…Brian Miller…not so different.”

He looked over the paper and down at Shyla. She was quiet, staring up at him patiently.

“Not so different at all,” she said.

“Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it’s all there. It always has been, just waiting to be rediscovered,” he said before pausing.There were hundreds of thoughts, ideas, revelations, rising to the forefront of his mind, all of them vying for attention. It was overwhelming. He sat down on the bench across from Shyla,“where did you find this? I mean, how…”

“Shawn came across it early this morning while he was sifting through missing person files. We’re still looking for Carmen.”

Distracted, Brennan nodded his head.

“Of course.”

“They’re probably still looking for you, Brennan,” Shyla’s voice was softer than usual but the statement cut through the haze of his chaotic state of mind.

He looked back down at the paper in his hands. His younger self looked up at him as if waiting for him to connect the dots and find where he had been hiding all those years.

Sliding the flyer behind the others, he saw that the next was a photocopy of a newspaper article. In the upper right-hand corner was a picture which altered his universe. It read; John and Clara Miller stand united as they make an appeal to anyone who might have information in regards to the whereabouts of their son.

His parents. John and Clara Miller. Their faces swam in and out of focus. The sound of her laughter once again floated on the breeze and it was no longer a whimsical dream. It was a memory.

He looked across the table at Shyla again. There was an expression on her face that showed her compassion. She was worried about him; it was tangible. She had brought this to him knowing how earth-shattering it would be. She had sat patiently, like a friend, and watched him, waiting to be whatever he needed her to be in that moment.

“Thank you,” he said.

The corner of her mouth turned up with a small smile. Her eyes were soft and gentle. He’d never seen her quite like this before.

“I can help you Brennan,” she said, “We can find them. It won’t be hard.”

As she spoke, thoughts and visions, ones which were so much more vivid and real, rose up to the surface. His life in the institute, the torture he’d endured, the violence and gruesome, murderous acts that he’d committed over the years. He shook his head. “No. No,” he said, “that’s not an option. I couldn’t…I can never go back.”

Shyla reached out and lightly covered his hand with her own. Her skin was smooth and warm.

“Brennan, I know that you’re scared…”

He jerked his head up and her grip tightened.

“I know you’re scared,” Shyla continued, “but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of that matters anymore. It’s over. It’s in the past. It doesn’t define you. They need to know that you’re okay.”

Brennan wanted to believe what she was saying. He wanted to pull her close and hold her tight shutting away the fear she was speaking of. Instead, he pulled his hand from hers and stood up. He held up the papers.

“This boy is dead to them. He no longer exists.”

He turned and stomped up the small, grassy incline to the path.

“Brennan!” Shyla shouted.

A cold wind picked up. Brennan turned one last time as fat, icy rain began to pelt down on his already frigid skin. Shyla had stood up but was still down by the park bench, her face turned up into the wind, undisturbed by the raging storm that was brewing.

She was beautiful. She seemed to always be able to bring him to the doorstep of so many emotions. At that moment, he couldn’t bear them all.

“Thank you,” he said again. Then he turned and stomped away.