That I…
“I stole him, didn’t I.” My voice was tiny, afraid. It was the most pathetic that I had ever sounded. “I stole all of them.”
Jayden moved back to me, holding his hand out over the counter, reaching for me. “Would you like to know?”
I stared at his hand, wondering if I could say no, run outside, and continue to ignore the fears that fought my mind for acknowledgment. I wouldn’t be able to save Silas if I ran. I knew that Jayden was my way forward. I knew that as soon as I understood, as soon as I remembered, I would trade everything for Silas. I would betray them all to save him—because everything would become my fault.
Everything.
“Do it,” I said.
He touched his hand to my cheek, and the memories flooded back to me.
Gerald had survived my lightening power, and despite how much I hated him, despite how much pain he had caused our family… my guilt-ridden heart was swamped with relief. I didn’t want to be the reason that his blood stopped pumping, because it was the same blood that ran in my own veins. He had given me life; he was my father; how could I be the one to take his life away from him?
We were hiding from each other now. Him, in his room; me, in the garage. I didn’t want to see him because I feared what I would do to him. I feared… God, I feared him so badly. It seemed only a matter of time before that fear overrode my guilt, and my relief at his continued existence died a horrible, ugly death. I don’t know why he hid from me. Perhaps he feared as well. Perhaps he was coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t the only monster beneath our roof.
He drowned himself in more liquor, and I drowned myself in colour. I painted the boy, only now realising that I had painted him before, along with others. It was as though I had been searching for a tangible version of something I had always known, needed, and yearned for. The fanciful notion terrified me, because last night, he had been real.
We had spoken.
In my head.
His name was Silas, and he was just like me.
I was almost certain that he was imaginary, and maybe that was why I understood him so well—why he battled the same demons as me. He was a part of me; born from the horrible union of my fear and desperation, I was sure of it. He was there, whispering in my mind at the first hint of booted feet on the floorboards outside my door. He commiserated in tune with my silent pleas as I cried them out into the busy night. I hunted through my old sketchbooks—really, they were just pieces of scrap-paper bound together with twine, but they were more precious than anything store-bought. I flipped the pages, smoothing out the one that I had been searching for.
Silas.
He was young in this one, much younger than I had seen him last night, but I couldn’t see his face. I had drawn him as he walked away, trying to escape the brush of pencil to page. Trying to escape me. The longer I stared at the image, the more unsettling it became, and eventually I reached for another: one where I could see his face. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something off about him.
“Lela,” a voice called from the mouth of the garage.
It was familiar, tinged in an accent that somehow made the word sound fuller. He pronounced it Ley-la. I turned, trepidation making the hairs on my arms stand up straight. Every fiber of my being was suddenly drenched in anticipation. Once again, I felt that I had been waiting, and once again, I fuelled my fear enough to chase the notion away.
“Silas,” I replied, ignoring the other boy that stood beside him. Though ‘boy’ was probably a stretch—he seemed a few years older than Silas, who was around twenty.
Silas shook his head, apparently nonplussed. “You know who I am.”
“Of course,” I said, unable to muster the shock I should have felt at seeing him—the boy I had supposedly conjured in my mind—standing right in front of me. In the flesh.
He looked just the same as I had seen him last night.
I had been waiting…
“How?” he asked simply.
I tore my eyes from his long enough to take in the hint of bandages peeking out from beneath his sweatshirt. There was a paleness beneath the dark tan of his skin, and a tightness around his mouth. When I met his eyes again, I fell right through and settled somewhere deep in the darkness of his mind. He cringed, like he had felt it.
“I’ve known you my whole life,” I said, shaking my head quickly. The odd sensation disappeared, and he quickly switched his gaze to a spot over my shoulder.
I held out the sketchbook, and he looked at the picture, sucking in a breath. The other stranger stepped forward suddenly, his eyes fixed on the picture.
“That’s not Silas,” he said, apparently confused. “That’s Miro.”
I stumbled back a step and Silas grabbed his arm, shooting him a warning look.
“Why did you call me Lela?” I asked.