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Tillie
There should be a color that is darker than black. The word “black” just doesn’t seem enough to be able to express a color as dark as the ones that are licked on Daemon’s bedroom walls. The trimmings and windowsills are white, but the walls display a color so dark and bleak, that they somewhat almost matched the pits of his eyes.
I squeeze the door, trying to find a balance before I lose my footing. Closing my eyes, I try to ignore the soft scent of cologne that he always wore. Clean soap mixed with sugar and spice. I take another step inside, the floor creaking under my weight. Shutting the door, I lean against it and swipe at the tears that are flowing down my cheeks. I hate that he is gone. I hate that I wasn’t there to say goodbye, and I hate that he lied to me.
“You promised you wouldn’t die,” I whisper, it comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and push off the door, making my way to his bed. Silk black sheets are unmade on his bed, and it stops me for a moment. Before I can think of anything else, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out, answering without checking to see who it is.
“Hello?”
“Go to the window.”
“Who is this?” I answer, looking around the room.
The muffled voice has been filtered through a voice box to hide the owner. “Follow my instructions very carefully, Tillie. Now, go to the window.”
Slowly, I switch sides and push my phone to the other side of my head as I tenderly make my way to the window, pinching the net curtain between my fingers to crack it open. There’s a dark tree right outside the window cutting off most of the view of the driveway, but when I look to the right, I see a dark SUV parked with its lights on.
Confused, I crank my head to try to get a better look, when the driver’s side opens up and a man in a dark suit steps out.
“Now open the window and climb down. Be careful not to disturb anything too much.”
“Who are you? I’m not coming down there until you tell me who you are.”
“I’m someone who has a lot more pull than your sister. I can help you, Tillie Stuprum, but you have to follow my orders and move now.”
“I can’t. She has my daughter and she is watching my every move.”
He seems to pause and then retreat back to his SUV. “I’ll be back, and when I do, you’re mine.”
He hangs up and I watch as the lights sink into the darkness before disappearing toward the street.
I don’t know who that was, and I don’t think I want to know.
There’s a sort of bliss that comes with ignorance, like the saying goes. Because if you ignore all the signs that are being flashed in front of you, you can pretend that your world isn’t burning to a crisp.
I slowly make my way back to Daemon’s bed, flopping down onto it and pulling his sheets into a tangled mess around my ankles. I wish he was here, just to remind me that everything is going to be okay. To put pressure on the wound that Nate always seems to inflict, to just be here to mend my broken mind. My eyelids feel heavy, my mind slowly sinks into oblivion.
“You’re a Stuprum. Power comes with that name, but you have to learn to harness it, Tillie, or it will destroy you like it did Katsia.”
“No!” I shake my head, ru “You can’t run from this life, Tillie!” The voice laughs, echoing from the walls and sinking into the bones in my body. “You will never be able to run from this life. You think you know, but you don’t. You’ve just begun to know.” I crash through the first closed door I see, one that isn’t open and grungy, one that needed to be open. I lean forward on my knees, sucking in each breath with deep inhales and exhales. An arm latches around my stomach, and I still before turning in the embrace. I recognize the ink that’s displayed so professionally onto the golden skin and turn to face him. “Nate?” I whisper, confused. His touch is like fire and ice, it both burns to the touch and freezes to be healed. He clenches his jaw in the way that makes it pop out slightly, his eyes on mine. This isn’t playful Nate, this is angry Nate. “You’re my enemy, Tillie. By blood, and now by choice.” I launch from the bed, rubbing my drenched skin viciously to get rid of the residue of sweat. The dream was vivid, a little too vivid because minutes later I’m still trying to get the images out of my head. After tossing and turning, I give up on sleep and crawl out from the sticky sheets. One of the drawers is slightly open in the bedside table. I don’t remember it being open when I went to sleep, but then again I don’t remember actually looking at it to know for sure. I quickly check the door is closed before kneeling down to open it farther. I feel like maybe I’m intruding on Daemon’s privacy, and for a second, I pull my hand back, shame washing over me. “Actually,” I whisper as if he can hear me. “Maybe if you didn’t want me snooping through your shit you should have stayed alive.” Fleeting anger possesses me, so I yank open the drawer, and a medium-sized wooden box catches my eye. The words Puer Natus are engraved into the ancient style wood box with burnt crusted markings on the edges. It looks mystical, otherworldly. I pop it open, and a black book with the same words are scribbled sharply over the top. My fingers run over the markings, the flap of leather catching the cushion of my thumbs. Whoever did this carved the wording with some sort of blade. There’s a voice inside of me that says to put it back. To not open things that I find in this house. That I shouldn’t open boxes that I have no intention of closing. But there’s another voice, one that lives in the particles that float in the air I breathe. One that has urgency rippling through my veins. Quickly pushing the box and drawer closed and slipping back under the sheet, I wriggle into the mattress and squash every thought that is echoing inside of me and let the one outside have its way. The soft lampshade gives me just enough sight to read, but I run the palm of my hand over the words anyway and my heart catches in my chest. My throat swells with a strange stir of emotions and I know instantly that this is Daemon’s writing. I open the cover and the first page shows a drawing of a young boy standing in front of a small cabin style home. It’s all shaded in pencil, smudged with black and grey, no color. Madison can draw, and I guess Daemon could too. The art makes me sad and I’m not sure why. There’s something empty about the image that shows little while feeling like it’s displaying just enough. The window in the building is cracked, there’s no grass or any detail of the landscape, just a small boy facing a diminutive style cabin. There’s an old chair that’s facing the doorway and a fireplace behind it. On top of the image, are the words CAPITULUM I. I grab my phone off the bedside table and type the words into Google translate. Chapter One. I suck in a breath, chapter one? As in a novel? I know that Daemon wasn’t very good with English, but he was fluent in Latin, why didn’t he choose to write it in Latin, instead of using images? I ask myself this, but realistically I know the answer. He’s Daemon, his brain worked inversely to others. Almost like where we saw numbers and words, he saw pictures and evil.