BLANK!”
“Brennan!” she yells, tears pouring from her eyes, soaking the collar of her cream-colored blouse. “Can you just shut your f-fucking mouth and give me the-” Now in a state of hyperventilation, she begins to form a stutter and her words are choppy, “I deserve r-r-respect and for you-you to j-j-just listen!’ Brennan walks over as I finally lay my hand on her shoulder.
Reaching up, he wipes the tears from her face. “Mam, I am sorry. Go ahead, I will listen.” He tries to pull her into an embrace, but she pushes away—finally at her breaking point.
She screams. The cacophonous sound of her lamenting reverberates through the old, empty estate—crestfallen and full ofsorrow—she beats his chest with a hammer-fist combo, each hit producing a leaden thud. Her fight does little to prevent him from engulfing her in his overly muscular arms, allowing her to blubber into his abdomen. Niven isn’t a short woman by any means, but Brennan is pushing seven feet—even an average-sized woman would feel minuscule in his embrace.
She pulls away only to say. “That beast m-murdered your grandfather in… c-cold blood.” She puts the cloth to her nose, “Then he used his b-b-blood to write on the ground next to him.” Now covering her face, making her next words echo with the wrath she was holding in, “Down with the Selby family! the whole time listening to him choke.” Her voice is strained as it fights against the raspiness that inevitably follows her bellowing, “A poor, helpless old man.” She whispers.
“He s-s-stabbed him thirty-two times!
Thirty-two
fucking
times!”
Her wailing can be heard in the heavens—they are so loud… sostrident. Something in Brennan clicks—and as it did, his hands move to her jaw, firmly cradling her face, holding her in place at arm's length.
“What... was written?”
A look of confusion contorts her face, “Down with the Selby family! Why does that-” His face hardens as his grip falters, and his hands drop to the base of her neck and tighten on her shoulders. “Brennan? What's wrong? Ouch, stop it, you’re hurting me,” Niven lifts her arms between his and then brings her elbows down, striking Brennan, causing him to drop his hold and stammer backward.
His gilded gaze softens for a moment as he makes eye contact with her, “I am sorry. I think you should go back to the library… and... lock the doors.” Pausing, he glances over her shoulder, at me. “Take Oliver with you.” He turns in the direction of the West Wing, “I only have one last question.” His eyes have darkened as though he were wearing black sclera lenses. “How long has he been here?”
“He came back a couple of nights ago, and when he did—although you may not believe it—Oliver and I were angry… angry enough that he helped me channel my energy,” She squeezes her fingers into a tight fist, “So it would allow him to harness it and manifest.” Brennan’s lip curls upward, causing his left cheek to rise, along with his doubt that presents itself so obviously on his face. However, his uncertainty drops and is replaced by disbelief when Niven slumps a little, due to me drawing in a pinch of her energy.
With what I took from her, I manage to make the lights flicker, adding a little aesthetic behind her words. She continues to fill him in, and as they speak, their voices fade away, and I slip intoMYmemories of that night:
The weather was insane, although nothing like the past few days: a cold spring with a shower or two of freezing rain—the real snow normally happens in January. This night was a devastating phenomenon.
I was sitting in that room with Charlie, a low crackling fire to keep him warm. As the went on, he carried out full conversations with me—even though he couldn't see me.
Not the way Niven could.
He knew I was there for him from the moment he was born, even then as he was suffering from dementia, and most of the conversations were the same. That night, he was remembering stories about his mother. “All roses… pretty roses. Ring around the Rosie. Can I have a rose, Ollie?” He calls out to the empty room. “Mother has one, may I have one too?” For old times’ sake, I obliged.
The ambient glow from the fireplace, as the flames pulsed and flickered, was the only light against the thick darkness that consumed the rest of the room. I got to my feet—standing in front of the chair adjacent to him, then make my way over to grab one of the many roses he kept on the mantle.
No sooner had my hand met the marble than the air began to shift. Suddenly, chills ran down my spine—we were no longer alone, and I knew it. Quickly attaining one of the roses, spinning on my heels, the tension lessening when I saw that he had fallen asleep—at least that is what I had hoped happened. Moving over to him, I placed one hand between his shoulders, the other on his forehead, guiding him back to avoid the formation of a kink in his neck.
That’s when I saw it out of the corner of my eye, a figure darting and dodging—a failed attempt at staying out of what pinpoint light there was. I stood there listening to some shuffling that sounded a few feet behind him. My body was rock solid as I allowed my eyes to adjust. Slowly, rotating around his chair, still scanning for any sign of movement, my eyes met the gaze of the perpetrator. I knew they couldn’t see me, so I glared at them—watching, as they made their way to stand where I just moved from, giving Charlie the once-over.
That’s when it happened. Charlie opened his eyes and threw himself at the trespasser. It all happened so fast. “I knew one day you’d come for me, Theodore.” A loud ‘shing’ presentsitself, followed by a groan of pain. The assailant’s arm thrusts in and out as they begin to sink their blade into him repeatedly.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer escalation of the events that transpired before me, I lost count as his body fell… lunging I tried to catch him—forgetting the obvious reality of my existence, I cried as he passed right through my arms.
A ripple of hope that there was still a chance he could be saved, caused me to run to the window, but Niven’s car was gone—surprisingly, so was the house nurse. I stood there, stunned, while the intruder was already out the door—I couldn’t even recover from the tragedy I had just witnessed. Once my mobility returned, I ran to the door, down the stairs, and was able to catch the make and model of his car.
As the memory comes back, it hits me like a freight train. The way the car sped off that night was familiar. Then it clicked, not only did this intruder kill Charlie—he was also the driver involved in the accident that had furthermore changed my Dove’s life. My mind slips back into the memory of that night.
Rushing back to his side… doing all I could do... cradling his old, fragile body in my arms—knowing that it was impossible…unless. The time slipped by, and morning crept ever nearer, I held him and cried—his dementia was too advanced for his soul to have any unfinished business. I am no stranger to the deep sense of loss.
Words cannot begin to describe how much I suffered through my subsistence—he was my tether after his mother passed… the prodigal son, and my oath to her was to stay and protect him. He had always been a comforting constant in the labyrinth of my existence. The memories of that night will remain etched in my mind—a haunted image… an indelible mental scar reminding me of the fragility of life and the ruthlessness of fate.
If it weren't for that night, Emory wouldn't be here today, because staying here with Charlie was the reason I was late. His death would be the first time I ever failed her and thelast. Each day after felt like a tribute to his enduring spirit and the legacy he left behind—a legacy that shaped who he was and, in turn, who we are.
The echoes of his stories, his laughter, and his unwavering bravery lingered in the air—a silent testament to a life well-lived. And now, as the shadows of the past weave into the fabric of the present, we must confront the darkness that seeks to engulf us.
