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“Quite the shame,” he continues. “I thought you would be delighted.” The shadows seem to cling to him unnaturally.

His posture. His expression. Even the way he speaks. Everything is wrong. Everything is Alcott. Everything is not Alcott.

My stomach churns, a familiar feeling of dread whenever I encounter his alter persona, Darkness. A name he had chosen for himself.

“Leave.” I deliver the command in a stern tone.

Darkness raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“That is hardly a proper greeting,” he scolds playfully.

“Leave,” I try to demand in a threatening tone. Then, somehow, his grin widens.

Then his gaze drifts downward. To the razor. To my wrist. To the water. Understanding flashes across his face.

“Oh,” he chides.

The single syllable is somehow worse than laughter.

“One of those evenings,” he remarks while gesturing with his hands.

I can almost feel the brink of my teeth cracking as my jaw tightens.

“Mind your own business,” I reply while sitting back into the tub.

Darkness chuckles. “Unfortunately, your business is one of my favorite hobbies.”

Before I can react, he storms my space swiftly. Snatching the razor blade from my grasp and holding it up.

“Polar bears are white!” I shout, but he remains the menacing figure before me.

Why is this not working?

This is the phrase that I had found to draw Alcott back from the grasp of Darkness’s shadows.

During our younger years, our father would beat our mum or bludgeon me after trying to protect Alcott or Mum. I would find tiny Alcott huddled in our broom closet. He would be so scared, his whole body shaking while he clutched his precious stuffed polar bear. One of his favorite stuffed animals. On any given day, he would tell me facts about them, and beg me to visit a zoo one day when we were older. When I sat bloodied and bruised from Father, or we’d escape the sounds of mother’s screams, I’d wrap my arms around my little brother in that tiny broom closet. Rocking him back and forth when he had a terrible episode of panic. Silent tears running down his face, breaths short and heavy, as if he couldn’t grasp a lung full of air. But I found over time that rocking him and stating polar bears are white would assist him out of a frightful episode.

An eerie laugh fills the room, striking through my thoughts. My spirit sinks within the tub, and I swear his presence is turning the water ice cold.

“You know, brother, if you’re going to perform this pathetic ritual, you should at least cut the correct way.” Before I may make any movement, air traps in my throat as I stare down Darkness. He holds a razor to Alcott’s inner wrist, threatening to slice the thin skin vertically, gesturing toward his body.

“You clearly have no regard for your own well-being, so why should I not lacerate Alcott’s arm?” A malicious grin adorns his face as he simultaneously holds the sharp blade closer to the skin.

“Don’t!” I panic, reaching out and over the tub, nearly falling out onto the black-and-white tile. “Please, don’t!” My pleading begins to come out as panting as my pulse picks up a beat, the thrumming of blood to my brain from the adrenaline rush causes me to feel dizzy.

“You are being reckless, this is wrong to jest!” The words come out in panic.

“Ah. See.” Darkness pulls up a stool from the corner of the room and sits back, holding the blade between his middle and index finger in the air. Then playfully taps the flat end of the blade atop his forearm.

“Perhaps you should be concerned with your own reckless behavior?” He retorts.

Taking his index finger, he rubs it up and down the skin of his inner forearm tauntingly. “Don’t worry I will not do anything to your dear Alcott. Not yet. Who would I use to torment you?” His words pierce me alongside his gaze.

Bastard. Complete bastard. He places the blade upon the wooden stool and approaches.

“Just so you know. I tried to follow you to the Collector’s. I was unsuccessful at infiltrating your meeting, but thus I will try again once more. You really should incorporate me in our business dwellings with our…master.” An irritating tone is laced underneath the playful demeanor.

Every instinct screams at me to move. I don’t.