Alone in the Darkness

by W. J. May

  Tristan ignored him, abandoning the gloves completely and attacking the bag with nothing but his bare fists. The skin on his knuckles was already ripping open with the force, but he didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice the way the entire room was shaking with the pulsing bass.

  “Would you turn that off?” Simon called again, sure this time that his friend could hear him.

  No reaction. Tristan kept his eyes on the bag.

  “Tristan! Turn off the damn music!”

  Still nothing. The new bag started splitting up the middle.

  Finally, in a fit of drunken exasperation, Simon picked up one of the boxing gloves and threw it full force at the stereo. The thing tipped precariously off balance before shattering into a dozen pieces on the concrete floor.

  That got a reaction.

  “What the hell are you doing, Simon?!”

  Tristan ripped off the headphones. The earplugs were soon to follow. The next second he shoved Simon back towards the stairs, cursing under his breath as he knelt down to examine the remains of the stereo.

  Under the wrong circumstances, a hard ‘shove’ from Tristan would be enough to kill most people. Stripped of his normal defenses Simon went flying back against the wall, hitting it with a sharp crack before falling back to the floor. He picked himself up with a grimace and a glare, eyes flashing dangerously as he stormed back to his friend.

  “Are you serious right now?!” He held up the whisky bottle accusingly before hurling it down to the floor, shattering it as well. “What the hell is going on?! Are you—”

  “—am I what?” Tristan cut him off suddenly, leaping back up to his feet. “Am I angry with you?” Something about his tone sent chills running up and down Simon’s spine. “Tell me, Simon, why would I be angry with you? Have you done something?”

  Ahhh crap...this wasn’t going to be good at all.

  The two of them glared at each other for a full minute before Simon finally lowered his head. “Why don’t you just say it?” he asked quietly.

  It might not have been the best strategy of approach, but the alcohol had stripped away his normal inhibitions and this explosion with Tristan had been coming for a long time. Maybe it was the time he spent that day below ground, maybe it was the subsequent time he spent drinking in the pub. Maybe it was just the fact that he was unable to deal with the pressure for even another second.

  “Really.” Tristan was smiling, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his eyes. “You’re going to try to turn this around on me? Make me say it?” The smile faded. “You can’t just look me in the face and admit what you’ve done?”

  To be honest, at this point there were so many things that Simon had done he had no way to be sure which one Tristan was talking about. Had he followed Simon to the park? Had he visited the tunnels beneath the church? Had he simply looked in the mirror and seen that the imprint of Simon’s ring was still cut unceremoniously into his cheek?

  As it stood, Simon merely took a step back and folded his arms protectively across his chest, waiting to see which one came to light.

  But Tristan didn’t say a word. He just stared at him. Simon couldn’t tell if he was angry, disappointed, or completely unfazed. The one thing he didn’t look was surprised.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said softly, picking up the gloves again as he returned to the punching bag. “Get out of here, Simon. I want to be alone.”

  Wait...that’s it?! No! We can’t leave it there! It’s out in the open now! It has to be resolved, no matter what it is. Resolved so the two of us can move past it—like we always do.

  “Well, that’s just too damn bad!” Simon hit the gloves back out of his hands before Tristan could put them on. “You obviously have something on your mind. Just bloody spit it out! Enough secrets!”

  Waves of tension were rolling off both boys—over a year’s worth of pressure just waiting for a spark to set it off.

  A spark that Simon had just unwittingly let go.

  “Secrets?!” Tristan shoved him again, making absolutely no effort to check his strength as Simon went flying back into the wall. “You’re really going to stand there and lecture me on secrets?!”

  All the air rushed out of Simon’s chest in a sharp gasp, but he pulled himself right back up again, wondering vaguely as to the failed potency of his strength tatù. Did he really have that much to drink back at the pub? It couldn’t even keep him up on his feet?

  “You’re the one who apparently has such a huge problem with me all of a sudden,” Simon snapped back. He limped forward, and then, with a muffled curse, he yanked the punching bag off the chain and threw it in the corner, eliminating the last of the barriers between them. It seemed heavier than usual.

  Tristan watched it rolling back and forth on the floor. “All of a sudden...?” he repeated in a low voice. His eyes flashed up, not a trace of his customary twinkle left to soften them. “You’re really going to pretend like this is—”

  He stopped himself suddenly before his voice could escalate to a yell. Instead he held up a shaking hand, placing it squarely between the two of them like a shield. But whether he was shielding himself or shielding Simon, neither of them would ever know.

  “Just get out of here,” Tristan said again, stressing every word. “I can’t—I can’t do this right now, Simon. And I swear on everything good in this world, I don’t know what’ll happen if I have to look at you for even another second.”

  Simon fell back, as stung as if Tristan had slapped him. This wasn’t just normal anger they were dealing with here. This wasn’t some bi-weekly difference in opinion that would be solved by the time they went out for beers later that night.

  Something had splintered apart between them.

  In one of the few moments that Simon hadn’t been watching, something had broken. Perhaps beyond repair.

  The only question now was what the hell was going to happen next.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Simon replied in a low voice. “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong, and then we’re going to fix it. There’s no second option—”

  “Get out, Simon!”

  “Not until you tell me what happened!”

  Tristan’s shoulders rose with quick, shallow breaths. He was literally shaking from head to toe. Either from the force of his rage or from the force of holding himself back. Probably both.

  “Fine,” he breathed, stepping deliberately around Simon to the stairs. “I’ll go.”

  “Tris!” Simon grabbed his friend’s arm in frustration. “This isn’t over! You can’t just walk away—”

  But in that moment, something strange happened.

  An eerie hush fell over the room as both boys froze suddenly in place. Their heads snapped down to their chests, and Simon’s fingers tightened automatically on Tristan’s wrist.

  What the...?!

  Strange, fractured images started flashing before Simon’s eyes. Splintered in a dozen pieces and illuminated with random bits of light. They swept along like a movie on fast forward. Almost too quick for him to make any sense of. But as his eyes slowly adjusted he was able to isolate solitary images, picking up random faces from the crowd...

  First there was Jason striding confidently across the Oratory floor. He was saying something Simon couldn’t understand, but before he could really try they were somewhere else. This time, it was Beth and Jennifer he was looking at. Then Isaac. Then Jacob. The lights grew dimmer when he focused on Jake. Tinted with a kind of helpless sadness that was too great to contain. Two new faces flashed before him. A woman and a man in their late forties. Both unsmiling. Both rigid with tension. The darkened tint remained. Tristan’s parents?

  What the hell is going on? Am I seeing this...through his eyes?!

  But even before Simon could get a good look at them they were off again. This time he recognized the girl who floated into view. Although he had only met her once, he had seen so many photographs he had already memorized every line and angle in her lovely face
.

  It was Mary. She was even more beautiful than her pictures had led Simon to believe, gazing up with nothing but love and trust in her warm, smiling eyes. In her arms was cradled a tiny sleeping boy, a shock of brown hair upon his head, hands twitching, even in his sleep.

  As Simon took a step forward to see him better, the child opened his eyes, smiling up with a pair of shockingly blue eyes. Stretching out his little arms. Reaching for his father.

  Tristan’s wrist jerked in Simon’s hand as he tried to pull himself free.

  “Simon, don’t—”

  But they were fighting against a power neither one of them could control. A force Simon was just starting to realize he had inadvertently picked up at a pub across town.

  This is Carter’s tatù, he realized in awe. He remembered the way Carter’s fingers had grazed the back of his neck as he bid him farewell. Since then, the super strength had been on the fritz...

  ‘He can know you.’ He remembered Tristan’s words from before. It was a rather massive understatement. Simon had never felt this kind of connection before. Not with anything. Not with anybody. He was only getting glimpses now—little flashes into the mind of his friend. But he was sure that with time the possibilities were limitless.

  No more secrets. Not ever. Everyone I touch...would be an open book. My book.

  He tightened his fingers, grasping onto this one chance with everything he was worth. This one shot to uncover the darkness between them. To remove it before it could consume them both.

  Deeper and deeper they spiraled.

  One resisting. One pushing forward with all his might.

  Simon’s own face flashed back at him a hundred times. In a hundred different countries. From a hundred different lines of sight. This time, the emotional tinting both dropped and lifted.

  In the beginning, everything was light. Their graduation from Guilder. Their training in the Oratory with Jason. Ludicrous moments from their missions when both of them had nearly passed out from laughing so hard. Quiet moments full of long discussion, philosophical debate that stretched long into the night. Simon saving Tristan’s life. Tristan saving Simon’s. There was a lightness to the air, and he felt challenged, brightened, full of possibility. Of brotherhood.

  But the more time raced by, the darker the image became.

  Simon saw, through Tristan’s eyes, the inconsistencies in his own behavior. Felt the hurt each time Simon had looked into his face and lied. The worry when Simon took off in the middle of the night, jogging across the street to the park. The raw panic when Simon began laughing as he gleefully hurt the men in the bar.

  It was dark now, almost too dark to see. The images jumbled and whirled around with such speed that Simon held out his other hand, just trying to keep his balance.

  Then, with a soft gasp, their connection broke apart.

  The images faded, faded back into the fluorescence of the basement. But above everything else, one overriding feeling remained. A solitary message prevailed.

  “You don’t trust me,” Simon whispered, taking a step back.

  Tristan stayed frozen on the stairs. White as a sheet. Panting as if he’d just run a marathon.

  No. He didn’t trust Simon. He wanted to. More than anything in the world—he wanted to.

  But he didn’t.

  “I felt a pulse.”

  As if to counteract the statement, Simon’s own heart stopped in his chest. His skin began tingling, and he took another step back with a rising sense of dread.

  “What?”

  Tristan’s hands were shaking, and his voice was dead quiet. Quiet, but strong.

  “On Fodder—I felt a pulse. It was weak, but it was there.”

  Simon felt like someone had stabbed a hole in him. There was a tearing somewhere deep in his chest, and it felt like everything that was keeping him together started rushing out into the void.

  “You didn’t kill him,” Tristan continued in that same inflectionless voice. “You were never going to kill him.”

  This can’t be happening...can’t be happening...

  “Then why didn’t you say anything?” Simon countered, desperate to keep him talking.

  He had a feeling. A terrible feeling that when the conversation was done something else would be done as well. He couldn’t let that happen.

  This time Tristan showed a spark of life. His thin layer of control cracked for a split second, revealing the war of emotions raging on below. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to KILL him in the first place!” he exclaimed. “I just wanted to take him in. But if we had, then who knows what the PC might have...” He trailed off and shook his head, looking suddenly very tired. “Why do you keep putting me in a position where I have to work against you? Where I have to lie for you?” There was a quiet plea in his voice. One that had come too late. One that never stood a chance, but it ripped Simon in half anyway. “You’re my best friend. More than that, you’re like a brother.” His face twisted in pain. “But I can’t...I can’t do it anymore, Simon.”

  NO! Say something—anything! Fix this! Do not let him walk away!

  “Tris,” Simon’s voice was shaking. “Wait—”

  “I don’t know why you do it,” Tristan continued quietly, keeping his eyes on the floor as he talked almost to himself. “I don’t know why you can’t stop. I think a part of me always should have known.”

  “Please, you don’t understand—”

  “You ripped apart my arm, back in the Oratory that night at Guilder. I was on my knees, begging you not to. You did it anyway.” The light flickered in his bright blue eyes. “I don’t know anyone else who could do that. Some of the things you’ve done on missions, some of the things you’ve said...you’re cruel.”

  Simon tried to catch his breath, feeling like at any moment he might black out. “I can explain all of that,” he panted. “You’ve got to give me a chance—”

  “I don’t know you, Simon. I thought I did...but I don’t.” The trembling suddenly stopped and Tristan looked up at him, shaken but sure. “This road you’re headed down...I can’t go with you.”

  Their eyes met, and something between them died.

  No, he couldn’t. He was a husband now. He was a father. But more than that, he was a good man. The journey he and Simon had taken together could always only go so far...

  ...before it reached its inevitable end.

  SIMON DIDN’T SLEEP at all that night. Neither did he stay at the house. He went out driving instead. Not anywhere in particular. Not with any sort of destination. Just...away.

  The whole time, he kept waiting for the feelings to catch up with him. The stab of guilt. The piercing loss. The hopeless ache of despair of being abandoned by his best friend in the world.

  The sting of forbidden tears as he acknowledged it was all his fault.

  But Simon felt nothing.

  Heard nothing.

  Thought nothing.

  He simply kept his eyes on the road as he drove around the perimeter of the city again and again. When his car ran out of gas, he left it by the side of the road and hailed a cab to take him back into the city. When he realized he’d left his wallet at home he threatened the cabbie until he drove off, unpaid.

  When he opened the front door...he saw that all of Tristan’s things were gone.

  No...

  Just like that, all those feelings he’d been running away from crashed over him like a wave, buckling his legs under the weight of them. He sank down to his knees in the middle of the living room floor, gazing around at the half-empty cupboards and hollowed out rooms.

  A part of him wasn’t surprised. Another part felt like it would be a miracle if he could ever find the strength to stand.

  How could this have happened? How could I have let this happen...?

  With trembling fingers, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared blankly down at the screen. He wanted to call Beth, but he knew she was on a mission with Jennifer. He wanted to call Keene, but he i
nstinctively knew he’d be told that Tristan had taken a leave of absence. He wanted to drive out to Escher but he knew he wouldn’t find answers there, just more goodbyes.

  In the end it wasn’t up to him.

  He actually dropped the phone in surprise as it buzzed suddenly in his hand. It was from a blocked number, the only blocked number who ever called.

  By the time he had recovered himself enough to answer, the ringing had stopped. But a text message popped up in its place.

  If you’re finished throwing your little tantrum, you should get to church. There’s a young man here who’s been literally dying to see you.

  The phone shattered to a million pieces on the floor. Simon was out the door before the sound echoed out in the quiet house. The cab driver he’d threatened before was still circling aimlessly around the park—trying to decide whether or not to call the police—and his car slammed to a halt as Simon banged his hands down on the hood.

  “W-what?” he stuttered as Simon jerked open the door and slid inside. “You stiff me once, and now you expect me to give you another ride?”

  “That’s right...Walter Mills,” Simon replied, glancing up to read the name on the identification badge pinned to the rearview mirror. “And if there’s a Mrs. Mills out there somewhere that you care about, you’re going to keep your mouth shut. Do you hear me?”

  The man stared back at him for a second, deliberating, but apparently he wasn’t reassured by what he saw. With a fearful nod, he put the car into drive and asked, “Where to?”

  “Where else?” Simon leaned back with a dangerous smile. “Church.”

  Chapter 14

  “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

  All the resolve to be calm and rational Simon had built up on the cab ride over vanished in an instant. It disappeared the second he got below ground and saw Cromfield walking towards him.

  “And a good morning to you, too, Mr. Kerrigan.” The man smiled blandly, as unfazed as if Simon had merely come to deliver the morning paper. “I see you came here by taxi. Odd choice.”