The House of Grey- Volume 3

by Earl, Collin

  His face contorted as he realized what he had just done. “Emo” was a word that many anime watchers used to describe an overly emotional individual. He had seen it used several times by Casey and Artorius on the various forums they frequented. But it was not a word he would use, and he could not believe he had just uttered it in conversation.

  “Never mind,” he said. He searched for something to else to talk about. “What time is it?”

  Cyann glanced at the watch on her wrist.

  “Four-thirty.”

  Where had the time gone? “Really?”

  She nodded her head.

  What about Casey? Where did he end up?

  Or was that all part of the dream too?

  “What are you doing back here anyway?” she asked, her tone light but once again guarded.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. What more could he really say?

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Monson fired back.

  “While we’re on the subject, why are you back here?”

  “I always take this way home.” She gestured towards the forest. “There’s a trail that takes you towards the river and along its banks for a bit. It ends near The Barracks. It’s a lot quieter than the normal path, so I take it whenever possible.”

  “Trying to keep a low profile, huh?”

  Cyann’s lush blue eyes bore into him. “Something like that.”

  She rubbed lightly at the place where he had grabbed her. She was trying to act tough, but it clearly was bothering her. The sick feeling welled up again. He had to say something.

  “I know I already said this, but I’m really sorry that I hurt you. I promise, I didn’t mean to.”

  “You don’t need to explain. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Again, her tone was calming. “You just surprised me. You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

  “Surprised?” he asked. Strong was not a word he would have used to describe himself.

  “Yeah, a little.” She looked away from him. “Can I ask you something?”

  He raised an eyebrow as she pushed her dark hair out of her eyes. When she spoke, her voice held a hint of amusement. She pointed at his expression.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He smiled and nodded, indicating his approval.

  “Did you write this?”

  She proffered a yellow notebook that he recognized as Casey’s. He stared at her in bewilderment.

  “What are you doing with Casey’s screenplay?”

  “What do you mean?” Her confusion was as palpable as Monson’s. “I took this from you. I figured it had to be important. I mean, you were half-asleep, but still managed to grab my arm with your steel trap of a grip. It seemed like you were protecting it or something.

  “It is important.” He took the book from her. “It’s something that Casey has been working on for-”

  “I’m not talking about the screenplay.”

  “You’re not talking about the screenplay?” He scratched at his head. “Then what are you talking about?”

  She flipped to the final page of the notebook and read the frantically scrawled text.

  “Black. Swirling clouds of blackened thick….”

  Monson listened, dazed, as the horror of his dreams, of a demon eyed Damion and an opponent he could never overcome came crashing into reality.

  Chapter 28 – Correction

  “Where did you find that?” Monson’s voice was barely audible.

  “I told you.” Cyann pointed towards the yellow notebook. “You were holding it when you were dreaming.”

  He stood up and put out his hand indicating that she should give him the notebook. In the face of Cyann’s calm, Monson attempted to master his growing panic. Why did he have the book and more importantly, how did it get out here? He said a silent prayer to the god that he was not even sure existed as he flipped through the notebook and saw that Casey’s precious work remained untouched. Monson released some of the accumulating anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach. If he had messed up Casey’s screenplay, he would have never forgiven himself.

  His attention moved to the back of the notebook. Crude, chicken-scratch handwriting covered the last few pages. Monson quickly scanned the contents, becoming more and more horrified the further he read.

  Filling the pages was an account of his most recent dream, told from his perspective as if he himself had written it while he was living the nightmare. The dream-or poem, or whatever it was-happened to be scripted into stanza form, complete with a title. Monson quietly read the title aloud.

  Correction.

  He stared at the words. They did not seem to fit at all the poem at all. He continued to scrutinize the handwriting. Was it his? He wasn’t sure. If it was, he could not remember writing this. Then again, he was rapidly slipping into a state where he was having trouble determining what was real and what was imaginary. He pondered this and quickly decided on a course of action.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  Cyann pulled a pen from seemingly nowhere and handed it to him. Distractedly, he thanked her as he studied the title scribbled at the top of the page. He wrote the same word, “Correction,” right under the title of the poem. The handwriting did not match.

  “What does that mean?” he asked aloud, without even realizing it. “How could they not match?”

  “What does what mean?’ whispered Cyann. She stepped toward him before he could react and glanced at the word he had written. He pulled the notebook from her view and turned away. This was not something he could share with her. Not with her; not with anyone.

  “Nothing, don’t worry-”

  “About it?” Cyann finished his sentence.

  Monson squinted at her. “Yeah, it-”

  “Doesn’t concern me?”

  He glared at her. “Why are you doing that?”

  Her blue eyes met his. “You aren’t the only one who can read people. See how unnerving it is? But never mind that, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Why were you out here? And don’t tell me it’s a long story; that isn’t going to work. I’m not going anywhere until you answer my questions.”

  Monson answered wryly, “Read people? What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Just answer the question.”

  Monson’s eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully chatty today. Why should I answer your questions? What makes you think you have the right to know why I’m out here or what this is all about? Besides, aren’t you contradicting yourself? If you can read me as easily as you say, shouldn’t you already have the answers to your questions?”

  “I was being polite and allowing you to tell your story, for your benefit. It’s obvious what’s bothering you. Well, obvious to me, anyway.”

  He did not know what to say. This assertive, demanding attitude was totally out of character for Cyann. Who did she think she was? “It’s obvious what’s wrong”…please, he thought to himself.

  “Enlighten me, then.” He crossed his arms.

  She started to speak. She seemed to be trying very hard to maintain her calm, collected tone. “That poem in the back of Casey’s notebook isn’t just some normal emotional outlet. I can also tell that Casey didn’t write it, despite the fact that it is in his notebook. You, or someone you told it to, wrote it. Since I doubt you would actually tell someone something like that, I’m inclined to believe it was you. Which makes sense, because you are Mr.-I-have-to-handle-everything-on-my-own.”

  She glared at him. “That poem is a dream; a dream that has you scared out of your mind.”

  He shivered. “How did you know-”

  “That it was a dream?” She again finished his sentence while running a hand through her thick hair. “Because you started to repeat the words as I read them. The perspective just felt like yours. Although, the words didn’t feel like they were coming from you, but being fed through you. But even if I hadn’t heard your mumbling, I still would have known. When you woke up you had the face of someone who had b
een somewhere else, doing other things. And that-” here her voice cracked-“is a look I’d recognize anywhere.”

  It was one startling event after another. This girl bore witness to the wanderings of his deepest, most private moments, yet spoke to him as if this were completely ordinary, totally normal. How did she know all of this? And what did she want?

  He shifted in discomfort. He tried to tell himself that she was wrong or misinformed, that she did not know what she was talking about. But he knew she was telling the truth. He knew it as surely as if he himself had said the words. She continued.

  “I don’t know the details of the battle you’re fighting, but I do know that you’re being affected mentally, spiritually and physically. You’re confused and afraid of what this dream means. The last part is especially compelling.”

  She stopped for a moment. Monson watched her take a deep breath.

  “Who is this man that you’re so scared of, Monson? Is he really you? I think that’s the source of your fear. I think you believe that this man you hate so much-and yes, you do hate him-is in fact you, or at least a part of you. Even I don’t know what all that means. But what I do know is that this is a struggle you don’t think you can win.”

  He felt like vomiting. He needed to stop this, now.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Cyann. That dream-”

  She cut him off and again started to speak, this time as if she were on stage. He stared at her, transfixed.

  “I strike this man.

  But come to know...

  I will not prevail, nor overcome,

  As this man...is me.

  “You’re afraid of the real you, Monson Grey. Which means you lost him along the way somewhere. I wish you would tell me how.”

  “OK. I get it. You got me.” Monson quietly held up his hands in surrender. “You can read me. Are you happy?” He did his best to smile.

  “No, I’m not.” Her eyes strayed to the curl of his lips. “Because I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all.”

  Monson’s discomfort gave way to bafflement. “What you mean you don’t understand? You sounded pretty sure yourself just a second ago.”

  “I am sure of myself. That has nothing to do with understanding. I can listen and deduce, sometimes I can even feel and I can see…oh, can I see…but seeing and feeling aren’t the same as understanding.”

  He again made eye contact with her and received a shock as her guarded expression crumbled into one desperate and distraught. “I still don’t know why it’s you…why you have such a profound and overwhelming effect.”

  It no longer seemed like she was speaking to him.

  “Cyann, stay with me, you aren’t making any sense. What is it about me you don’t understand?”

  “Why…why you act the way you do. Why you pretend to be fine when you obviously aren’t.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not acting like I’m OK! I’m obviously-”

  Cyann again interrupted him, her tone forceful. “Yes, right now you’re showing something of the horror that you’ve experienced, but what about day in and day out? I’ve watched you, you know. Why aren’t you angry or hateful? How can you laugh and joke as if nothing happened?”

  Monson hesitated, overwhelmed by an enormous realization. This inquiry and concern was not about him…it was about her.

  “What happened to you, Cyann?”

  “What do you mean?” He could hear the emotion in her voice. He may have caught her off guard, but only slightly.

  He took a step towards her. “Just what I asked. I think we stopped talking about me a while ago. You asked me why I wasn’t angry or hateful? And I’m asking, why are you angry and hateful? Why can’t you smile or laugh, Cyann? What are you running from?”

  “Don’t try and turn this around! We’re talking about you right now. I’m trying to understand you.”

  He sighed and turned his back to her. “Someone who demands honesty but won’t provide it is the worst kind of hypocrite, Cyann.”

  He laughed at the irony in his own words.

  “Not that I’m one to talk.” He paused. “The truth is, even if you wanted to understand me, you couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Her one-word reply drove into him like an ice pick.

  “Because I don’t even understand myself. I’m a broken vessel, Ms. Harrison. A shadowy figment of a person who was once Monson Grey, but now is someone-something-else. This new Monson sees and hears things that both disturb and shake him. Screaming voices, bloodied and mangled bodies, ungodly noises that assault him in his sleep and in quiet moments, making him dangerous and unstable. He doesn’t know if these are memories, his imagination, or some combination of the two. But regardless, they’re the key to your misconception, your…lack of understanding. You can’t understand him…me…because there’s nothing there for you to understand. I’m like a car without a motor, a computer without a hard drive. All that remains in this shell of a person are plot lines for future horror films. The Monson Grey who stands before you is empty, Cyann, and maybe this new Monson isn’t angry about it because he’s not smart enough to understand the implications.”

  Monson’s gaze turned skyward, his face accepting a cool blast of pine scented wind. He felt warmth run from his eyes. Wow, what an outburst, he thought. He was so very foolish. Why had he divulged so much? Especially to this girl he barely knew.

  Monson slumped down, leaning his shoulder against the tree he had been dreaming under mere minutes ago. He let his head loll to one side, touching the rough bark as the weight of the day’s experiences finally broke him.

  He heard a shuffling behind him. Monson started to turn around, but froze as a small hand brushed his shoulder before clutching his shirt. Cyann’s whispered words drove into him, plowing away all other concerns. He could hear nothing but her.

  “If you are empty…yet, so vibrant and happy…then what does that…make me? What am I left with?”

  Monson did not know why he did it. It was incredibly presumptuous of him, but he did it just the same, without even thinking about the consequences. He twisted at the waist, moving his hand slowly and purposefully across his body and over his shoulder. Cyann’s hand was still grasping his rumpled gym shirt, and he touched her lightly. She let go of his shirt, jarred by the contact. He grabbed her hand before she could retreat and squeezed lightly. He felt the tremble of icy skin and heard the quickening of her breath.

  “I don’t have any answers for you, Cyann. But one thing I do know, happiness is not a goal. It’s a choice. It’s something you have to choose for yourself.”

  She took another breath, this one slow and deep. He felt her body lean forward reluctantly as if she were straining against some unseen obstacle. Finally, she took a step towards him. Mere inches separated them now. Monson could actually feel her breath on his neck. Cyann pressed her temple lightly against his upper back. She squeezed his hand back as he felt his shirt start to dampen from her tears.

  “Wow, Grey-that was profound. You should write that stuff down.”

  Monson whipped to his left and a caught of fleeting glimpse of Indigo, Artorius and Casey. He had no time to react, as the moment they were interrupted, Cyann pushed Monson away. His leaning position against the tree was awkward and caused him to stumble forward. Fortunately, he caught himself before he broke his nose on a rather large rock.

  “It wasn’t that good of a line.” Artorius appeared to be suffering from a mix of emotions as he traveled the thin line between respect and envy. “It sounded like something my granddad would have said. May he rest in peace.”

  Indigo cooed, “I didn’t know your grandfather died. How sad. Anyway, you two have no sensitivity at all. Girls love stuff like that. That was a total paranormal line.

  “A paranormal line?” asked Casey and Artorius simultaneously.

  Indigo rolled her eyes. “Paranormal romance?”

  Casey and Artorius looked at her vacantly.

  Indigo sighed
deeply. “No wonder you guys have no game. I’d wondered, because you’re actually pretty cute, Casey. And it’s especially surprising because don’t you, like, want to be a writer or something?”

  At these words, Artorius gave Casey a spiteful look.

  Casey ignored him and spoke to Indigo. “What you are talking about? I’m way smoother than Grey.”

  “I think my sister’s actions would indicate otherwise.”

  Casey posed dramatically. “I’ll prove it.”

  He took Indigo’s hands into his own, pulling her close and leaning forward so his face was mind-numbingly close. He smiled suavely, giving her a full blast of his supposed charm. Indigo stared at him in a state of shock.

  “Understanding is about intimacy, on all levels. The emotional, the mental, the spiritual, and let’s not forget…,” he paused for dramatic effect while he drew the back of his fingers lightly across her cheek. “Let’s not forget the physical. You mustn’t forget the physical. In our world of love and fate, there are two roads: the high and the low. And I would traverse the one less traveled as long as it led me to you.”

  Indigo’s face lit up like a stoplight. She started to fidget slightly. Casey leaned even closer, wrapping a hand around her hip.

  “You’re thinking dirty things, aren’t you?”

  “What?!? No…no, I’m not.”

  “You totally are, you scarlet woman.”

  Artorius interjected, looking very annoyed at the exchange. “You guys, this is supposed to be serious. We’re really upset with Cyann and Monson. They left us. We didn’t know where they were. We were really worried. Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “I was being serious.” Casey let go of Indigo. “But Indigo’s perverted nature got in the way.”

  Indigo punched Casey hard in the arm. Her face still looked very red.

  “Ouch.” Casey’s voice was a mix of laughter and pain. “You can hit me all you want, Indigo, but the truth shall ring forth regardless of the oppressors’ tactics.”

  Artorius and Indigo stared at Casey.

  Casey cocked his head to the left. “Too much?”

  Indigo giggled, the red finally starting to drain from her face. Artorius grew extremely agitated. “Can we focus, please? We were here to scold Monson and Cyann-”