PROLOGUE:
Somehow, it has grown both hot and cold at the same time.
I have been here for some time-- I am not sure how long, because I still don't understand the way time flows here-- but I am still not used to this world. This world, California, where words twist and take on new meanings that I don't understand. Some words, I have learned, can mean two things at once. It is hard to know what someone means when they say it, let alone whether they are telling the truth. When you don't know what someone means, you should not let on; you do not want to show that you are confused or lost. I am confused and lost all the time, but I hope it doesn't show.
Other words have lost their meanings altogether. Father. Demon. Home. In Quar-toth I knew what these things were. Demons were evil. They could be found everywhere, and I destroyed them. Home was wherever my father was. Home was a corner of a cave or a clearing where we could sit or sleep until we had to move on. Home was my father telling me stories of places I could barely imagine: Utah. England. California. And my father was . . . my father. The only person I ever trusted. The only person I ever loved. The only other person, before I came here. My father: strong, righteous, all-knowing. Now my father is gone and in his place . . . there is another father, although I can not call him that. And I am no longer sure I understand what "father" means.
I was sure he was evil, but he didn't kill me after they pulled him from the ocean. He had the chance. Perhaps . . . perhaps he even had a reason. I don't know why he didn't do it. I don't know what to think about him, and so I try simply not to think about him. It is easier that way, and safer. It is safer to stay by myself, where there is less chance of making a mistake, of trusting the wrong person, of misunderstanding something important in this world where nothing makes sense. So I stay away, by myself. I can take care of myself. I am all right.
Except that it has suddenly become hot and cold at the same time. I shiver, and yet I can feel the sweat on my forehead and back. My feet feel heavy, and yet my head feels light. I don't understand these feelings and I wish there was someone I could ask. But I don't know anyone and even if I did, how could I trust them? Is this how people feel in this world, in California, where nothing is what it seems? Hot and cold; heavy and light; back at home, and yet still a stranger.
I must remember to write it down, this question. Just in case one day there is someone I can ask.
I pull the blankets off the bed and make a small pallet on the ground. The bed was here when I found the loft and claimed it; I would not have sought one out. It is more comfortable to sleep on a bed, of course, but it also leaves you exposed. In California, people seem willing to trade their safety for comfort or pleasure, but I can not sleep with my back exposed. I press my spine against the wall and let my body relax. I am vulnerable in sleep, but at least no one will sneak up on me from behind. In Quar toth, my father and I took turns; never sleeping at the same time. One of us always stood guard over the other. I can not get used to sleeping without someone standing guard; I have not slept well-- have not really slept at all-- since we came to this place and my father died.
I am thinking of this, of Quar toth and my father standing over me, when my eyes drift up and towards the window. At once, I see him. He stands on the roof of a building adjacent to mine. He doesn't pace; he doesn't move. He just watches, a large, looming figure dressed in black, standing guard. He is not close, but with his eyesight he may as well be standing in the room with me.
Does he know I can see him, too?
Ordinarily, I would leap up; I would have a weapon in my hand. I would leap from the window to the rooftop where he stands and I would fight him. I should fight him. I should let him see I am not weak. Show weakness and you will perish. I learned that in Quar toth, and I suspect that California is an even more dangerous place.
But I'm so tired, and I feel sleep's pull, and instead of leaping up I pull my legs tighter to my chest and close my eyes. I don't know who he is. My enemy, my friend. . . my father. Angel, Angelus, Liam. So many names and I don't know which is real, just as I don't know whether my real name is Stephen or Connor, or whether it matters at all. The names wash over me as I drift off into a hot and cold sleep, and I know I will not fight Angel tonight.
My enemy stands outside my window, watching as I lie there, tired and weakened.
I do not wake until morning. It is the first night's sleep I have had since I arrived.
Somehow, it has grown both hot and cold at the same time.
I have been here for some time-- I am not sure how long, because I still don't understand the way time flows here-- but I am still not used to this world. This world, California, where words twist and take on new meanings that I don't understand. Some words, I have learned, can mean two things at once. It is hard to know what someone means when they say it, let alone whether they are telling the truth. When you don't know what someone means, you should not let on; you do not want to show that you are confused or lost. I am confused and lost all the time, but I hope it doesn't show.
Other words have lost their meanings altogether. Father. Demon. Home. In Quar-toth I knew what these things were. Demons were evil. They could be found everywhere, and I destroyed them. Home was wherever my father was. Home was a corner of a cave or a clearing where we could sit or sleep until we had to move on. Home was my father telling me stories of places I could barely imagine: Utah. England. California. And my father was . . . my father. The only person I ever trusted. The only person I ever loved. The only other person, before I came here. My father: strong, righteous, all-knowing. Now my father is gone and in his place . . . there is another father, although I can not call him that. And I am no longer sure I understand what "father" means.
I was sure he was evil, but he didn't kill me after they pulled him from the ocean. He had the chance. Perhaps . . . perhaps he even had a reason. I don't know why he didn't do it. I don't know what to think about him, and so I try simply not to think about him. It is easier that way, and safer. It is safer to stay by myself, where there is less chance of making a mistake, of trusting the wrong person, of misunderstanding something important in this world where nothing makes sense. So I stay away, by myself. I can take care of myself. I am all right.
Except that it has suddenly become hot and cold at the same time. I shiver, and yet I can feel the sweat on my forehead and back. My feet feel heavy, and yet my head feels light. I don't understand these feelings and I wish there was someone I could ask. But I don't know anyone and even if I did, how could I trust them? Is this how people feel in this world, in California, where nothing is what it seems? Hot and cold; heavy and light; back at home, and yet still a stranger.
I must remember to write it down, this question. Just in case one day there is someone I can ask.
I pull the blankets off the bed and make a small pallet on the ground. The bed was here when I found the loft and claimed it; I would not have sought one out. It is more comfortable to sleep on a bed, of course, but it also leaves you exposed. In California, people seem willing to trade their safety for comfort or pleasure, but I can not sleep with my back exposed. I press my spine against the wall and let my body relax. I am vulnerable in sleep, but at least no one will sneak up on me from behind. In Quar toth, my father and I took turns; never sleeping at the same time. One of us always stood guard over the other. I can not get used to sleeping without someone standing guard; I have not slept well-- have not really slept at all-- since we came to this place and my father died.
I am thinking of this, of Quar toth and my father standing over me, when my eyes drift up and towards the window. At once, I see him. He stands on the roof of a building adjacent to mine. He doesn't pace; he doesn't move. He just watches, a large, looming figure dressed in black, standing guard. He is not close, but with his eyesight he may as well be standing in the room with me.
Does he know I can see him, too?
Ordinarily, I would leap up; I would have a weapon in my hand. I would leap from the window to the rooftop where he stands and I would fight him. I should fight him. I should let him see I am not weak. Show weakness and you will perish. I learned that in Quar toth, and I suspect that California is an even more dangerous place.
But I'm so tired, and I feel sleep's pull, and instead of leaping up I pull my legs tighter to my chest and close my eyes. I don't know who he is. My enemy, my friend. . . my father. Angel, Angelus, Liam. So many names and I don't know which is real, just as I don't know whether my real name is Stephen or Connor, or whether it matters at all. The names wash over me as I drift off into a hot and cold sleep, and I know I will not fight Angel tonight.
My enemy stands outside my window, watching as I lie there, tired and weakened.
I do not wake until morning. It is the first night's sleep I have had since I arrived.