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Chapter 2: Shattered
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He had never been a man who believed in love.
It existed, he was certain, among those more fortunate than he—people reared in warmth and comfort, in the type of household that he had once longed to be born into—but he had never believed it was meant for him, nor did he attempt to seek it out. Most of his life had been spent in avoidance of such things—he had long shunned the company of others, and he hated the innate desire that made his heart ache for it. It would have been easier, had he been content with his lot, content with a life of solitude; instead, that longing only grew, until he could not longer maintain it.
Spencer's entrance into his life had been a catalyst—most people didn't think he was worth the effort to befriend, but for some reason, she did—and it had awakened something within him, a fire he never thought he possessed. He had not been this happy, this content, in quite some time—perhaps he never had, as contentment was not something he was familiar with. Austin was the only one who he could remember having this depth of feeling towards—albeit in a different way, the affection for family rather than a romantic love—but he died long ago, and the memory had almost been lost to time.
He wondered what his brother would think, were he able to see him now, to witness how he had clawed his way out of the paralysis of despair; Austin would be proud, he knew, relieved that he had some happiness to brighten his life. Freedom had been all the boy ever wanted, for both of them to be liberated from the shadows of the past; his suicide had been a final step, a desperate act to escape the darkness. Unfortunately, the attempt had been successful, and he had spent months afterward wishing that it had failed—at least then, his brother would still be here, would know what a taste of freedom felt like.
Perhaps he was in a better place, though the cost had been too great; he had died a broken soul, without hope.
No one can change the past. Toby focused on that solemn mantra, cutting off the whirlwind of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him—it wasn't easy, to draw warmth from the blackest despair, but it had long been a necessity. All we can do is focus on the future.
Despite his poor luck, the future was looking bright, brighter than it had ever been—all thanks to Spencer's presence. It felt as if a sun had come blazing into existence where there had once been only darkness—a beacon of light, radiating a warmth unlike anything he had ever known before—and being around her made him feel alive, as if he had at last been given something to live for.
He had done what he never thought he would do—he had given his body to her, opened a window into his deepest vulnerabilities, a weakness that had led to nothing but pain—and, while it was still foreign territory, the intimacy it had created between them was worth every moment. Spencer was always patient with him, understanding even what he didn't want her to see, and it had told him he could trust her—he had never thought sex could be a gentle experience, but he was wrong.
There were moments when it was not so pleasant—moments when Spencer initiated a kiss, and he would flinch at the contact, every instinct within him yearning to break free and run—but the potency of each attack had lessened with time. Still, it was there, that murky echo of fear—a fear that she would turn violent if he even thought about pulling away, that she would hurt him at the slightest sign of reluctance—and while he knew her kindness was genuine, it was difficult to convince his deeper instincts.
It had been a tough decision, to determine if he was willing to take the risks involved with opening himself to a relationship, but it was a decision that he had not regretted. He found himself looking forward to their upcoming date—almost childlike in his excitement, a feeling he had not experienced since he was young—and as his shift began to draw to a close, his abdomen started to flutter with anticipation.
Dusk had fallen upon the windows of the Rosewood Premier—darkness creeping across the horizon, coating most of the shop's floor in black shadow—and the few customers that remained were already starting to leave, making their final purchases as they headed out for the evening. It was nearly closing time—he was often the last employee to leave, charged with locking up the shop every night—and he took comfort in the fact that there were only a few minutes left, giving him freedom for the rest of the evening.
Soon enough, he was alone, busying himself with the last set of tasks that remained; such maintenance rituals had become instinctive to him now, after so much experience. The final inventory check was done with a half-hearted effort, his mind already busy, distracted by thoughts of what was to come-but as he paced down the aisles, a distinct ring from the shop's entrance made him pause.
Another customer? He clamped down on the sigh that threatened to build in his throat, a twinge of irritation swelling within him—of all days, this would be the one where a customer would keep him beyond closing time. I suppose I can stay open for a minute longer. Turning, he made his way towards the curtain that separated the back of the shop from the main atrium, brushing the fabric aside with a practiced hand-and he stepped back onto the shop floor, plastering on a smile.
There was a woman standing in the doorway, and the sight of her made him stop cold, his stride jerking to a sudden halt—
"Hello, dear."
The voice had not changed with time, sickly sweet, and his thoughts scattered in a blind panic—he was unable to regain himself before a horrible shiver crept down his spine, raking across the skin like icy fingers. In an instant, his smile had fallen, while a dreadful cold began to gather in his stomach—it was a sensation he was quite familiar with, an old feeling, but one that he had never quite forgotten.
It had been a long time since he had seen her—almost a decade, ever since the evening of Austin's funeral—but it wasn't long enough.
"Jenna." It was difficult, to keep his voice from trembling, but he managed; inside, he was still reeling from the shock of her appearance, a surprise he wasn't quite able to hide. He had hoped to never see her again, that death would take her from his life forever—fate had other ideas, it seemed. "What are you doing here?"
"Is it a crime to visit family?" Jenna stepped further into the atrium, a dark silhouette, but her eyes gleamed as brightly as ever—cold, hungry eyes, almost reptilian. She looked different, than when he had last seen her—more frail, almost matronly in appearance—but while the chameleon may have changed faces, shedding old skin to adopt a new façade, he knew the soul within remained the same.
"I've missed you." Her smile betrayed the façade, a deceptive gentleness; that, he was quite familiar with, that feigned warmth. She had always put forth a benevolent appearance, at least, until they were away from prying eyes—then the monster would emerge. Memories flooded through him—listening for her footsteps on the stairs, a shadow in the hall, the creak of his bedroom door—and he could almost taste that old terror, ashen on his tongue. No amount of solitude could wash it away, no amount of water—though he had tried.
"Well, I was hoping you were dead, but we can't always get what we want." Even now, he could feel past defenses crashing into place—barriers that were rusty from disuse, but still very much active—and he was swift to adopt that veneer of stoicism, wrapping it around him like a second skin. The old Toby had emerged—all of that brittle ambivalence, cold and snarling. "What a pity."
"Now, now. That's no way to speak to your auntie." The woman simpered, drawing closer, almost prowling towards him; he wanted nothing more to recoil, fear twisting through his stomach, but he would be damned if he revealed such an obvious display of weakness. Unbidden, his thoughts flew to Spencer—wishing she was with him, lending him strength with her presence—but this was a battle he would have to fight alone, and he knew it.
She's not here, you fool. He struggled to center himself, clamping down on the futile hope. You don't need anyone's help. You never have.
"It's been a long time." Jenna had reached him, her hand settling on his cheek, and it made his skin crawl—he was losing control, he knew, a terrible panic swelling at the back of his mind. His heart was racing, pounding so wildly the blood seemed to scream in his ears, and anxiety threatened to choke the air from his lungs; every breath was starting to sound like a gasp, a broken rattle.
"You—" The sentence died in his throat, which was already trying to clench up—he knew he was having a panic attack, all too familiar with that onrush of symptoms, but it was too late to do anything about it. He hated it, the loss of control, as if all of his efforts towards healing had been undone in a single blow—he still felt like that little boy, trembling in some dark corner of his bedroom.
"You were still young when I last saw you, but now look at you...all grown up." She continued, fingers sliding down to cradle his chin, more possessive than affectionate—it was difficult, not to shrink away from her, but he kept firm. The feeling of her touch was enough to paralyze him, though he fought back, struggling to calm his breathing; after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to gather the strength to push her hand aside, retreating a step.
"Yeah, we're a real happy family." Toby growled, drawing resolve from somewhere deep within—he could breathe again, now, his voice evening out. The distance between them, though slight, allowed his panic to lessen; it wasn't by much, but it was enough. "Get the hell out of my shop." He stepped further back, voice snapping with a hard edge, emboldened by the distance—he was now out of her reach, a wide berth of space looming between them.
"I'm the only relative you have left." Her voice had gone cold, chilling the air in the room, and he felt a heavy dread gathering beneath his stomach; he had seen that anger before, the shadow that fell upon her eyes. "I'm going to be here for a while, sweetie, so I wouldn't be too difficult." Panic swelled, threatening to overcome him, his muscles tensing at the words—it only confirmed his worst fear. She was moving back to Rosewood, at least for now, and the thought was enough to quicken his breathing; he was foolish to think that she would ever stop, that she would ever leave him in peace.
Even when he had grown too old for her tastes, she didn't stop; it was one of the many reasons why he had moved away soon after college, preferring the streets to her monthly visits. Austin's suicide had brought him back, and by then, his aunt was getting ready to move across the country with a new husband—he had long hated himself for leaving his brother in that environment, but he wouldn't have been able to survive if he had stayed for much longer. His brother had been too young to take with him—having just turned eight in the summer—and even if he could have done so, their father would have refused.
"You don't have any power over me. Not anymore." It was a lie, he knew, but it made him feel better—an illusion of strength was better than nothing at all. "All I want is to be rid of you."
"We're family, dear." Jenna's smile was serene. "You will never be rid of me."
Even after she had left, her footsteps drifting down the sidewalk in a fading rhythm, he couldn't even think about moving—his muscles were still trembling, shivers racing down his limbs, and he could not stop the cascade. His mind kept cycling back into past memories—of hands holding him down, nails digging into his skin—and he backed into one of the shop's display cases, struggling to keep his breathing level.
She's not going to stop. She's never going to stop, she's never going to—
His eyes slammed shut, trying to will the panic away, but it was as if the floodgates had burst open; memories kept roiling through his mind, coming faster and faster until they overcame him, and his whole body began to shake. Then he was sliding down to the ground, his back against the cold glass, knees curling tightly into his chest—he felt like a child again, wanting nothing more than to run away and hide.
He had no idea how long he had stayed there—his eyes stinging with tears, limbs coiled together in a rigid ball—but he could do nothing else, burying his head in his knees as he struggled to push the memories away.
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After half an hour had passed, Spencer began to wonder if something was wrong.
It wasn't like him, to be so late—at least, not without notifying her first—and she decided to make a drive to his workplace, just in case. By the time she had arrived, it was well over an hour past the end of his shift; the lights were still on, strangely enough, but all else was quiet. She pulled around to the front of the shop's lot, waiting for a minute before deciding to enter-and she was moving the instant her feet touched the ground, approaching the entrance at a brisk pace.
Drawing closer, she spotted an odd shadow in the shop's atrium—a strange object, perhaps, though she couldn't tell much about the irregular silhouette—but as she neared the doorway, she noticed it was a huddled figure. Toby. She realized, starting forward-and she flung the door open with a hasty shove, not even sparing it a glance as it ricocheted shut behind her.
"Toby, are you alright?" At first, she thought he had been hurt—perhaps a robbery had taken place, or some other attack—and though he showed no signs of injury, she was by his side in an instant, kneeling in front of him. "Toby?" She repeated, concern thickening her voice, and he lifted his head; his face was gaunt, the skin colored with a frightful pallor. She had never seen him like this before—with his emotions on such a raw display, his body trembling like a leaf, wetness coating his cheeks—but the contrast was startling.
Even when he did show emotion, it was always tinged with a certain anger, the abrasiveness he had become known for—this was something else, almost childlike, the opposite of his reserved stoicism. She didn't know what could reduce him to such a state, stripping the collection of façades away, but she was going to find out; for better or for worse.
"I-I'm alright." He gasped, the words escaping in a faint whisper—she could already see him struggling to reign everything back, to rebuild the walls that had kept this side of himself a guarded secret, but the cracks were too large to mend. It was the first time she had seen his control falter—whatever it was, the surge of emotion was too potent to hold at bay. "I—I'll be fine, Spencer."
"What happened?" She asked, swallowing back the anxiety that ran through her; it must have been something terrible, she knew, to deal such a heavy blow. "Please, tell me." When silence answered her, she feared the worst, resisting the urge to ask again—it was hard, but patience was key.
"She's back." His head dipped lower, as if speaking it aloud was another source of pain, some unforgiving reality. "My...my aunt. She came back."
"She-she's never going to leave me alone." Toby continued, before she could respond, his breath hitching at the last word-and the tears overcame him in a sudden rush, his shoulders trembling. Spencer wanted to speak, but thought better of it, instead drawing closer to wrap her arms around him—she stroked his hair with gentle fingers, holding him until the tears quieted, and he could speak once more.
"I...I was six when she started—" His voice wavered suddenly, as if aware of what he had just confessed, but she needed no further details; the pieces of the puzzle were clicking together, now, and everything made sense. Her mother had told her that it was possible he had been a victim of molestation, when she had confided in the woman about her lover's aversion to sexuality; she had hoped that the theory would never be confirmed, but deep down, some buried instinct within her had always harbored a suspicion.
It hurt, to imagine that he had been subject to such cruelty, sorrow racing through her stomach like a physical blow—he spoke no further, but she could feel his anguish, a palpable shadow. "I'm sorry." Spencer murmured, her arms tightening around him, voice heavy with her own despair—tremors were still rolling through his limbs, showing no sign of letting up. "You're going to be okay." It felt like an empty reassurance, some hollow platitude, but the words held real power behind them; real warmth, a genuine empathy.
She held him for what felt like hours—until the tremors finally began to slow, and the staccato rhythm of his lungs began to mellow out—and he raised his head at last, the corners of his eyes rimmed with scarlet. "Thank you." His voice sounded raw, as if the flesh of his vocal chords had been scraped dry, and she responded with a warm smile—it was a comforting sight, like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
"Did she...did she do anything to you?" Spencer didn't want to ask the question, but it felt necessary; the change upon his features was immediate, darkness clouding his eyes.
"Not this time." The implications of that statement made her stomach turn. "But she'll find a way." A quiet desolation had bled into his voice, now, almost resigned. "I...I can't fight her, Spencer, I never could—
"You won't have to do it alone." She promised, kissing his forehead, and he couldn't help but think of how fortunate he was. "If she wants to hurt you, she's going to have to go through me." The resolve in her voice made something brighten within him—he had never quite experienced what it was like, to have someone he trusted so completely, someone that was willing to fight alongside him.
A friend, a lover...
A partner.
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Fin.