IX. The Eighth Victim?
Once Amy and Atticus had quietly taken their seats, Nellie pounded her fist onto the dining table in a domineering fashion.
"Now, which of you two could just start on telling me what exactly is going on in here?"
Amy looked down at her hooked fingers, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes or else they might see that misty sheen that had started to envelope hers. How was she supposed to say it, 'Ian's going to die in a day, guys. Now what's for dinner?' To begin with, how was she going to say something that she feared the most?
Being a Cahill, it might be an unusual thing to say that she feared…death. Well, she had been so used on being stared at by the eyes of the Grim Reaper himself, that one would think she'd already grown immune to it, but…no. No. How can a person expect her to come out of a devil's pit where she'd witnessed people die, without being scathed by trauma? She didn't want death anymore, just please, not anymore. She was tired of it all. Stretching her young sixteen-year-old mind to the adultness of dealing with the trauma of such a great amount of death was pushing it too far.
Ian…was a person that had hurt her, maimed her, attempted to kill her several times, but despite so, Amy cared for him deeply as a friend. She might have been a bit bitter in treating him from the start, but in all the Cahill reunions and the numerous times Fiske had invited the Kabras over to stay with them, Amy had gotten to know him better—she'd gotten to understand him. She'd learned that his arrogant misgivings and haughty attitude were not the actual weapons of coldness and malice she'd once thought they were, but they were actually shields to keep the shattered pieces from being scattered all over the floor. She'd learned that he was deeper than the mud puddle that she thought he was. She'd learned that he was not actually the robotic snake his mother had trained him to be. She'd learned that he was actually human.
She could still remember that one summer evening of another Cahill reunion so vividly, when everyone wanted to have dinner at the McDonalds. That was one pretty rowdy night, considering that there were Cahill teens involved, but the Kabras, well, were nowhere to be found. Amy took the initiative to find them, but when she'd found Natalie—
"I refuse to let such disgusting low-class American food from a disgusting low-class American restaurant even pass through my cultured lips," the girl had huffed with an outright genuine revulsion that was almost offending. "Good day."
And then she'd slammed the door on her face. Although Amy felt like wanting to drag the haughty British girl out of the room, Amy decided it best not to pry. Lest of course, she wanted a poisoned dart sticking out her neck.
In turn, when she'd found Ian that night, he had also disagreed to come. Being slightly the lesser of the two evils, in a much gentler way compared to Natalie, he'd said…
"Forgive me if I'm being impolite, Amy, I really do." Amy dared not to think it, but did she just see a genuinely apologetic smile twitch his lips upward, even just the tiniest little bit? "But if Natalie isn't coming, then I won't as well."
Amy must have let her disappointment show, because Ian when continued, that apologetic smile was suddenly gone and then replaced with an annoying smirk.
"What, love, you actually think that I'd ever choose being with the lot of you?" No, there was no sting in his voice, but the sarcasm was there; and Amy thought that that was quite offending. Ah, scratch that, that was definitely offending. She clenched her hands by her side irritatedly as Ian continued to speak.
"No, thank you," he went on. "Eating dinner with you barbarians will be like camping around a bonfire, and while that's all very lovely," his smirk widened at this part, "being with my sister is like dining on a golden table. Even a five-year-old would know the better option between the two. I hope my degrading analogy doesn't offend you."
Amy knew, that for the most part, Ian had said that entire discourse to insult her and probably the rest of his cousins. But underneath, she knew, there was another meaning behind it all together.
He held his sister more valuable than anyone else.
It made her unclench the fists she had by her side, and it made her offended eyes soften to what was almost…sweet.
Outside he was despicable, and she'd shallowly judged him relentlessly because of that before. The way he said things was despicable, but the truth was, there was something really more to Ian Kabra than just his snobbishness and overall prim and proper hauteur. And once Amy started to see that, once all assumptions have been pushed aside, he actually grew in her eyes. He grew to become a genuine friend.
He…he wasn't just a cousin. He was family. He was a friend. Sure, they'd had quite the bitter past, but for Amy, all that had happened in the past stays in the past. Somehow, she saw him as her brother—a lot similar to Dan, someone she held dear. Yes, well, his and his sister's various attempts at murder back in the Clue were most certainly despicable to Amy, but in some weirdly sentimental way, whenever she saw Ian and Natalie together, she thought, that the two of them…were innocent. Of everything. Despite the seemingly innate sardonicism in their twin amber eyes, they were just children whose limbs were tied to the will of their maniacal mother. Once those strings had been removed, though, all she'd ever seen in Ian and Natalie's otherwise imperial relationship as brother and sister…
…was simply a mirror image of her and Dan.
But seeing that mirror shattered, irreparable, broken, the other half torn away so cruelly by a zap of lightning…she couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't stand the sight of it. She couldn't stand facing the mirror if her brother was the one who had to be so cruelly ripped from the picture of her life. She saw how vulnerable and incomplete Ian was without her, his sister, the only person left valuable to him. Most certainly, the Kabra siblings wouldn't ever have made it through their parental ordeals hadn't it been for the presence of the other. The two were tied to each other in a metaphorical string ever since birth. They can never make through life if the other one wasn't there.
Amy…wouldn't be able to live if she had lost her brother, too. Her heart simply broke at the prospect of Ian having to go through something as wretched as this.
So she had to help him—she had to be at his side to assure him that everything will be alright. Because he was her brother now, then she was his sister. And a sister has to be with her brother all the time, and never to leave his side.
Ever.
She looked up at the au pair who was staring at her, demanding to be given some answers. But Nellie would never be able to understand why Amy cared about Ian so much. Perhaps they've all accepted each other already, but no one would ever be able to see the exact same thing that she saw in Ian, because their eyes were too blindfolded by past. Jake, Nellie, Dan—perhaps all her Cahill cousins, they held this poison against the Kabras that made them the black sheep of the family. That can be dealt with later, but for the time being, she needed to get out of this house and be with Ian's side. For him, and for the sake of her sanity as well. The only way that her mind could be put to rest was if she held Ian's hand in hers. Right now.
Although no one would say it, although he'd never be able to admit it aloud, he needed her. He needed someone.
She inhaled a sharp breath, and slowly let the words out.
"Ian…" She didn't want it to be true. But in all likelihood, it was. "He has the Mystery Syndrome."
Nellie's eyes widened, a flash of recognition flashing through her eyes. It was an indication to Amy that Nellie knew about the syndrome alright.
Amy looked back down at her hooked fingers again, trying to distract herself by playing with them. She let herself get lost in her own thoughts as the heavy silence that fell upon them weaved through a forgotten fragment of time.
If she were the one who lost Dan, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. But still, she'd be lucky—she'd have Nellie, she'd have Fiske, those people around her who loved her would be willing to share her grief, thus dividing the weight. She didn't want to think about it, but doing so made her see just how fortunate she was, with all the people that surrounded her. But Ian…with his whole family gone, with him being the only remnant of the Kabra family, he had no one to share his grief with.
He felt as if he's on his own.
And if moving on was a difficult task for anyone else, what more with Ian, when no one else was willing to care enough to show him the sun again? And, if it would be looked at frankly, if Amy didn't care, no one else ever would. Sure, the bitterness that the rest of the Cahills shared against the Lucian was long forgotten, but they never had enough reason to actually, sincerely care. The people around would be acting all sympathetic and say they're sorry, yes, but he needed to know that someone genuinely wanted to carry this boulder alongside him, or else he's going to get himself crushed by the weight he's trying to carry all by himself.
And Amy wasn't going to let Ian get crushed by the weight of his own miseries.
Not if she could help it.
Because one person who cared would be enough.
"What…? But how?" Nellie finally managed to squeak out, the silence no longer bearable for her. "The Mystery Syndrome? You mean...you mean that deadly…"
Amy found herself twitching at the keyword, and she stood up from her chair so defiantly that even Nellie was sent a shocked step backwards to silence. Atticus kept his mouth shut.
"It's not deadly!" she shouted. Queerly enough, when Ian was currently too disoriented to even start thinking about his dilemmas, it was Amy who automatically took the responsibility of carrying on it for him. Already, she could feel the weight of this ordeal pressing down on her, forcing unexplainable tears springing at the edges of her eyes. No. No. No more deaths. Please, just no more. She was tired of grieving, she was tired seeing people die, and if Ian went, she wouldn't be able to forgive herself—she would feel like she'd lost a brother.
"Listen to me, Nellie,"—now there was a crack in her voice, unmistakably a warning for incoming sobs— "Ian is not going to die!"
For once, she asked, desperately, to whatever gods were listening from the heavens above, just for once, can't you just make some sort of problem for me when the life of someone I cared isn't practically on the line?
Nellie looked immediately broken at how Amy's voice sounded, at how her fists violently shook, as if smashing them against the wall was the only way to vent her emotions off. So the au pair let her guard down, tentatively letting her crossed arms fall to the side, her voice now adopting a more careful, motherly tone.
"H…hey…kiddo…" She awkwardly tried to reach out a hand, not knowing what else to say. She'd thought of herself more as the cool mom, but being the sentimental mother from time to time didn't sound too bad. "I'm sorry, I-I didn't know it was this serious, I…" She let her voice trail off as Amy crashed back down to her seat, almost guiltily.
"No, no, I'm s-s-sorry, Nellie, it's not your fault." She sniffled, scruffily wiping away some moistness in her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I…I just let myself get carried away, I guess. I'm sorry."
"That's right—calm down." Nellie showed the littlest hint of a smile as she withdrew her hand back from Amy's shoulder, glad that that was over. "You're not even sure he has the syndrome, right? The doctors are still yet to see. Maybe it's just really high fever or something, and you're working yourself out too much."
"Well…well, I don't really know…" She struggled to choose her words carefully. "But he's showing all the symptoms lately, and you know I can't take it anymore if someone else…if someone else from our family…" She took in a sharp inhale of breath. "I know that everything about the Mystery Syndrome is still guesswork and I shouldn't even be too worried about…death…but… If the other six people who caught it died because of it, then…then Ian will…he…" Amy took a shuddering breath to calm herself, which she didn't really succeed doing.
So she just settled with a mild, "I'm just…worried. But I can't be entirely sure whether Ian has it or not. But…truth to be told…" Amy buried her face in her hands miserably. "I can't even be sure of anything now."
"Look at that statement in the positive side, Ames." Nellie didn't hide her smile this time. One look at her au pair, Amy herself felt a small smile stretching her lips, even just a little bit. "See?" said Nellie, glad she cheered her kiddo up, even just a little bit. "Just think of it as: you're not even sure if Ian has the syndrome."
"But I am."
Both girls whirled their heads around to look at the Rosenbloom who finally had the courage to speak.
oO0Oo
Ian slapped his father's hand away. He didn't want this disgusting man patting him on the head like he was a dog. It sickened him. Vikram, however, looked offended at the harsh gesture, the unflinching rage burning in his son's eyes. But Vikram surprised himself by thinking that this was actually what he deserved. They stayed still for a moment, until Ian told him, the first words he had ever told his father since the past several years—
"Don't call me your son." Each word was a painful stab to the heart. "You are not my father."
The scene repeated and repeated and repeated itself inside his head like an annoying, broken little cassette. He didn't know why he even bothered with that nightmare in the first place, but his mind just refused to give him even just a little peace.
"Don't call me your son," Ian had said. Vikram would never be able to admit it or give himself to submission, but his son's voice cut through his heart with lethal precision, the very words seething all that pain and anger that seemed to thunder out of his voice. So much was the hurt and anger that reflected at the tone of his voice that he was fairly surprised at how his son managed to lash out more of this same, burning hatred in his next words, justified anger fuelling each and every painful little letter—
"You are not my father."
And those were the words that continued to echo inside his skull as if that nightmare had been real.
"You are not my father."
Vikram tried to distract himself from those stupid words. He was a little disappointed at himself for acting like he had been stabbed by the sharp words a million times, over and over again, and yet he was still alive to feel the pain. Under normal circumstances, he would have brushed those words away, swatting them as if they were just useless, mindless little flies. But this time, this time, it was different.
Because they had come from his own son.
The son he'd disowned, abandoned, hurt in all the ways that a father should not.
"You are not my father."
As those little words echoed throughout his skull like an annoying large gong, he caught himself flinch. Again. He scolded himself. He used to be so impervious to words—words were the finest weapons used in the art of trickery and deceit after all, and lying had always been any Lucian's expertise—but now, he felt…he felt vulnerable, naked because of those words that kept on haunting him and wouldn't leave him alone. And when Ian had slapped his hand away when he tried to reach for him…
He released a heavy sigh. That was just a dream, a stupid nightmare, for Luke's sake. He shouldn't even be bothering about this. He wondered if he was starting to lose his touch.
The skies were dark and menacing, a bland shower of rain peppering down the grey London streets. He impassively looked out the window of the luxurious car he was in, an expression of plain emotionlessness written all over his face. The driver in front of him kept looking back at him to make sure if his passenger was still even alive, but the dignified Kabra refused to acknowledge him, lost in his own thoughts. He hadn't said a single word since he got in the car, and he never tore his gaze from the rainy weather outside, the feeling of nostalgia being sent scampering away with each little raindrop that collided like bullets against the earth. Gideon, he missed London. He'd been away from this nice little town for quite some time now—it felt absolutely strange that he was actually here, right now, of all the times in the world.
And, frankly, the only reason that Vikram Kabra even bothered to go out was because of that stupid little nightmare.
Because it had felt real.
He looked down at the polished, golden mirror in his hand, the topaz gem in the middle glowing with the distinct colours of yellowish-brown, a golden amber. That topaz gem, being the lone decoration of the simple yet elegant ancient relic, was the sole reason why he even surrendered to buying this in the first place: because the colour of the gem matched his wife's eyes. His daughter's. His son's. His family.
He shook the word off. No, he was not getting sentimental. He was just…remembering…yes, he was just remembering, and most definitely not sentimental.
This simple mirror…this, he hoped, would be a good enough gift of amendment that he could give to his son once he returned. He wanted to see Ian…and if he came, what he wanted was that he came with a gift, and he thought that this mirror was the best. Even Vikram found it hard to stop laughing at himself. But to be painfully honest, he didn't know what else to give to Ian—the finest pair of leather shoes handcrafted from Switzerland? Clothing made with the expensive fabrics of northwest Scotland? He already had them all. This mirror that he had bought from an auction as a gift to his son was a little bit uninspiring, but shopping for gifts hadn't exactly been Vikram's area of knowledge. That was the feminine half of the Kabra family's natural talent, having been…well…Isabel and Natalie's former hobby.
He looked pained at even having to think of those two names.
He sighed at himself, feeling pathetic, as he threw the mirror into the interior of his luggage, and then zipping it off. A mirror…bah. So what if it was just an old-fashioned fancy little mirror? Ah, forget it. Vikram decided that he should throw the sentimentality out of the window—being so annoyingly sentimental was making him so tired he might just start singing a ritual to call for Luke's spirit to rejuvenate his soul. What was important was that he actually made at least the most minimum of efforts to buy something for his son, right? What mattered was the thought, right?
This question brought the vile taste of culpability on his tongue, a little guilty because of being…well, having been Ian's father and not even knowing his son's likes and dislikes. He gripped his hands tightly onto his knees. He didn't really know what kind of things fascinated Ian now that he was already in his teens—the fact that he didn't even get to see him grow up, having been so busy attending to family affairs and such, had pained him already. It hurt so much more when he thought of the ripped relationship he had with his only son.
His little boy.
Ah, but perhaps little Ian was not so little now. The only thing Vikram probably knew of Ian now that he was grown up was his inevitable love of dart guns and maybe the finest silver pistol. However, Vikram was already certain that Ian already had a million of those tucked in his sleeves, so, really, they were not even an option to give to him as a gift.
The thought made Vikram chuckle. His little Ian, all grown up…old enough to hold dart guns and pistols.
Like father, like son, indeed.
"Master Vikram." The driver in front of him looked at the rear-view mirror to stare at his passenger. "We're already here."
Vikram leaned over his seat to peer at the mansion outside, that one place he had once called home. The Kabra mansion was draped over by a cool blanket of the night, continuously pelted by the steady downfall of rain. There was not a single light open from inside.
The old Lucian sighed. Of course Ian wouldn't live here anymore—Vikram knew him enough to know that he wouldn't, because it was just hard to live at someplace where everything you looked at just caused painful memories to arise. For all Vikram knew, Ian might have already sold this to some other peasant who didn't deserve something as grand his family's home, but he presumed he couldn't blame him for doing so. He would have definitely done precisely the similar thing.
But if Ian's not here, then…then where would he be?
Well, of course Vikram of all people already knew the answer to that question, but…he figured that it would be less painful pretending that he didn't.
There was a heated debate going on inside of his mind as he gestured his driver to bring him to the finest hotel. He was so tempted to call his charter jet right now and set flight plans to America, where he was certain that Ian would be living with his cousins in that lowly little town of Boston. He was so tempted to do it, even going so far as to slowly fish his phone out of the pocket, tap the dials away, until, finally, he was only one button away from finally making amends to his only son, from finally making everything right, from finally being able to put himself to rest.
His thumb was just half a feather's thinness away from tapping onto the 'call' button. He almost did it. He almost did. But just as he really was about to—
"You are not my father."
He stopped himself, frustrated. Vikram put the phone back where it was supposed to be, heatedly huffing to himself.
Mm-hmm. So much for not being sentimental.
oO0Oo
Atticus almost hated to explain it all over again—being on-the-know was most definitely a tiring job, because the explaining part was always left with him. He started from the beginning—
He told them about the Norse mythology books that he'd been reading all about, and he told them all about the legend that circled around the Seven Sisters with their infamous mirrors, cursed by the power of their hatred against their mother's executioner, the king.
He was quick in explaining to them that, according to the story, the symptoms King Marcosias showed before he died of an unknown disease is very, very, almost scarily, similar to the condition now coined the 'Mystery Syndrome' by the doctors in London. Paranoia, hallucinations, nightmares and delusions—all the exact symptoms matched from then to now, and he had known this to be an accurate confirmation thanks to Ned's thorough research on legends and mythology.
He even showed them that news article in which it came from Dr Lira Pendergrass herself that the fact that all six victims possessed some sort of identical mirrors they bought from an auction is 'potentially useless information', when, in the end, Atticus had found out himself (with the help of a few, almost unwilling, comrades) that these mirrors were the very cause, the very root, of their miseries.
And eventual demise.
Hypothetically, if the legend was true, the cursed mirrors were laid with the power to plague anyone who held them in their possession with the most terrible memories of their own grief and sorrow, slowly consuming the victim from inside out. Likened to a computer program, the curses on the mirror were conditioned to last until day three, tormenting their victims from inside out with resurfacing past nightmares or delusions of their dead loved ones appearing before them. This was a constant fact, from the legend of King Marcosias, to the reported witchcraft cases at Salem, and now, to the modern world, where Karl Miranda, Lakshmi Yamano, RJ M. Calvenriala, all the way up to Liana Andrés, all showed the signs and symptoms, until the third day came, counting from the time they came into the mirror's possession.
The third day, when the inevitable death happens.
Inevitable, because the pattern of the symptoms didn't fail.
Not even once.
Atticus stopped talking and looked at Amy and Nellie intently after that.
The two women were silent for a while, taking it all in. Amy seemed a bit disoriented and lost with all the information her brain is trying to process in the moment, (or perhaps she was too busy grappling with the fact that Ian was most probably under a curse and his death is already inevitable in the near future) but Nellie, well, based on her facial expressions, Atticus thought that she was slowly starting to…
"Wait…" the orange-haired girl said, trying to find it difficult to summon the words to ask even just one question. Well, Atticus couldn't blame her. There was too much information to soak in. But eventually, Nellie got the sentence correct in her head, and she tried to say it.
In a very, very, very sceptical tone, exactly the way Dan and Ned said it.
"Don't you…see the insanity of this?" Nellie asked, a disbelieving laugh almost about to escape her words—but thanks to the graveness of the situation with a life on the line, she was fortunately able to calm the bubbling down. "Are you saying that a forgotten mythic legend—an ancient, cursed mirror, no less—could connect to a futuristic disease that the most expert of experts can't even figure out?" She crossed her arms as she arched an eyebrow so sceptical that it might have just about touched the ceiling. "You'd think it would be the rational Atticus Rosenbloom who'd be the one running around and proclaiming to the world that mirrors don't cause diseases. I mean, unless they have a living bacteria trapped in it or something. I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but this whole thing about mirrors and legends and curses, well, it's just absolutely crazy."
And so people didn't believe him. Again. Just like that day, when his mother had been…
"I'm really sorry, my dear Rosenblooms," said the doctor, looking forlornly into the three Rosenbloom's eyes. Atticus, Jake, Mark Rosenbloom. The three men had only one woman in their life, and that was Astrid—a mother, a sister, a friend. And now she…
"She's gone," proclaimed the doctor. "I'm sorry."
Atticus shook his head and got rid of the memory. No. He was not letting history repeat itself. He was determined not to. People hadn't believed him back when Atticus had been accusing Dave Speminer of the crime. But things would be different now, because he would make people believe him, whether they liked to or not.
Atticus had been prepared himself for this attack of scepticism—mythical stuff and things related to it are always, always met by an arched eyebrow and a pair of crossed arms, wherever one may go. In fact, being the logical history geek that he was, he had been one of those people who believed that magic and curses are ridiculous, that ghosts and stuff did not exist. But he'd crossed out that belief long after his mom died.
He believed that guardian angels are real—because his mom was one of those now, always accompanying him wherever he went, whatever decision he was to make. She was always there.
"Unless I show you proof," Atticus said, slowly, "you wouldn't be convinced, would you?"
Nellie's answer was firm. "Nope."
No choice but to let her experience it herself then, Atticus thought to himself. "Let's go to Ian's room. The alleged…mirror…it's sitting right there."
Now Amy spoke for the first time in long minutes. She still looked a bit bewildered from all of this, but all that influx of information didn't matter to her—her mind was still preoccupied with Ian and his safety, his wellbeing. Out of all the things that she'd just heard Atticus said, only one thing had stood out to her the most.
He is in danger, and she needed to save him. How, she didn't know, not yet, but…
She'd be willing to do anything, anything, just to make the old, smirking Ian come to surface again.
"I'd make things clearer later," Atticus promised her, seeming to have noticed that look playing on Amy's face. Atticus thought that explaining it all the more was a job he hated the most, but he had to say something to take Amy's mind off of this overload of details and start focusing on the more important: Ian's actual condition. So that's exactly what he said, saying, locking his eyes directly into hers, "For now, though, you'd really need to go check on Ian."
At least they were on the same page.
"Um…I-I…" Amy watched as both Nellie and Atticus got up from their seats, ready to proceed to Ian's room so Atticus could show the former au pair the 'proof'. When they didn't notice her stuttering, Amy actually raised her hand in the air, very timidly, as if reciting from her class. This actually got Nellie's attention.
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"W-well…" She uncertainly pointed to herself, then cleared her throat, frustrated at herself for not getting the words out properly. "Am I…am I supposed to—come with you guys—"
Nellie smiled, walked over to her kiddo, and pulled her into a hug. This shocked Amy a little bit, confused of how she should react and why Nellie was suddenly all so affectionate.
"No, you don't have to; you can go check on the Kabra," said her former au pair, smiling down proudly at her grown kiddo. "I don't really know what's going on, but whatever's going on, it sounds deadly to say the least." Amy flinched a bit at the keyword, again, so Nellie mentally smacked herself and forced out some words, quickly. "And situations like this require someone who actually cared. And, frankly…" Nellie looked a bit guiltily at the ground as she said her next words. "Frankly, no one could care about him more than you do." Then she looked back into Amy's green eyes. "You care about people beyond reason. It makes me proud to have been your awesome babysitter—"
"Au pair," Amy corrected, giggling.
"—and all I'm saying here is, if you don't see it already, you're one awesome Madrigal."
Amy beamed, mostly because she was now given permission to get to the hospital already and see how Ian's doing, but also because of the compliment given to her. She found it quite funny that what Nellie said just actually matched her earlier thoughts, but it was all she needed that indicated Nellie's understanding even in the midst of uncertainty. One thing she liked about Nellie was that she didn't doubt her, fully putting her trust into everything she did.
Amy hugged her back. "Thanks for understanding."
The two breathed in each other's scent as they embraced for a few seconds more. The lone Atticus from afar awkwardly cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there, and as a spectator, no less. So, almost just as immediately, Nellie pulled back from their hug, laughing as she helped Amy to her feet. She clapped the younger redhead on the shoulder, saying, "Well, that's what I'm here for. Now go get Ian."
Amy nodded, and all but disappeared as she dashed out of the door.
With only the Gomez and Rosenbloom left at the dining room, Nellie said, "So, kiddo, are you going to show me this mirror of death and explain all this hullabaloo to me or what?"
The idea of explaining stuff that only met scepticism anyway didn't make Atticus very happy.
"Frankly, I choose the 'or what'."
oO0Oo
The sky was a painting of bleariness as Amy quickly strode past the automatic hissing of the obedient glass doors, her feet barely even touching the smooth, tiled floor of the hospital grounds. It was all a blur as she approached the receptionist and was given the room number where Ian was confined, and now all that rang in Amy's ears was the sound of her own footsteps echoing in the vast white hallways after she got out of the elevator. She clutched her jacket tightly around her as she turned to the right of the hallway—
—and bumped right into Jake.
Amy was grateful for the excuse to catch the much needed air her aching lungs needed, but was also shocked at the sight before her eyes that she needed to blink several times in hopes to clear her vision of what exactly she was seeing.
But the image before her didn't change. It was still Jake, staring over at her with worry.
"Amy…?"
Amy raised a finger to quieten him first, bending over her knees to pump air into her lungs. After she was done, she stood straight up, eyes wide at Jake.
"Wh-why…what are you doing here?" she asked. The question wasn't rude or uncouth—it was simply made out of a voice of genuine shock.
Jake found his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, looking away almost sheepishly. And was it just her, or was there a tiny little pinkish blush spreading from down his neck and up to his ears?
"Well…" he said, struggling to find the words. "Well, I kinda…hopped into the ambulance before it completely ran off."
Amy couldn't help smiling, either teasingly or proudly, she didn't know.
"You did that…" she started, looking up at Jake with the finest green glow that he had ever seen from her. "…for Ian?"
"W-well…" Now Jake was clearly embarrassed. "Well yeah. Maybe. Sort of. I guess." Then he realized what he said and was immediately mortified beyond his worst nightmares, spluttering, "B-B-But not what you think, alright? It—it was just a—a—a one-time thing, okay? Don't expect me to do it again, it was just a one-time thing!"
All earlier events of the day forgotten, Amy lunged herself right at Jake and tackled him in a bear hug.
"Oh, I knew you cared about him!" she said through his shirt, laughing, smiling. "Why are you acting like that's something to be embarrassed of? That was actually very kind of you!"
Jake stiffened at the hug and at her words. He didn't know if he was to return the hug or what (well, he was still a little pissed off about what he witnessed Amy and Ian were doing alone in Amy's room) but at the moment, it was really hard to get angry at her right now. She seemed genuinely…happy. It amused Jake to no end that no matter how high she got onto the pedestal of the Cahill family, no matter how rich she got, no matter how great her name had made it to the family, the very things that made her happy were these kinds of things. The simplest things. He never realized that he'd ever be able to make her happy by doing…by acting like he cared for that Kabra.
And, no, no, and no, the only reason he hopped into that ambulance in the first place was not because he cared—he only did that act because of Amy's sake, nothing else.
Jake cleared his throat, unsure of how to move or what to say, afraid that one wrong step would break the fragile spell that had suddenly fallen upon the both of them, hugging like this in the middle of the hallway. But just as he was about to put his arms around her to return the hug, she pulled away, all too soon. Jake hurriedly put his arms behind him, acting as if nothing happened.
"Well then…" Amy cleared her throat, looking away, a mild blush spreading over her cheeks as if she'd just realized how embarrassing it was to tackle someone so randomly in the hallway. "Ah…so well…how is Ian doing?" Her eyes looked up to Jake, their former green glow now replaced by a mist of worry. "What did the doctors say?"
"He…has a pretty high fever, but otherwise he's currently on stable condition." The Rosenbloom tried to push down that rising feeling of discontentment that threatened to mix itself into his words, a little disappointed that their little moment was over. "I told them about the possibility that he might have the Mystery Syndrome. They already called on some Dr Liu, a specialist who tried to treat the other six patients of the syndrome—he's on his way to check on him. There's still the existing chance that Ian's hallucinations didn't actually come from the syndrome—it may be from his high fever instead, we don't know. So yeah...we don't have to assume yet that he has the syndrome."
"Oh, good…" Amy shoulders seemed to slump, releasing some tension, although a little of it still remained etched onto her downcast face. "Good. I guess…I guess that's good to hear."
And then there was a painfully awkward silence, lasting for several long seconds that seemed to drag on as the two of them just stood there, face-to-face, with no one else who might eavesdrop in their conversation from left to right. Amy was twitching with the zipper on her jacket, Jake trying to look fascinated at the plain white tiles that covered the ceiling. Until—
"Jake—"
"Amy—"
They paused, realizing that they had spoken in unison, looked at each other, and then looked away again.
"Oh, okay, you first," Amy said, waving her fingers at him to signal him to move on, a little red on the ears.
"No, no, no, you first," Jake automatically replied, running a hand awkwardly through his black hair.
"No, you."
"No, you."
"Jake…"
"Amy…"
Amy closed her eyes and decided to just get on with it, spilling her words out in a pathetic, waterfall rush. "Jake. Ian and I were together in my room, yes. And we may have had accidentally…slept together, yes again." The mortification was getting more and more unbearable by the second, because by the looks of his suddenly raging eyes, Jake seemed to be thinking it wrongly. "But that was it," Amy quickly added. "Jake, that was it. Believe me. I wouldn't ever turn my back on you. Never."
She inhaled a breath, waiting for the curt reply that she was sure to come. And, surely enough, there it came.
"Then what were you doing?" he asked, that former haughtiness seeping itself in.
Amy blew out the air from her puffed cheeks.
"Let's take a seat, this could take a while."
If she had to tell every detail, then she will, just to make him understand. Except of course, for the fact that Ian had almost murdered her. The last thing Amy needed was more complications from her boyfriend; the last thing she needed was Jake waiting to kill Ian. Ian was in an already fragile state—Amy needed everyone to be on his side right now.
They all had to be in this together, and the first step was always...
To care.
oO0Oo
Dr Jinjing Liu was a renowned psychologist in his own right, highly respected and recognized for his excellent publications on psychology and his mostly successful dealings with even the most deadly of serial killers. He stood straight up like the old professional he was, his white coat draping over his lean body. Having been from Asiatic origins, his friendly, pint-sized eyes were a glowing, penetrating black—but hidden beneath is a wise intelligence that could read through people as if they were transparent books. He whispered to the nurse beside him to leave the room for him for a little while, and the young, brunette nurse worriedly looked over to the person lying on the bed, this young boy who was the alleged seventh victim of the so-called Mystery Syndrome. Then, after shuddering visibly, the nurse thanked the doctor as she obediently and quietly left the room, letting the pneumatic door silently swing to a close as she ran off.
The boy from across the room just continued to stare at him as he watched the scene play out in front of him, still that question posed in his light brown eyes, glowing against the ceiling lights with the strange colour of amber.
'Who…who are you?'
And, immediately the doctor understood why the young brunette nurse had taken off in such a hurry. Dr Liu himself felt terrified of that expression that seemed to hide some sort of pain, anger, hatred, he didn't know what, that could unexpectedly lash out at him the moment he snapped. The doctor took every single precaution to make every move as softly and gently as he could ever manage—he didn't want to break whatever fragile spell that seemed to make this boy the stable patient that he currently (thankfully) was.
The doctor felt a little sort of chill quickly zapping down through his spine, a reaction barely akin to uneasiness as he quietly took his steps forward, the patient's eyes curiously following him as he did so. Dr Liu tried to calm himself down, what with this boy's steady, uneasy stare, but he found himself to actually be unable to. He had seen this very same expression from the rest of the six victims of the syndrome who had all unfortunately died under his and several other scholars' watch, and he just couldn't help feeling…guilty. That boy's stare reminded him of all the other victims who actually died, frighteningly staring at him the same way it eerily shook him to the bone.
The bad thing about being a doctor is that he had to take the guilt for every person who died because of his failure to save them. Dr Liu had felt utterly useless these days, with all the relatives of the Mystery Syndrome's victims continually lashing out on him through those mournful tears that splashed upon their cheeks. Just hours ago, Mrs Tina Andrés had slapped him on the face as she jittered away in incomprehensible French, completely having gone mad at the fact that her daughter, Liana, died because of the syndrome—because of his broken promises of healing her and preventing her death.
He clenched his fists, staring right back at the boy who stared at him too. Liu understood their grief. He received a report from a nurse that this one named Ian Kabra, born of English and Indian origins, might have the Mystery Syndrome, as well. He had been told that this gravely serious speculation came from a friend that introduced himself as a Rosenbloom, though he wasn't very sure of the first name. The only thing that stuck to Liu's mind, among all the other details that the nurse had given him, however, was the fact that this new patient was of English origins.
…another Londoner.
He was mad enough that he and his other colleagues still couldn't find out the reason behind why each and every victim seems to have some sort of connection to the country of England. The World Health Organization is being a lot useless in information, as well. Basically the doctors still have no idea where this mental illness came from, much less how to cure it.
At the least, though, Dr Jinjing Liu is able to recognize the condition in after a few questions—his doctorate in psychology made him quite the professional in the field. Because the weird thing about anyone who's inflicted by the Mystery Syndrome is that they would all answer the very same thing when asked the same question, and today he's going to do just that, hoping so badly that the speculations were wrong—although, from the looks of it, is already very far from that ever happening.
Through his dismal thoughts, though, he smiled, walked across the room, took a seat, and decided to start talking to this young lad, Ian—desperate to at least be able to pull through even just one of the victims past whatever demons that continued to torment the very life of their minds into insanity. He wasn't sure what or how exactly he was going to do it, but he was going to do his best. He wouldn't have immediately flown through the Atlantic Ocean just to see this young lad if he didn't care—because, actually, he did.
Ever since he'd taken his Hippocratic oath as an official doctor, he'd vowed to care.
"Hello." Dr Jinjing Liu stretched a kind, gentle smile that any practiced psychologist would know how to pull off even if he were stuck in the midst of the most horrible of thoughts. "What is your name?"
oO0Oo
But Ian wasn't even listening.
The strange man wore a suit that looked more like a lab coat. He had introduced himself as a doctor, specifically a…psychologist, maybe? He couldn't quite remember. But why would he need a psychologist? Ian was sure that he wasn't mentally ill…was he? And why were the walls so blankly white? He didn't remember his room being painted white—and from what he was always accustomed to, his room was always, always dimly lit, while this one was so bright that it hurt his eyes to even look up at the ceiling. But the air…it smelled faintly of medicine. Maybe he was in a hospital? He didn't understand. Was he sick?
But every time he tried to answer even a single one of those questions, his head would burst out in pain, not allowing him to take a look back at his memories to even try to remember what on earth had just happened in the last few hours. He had snippets of memories, being dragged on a stretcher, ridden away by an ambulance, other small details like that, and—what? Jake? Why on the bloody Earth was that sickening Rosenbloom even in his memories? He'd try to answer this, but he would only end up shutting his eyes tight to relieve his head of the pain, and he would find his hand reaching up to his temple in efforts to soothe it.
The doctor in front of him stopped from talking, and worriedly reached over Ian. But Ian only said he was fine, and urged the doctor to continue droning on about whatever he was droning on. The Lucian felt so out of his element that he had completely shut him out and just let the man do his job—he saw his mouth moving, but he wasn't really paying any of his attention. Doing so would only worsen his headache.
It was slowly becoming obvious to Ian that he was in a hospital—besides feeling so feverishly cold, there was a dextrose that hung on an IV pole, a tube attached onto his wrist. He didn't know his condition was so bad, even going so far as to be confined in a hospital. But if he did have a fever, wouldn't Amy just insist on treating him with over-the-counter medicines at home? Fever really wasn't a very serious illness no matter how annoyed he felt because of that insidious cold that kept on piercing through his hot skin, (oh, curse that bloody air-conditioner—couldn't they make it just a little less from being on full blast mode?) but with this psychologist that kept on talking to him like a tick-ridden old cow, even though he didn't understand the entire situation at all, Ian felt that this condition he was currently in must be serious.
Yes, well, the old cow kept on talking so slowly as if Ian was a six-year-old—please, Ian was unwell, not illiterate—but Ian was still able to grab the sense that somehow…the situation he was in wasn't a very happy news. He would ask himself why, but…but…
He closed his eyes, readying himself for another bout of headache.
But no. The pain didn't come.
Surprised, Ian opened his eyes, lowering down the hand that had unconsciously reached up to his temple while he had had his eyes closed. But the sight that now beheld him immediately made him want to close his eyes again—not this. Not this again.
But of course, whatever invisible force inside him constrained him, harshly prying his eyes open so he wouldn't miss one single second of that horrible nightmare.
This…this was the day he cursed the surname 'Cahill'.
The day when his world came crashing down to an end.
The day Natalie died.
He stood, unmoving, right in the middle of all the chaos. The fighting noises rang out in his ears, with every single Vesper trying to launch themselves right at the weaponless Cahills on due command. Each and every one of his cousins, although through pathetic attempts, tried to punch, kick, or, at the very least, avoid to get hurt by the fully grown men that just kept on attacking them like a stampede of wild animals. There was Amy and Dan, fighting side-by-side. There was Jonah, singing as he delivered an uppercut right at a man's jaw, and then gracefully jumping backwards to avoid a kick like the expert dancer he was. Hamilton used his raw strength, pushing it to his fullest advantage as he grabbed one soldier, spun him around the air, and threw him to target a dozen other soldiers to smash them against the wall like in a bowling game. Sinead was with her gun, Evan at his mightiest, Fiske and Nellie pushing their boundaries to fight even though Fiske's withering age and the au pair's throbbing shoulder threatened to make them collapse to the ground in extreme exhaustion.
He watching all of his relatives fight for their life and for the world, feeling a rather uplifting sensation rise up in him—proud to have been born a Cahill. But that blissful second was cut off and forgotten when, suddenly, all the noise disappeared to an eerie, quiet ringing sound as his eyes fell upon two particular figures, fighting alongside each other, two heartbeats beating as one. His eyes widened, his whole body stiffened like a statue, frozen right in place, not knowing what to do, how to react, how to even move.
The sight was so staggering that his heartbeat had raced inside his chest, pounding against his ribcage that it was a wonder how he could stay so still, so frozen in place. He watched as the two figures moved through the crowd of mutts and apes in their cheap-looking armour, moving shoulder by shoulder as one tried fight off a Vesper that would sneakily come from behind. They moved as one, Ian acting on the defensive to protect his sister while Natalie tried her best to squash any Vesperian cockroach that threatened to break her nails.
Although this time, Natalie didn't even think about her nails as she stubbornly separated from Ian despite his wails not to do it. She determinedly grabbed a discarded iron bar from the floor, and, the power of her fast-moving legs fuelled by rage, she jumped into the air, ready to pounce upon the inhuman, humming beast that was to end it all.
The Machina Fini Mundi.
He tried to move. He really did. He wanted to shout, to warn her, to pull her back, into an embrace, right into the safety of his arms—but, really, he did nothing. He just stood there, watching himself helplessly stand as well, watching the onslaught of the tragedy that was about to fall upon him and his sister. The crackle of the electricity flowing through her body was a bludgeoning sound to his ears; it paralyzed him, as if he himself was the one who was being tortured. But he just…stood there.
He'd done nothing.
Ian closed his eyes, a pain coming over his head like a massive tidal wave of emotions. His breath had hitched, and he was tightly gripping onto the bed sheets that covered half his body, little droplets of tears dripping down to wet the thick cloth. He looked away, mortified of the presence of the doctor who sat from across him. He felt embarrassed of crying in front of someone else, but he couldn't bloody help it.
He did nothing to help her, and he was aware of it. He admitted his defeat—alright, alright, he had been a useless brother, and he knew that very well. He just begged his mind to stop playing that scene over and over again, each and every day of his life—he didn't want to be reminded of that painful event that brought nothing over to him but irritated, red eyes. He wanted to forget it, but the memory bank of his own brain refused to make everything a little easier. The misery of his own life just liked to torture him like this. Even he, Ian Kabra, can tired. He was human. He was so exhausted that he'd welcome death any time right now—he wanted peace. Peace. Was that too much to ask for? He was tired of being a Cahill, he was tired of thinking of mourning over things, he was tired of all of it.
There was a silence that befell upon the room as Ian tried to dry away those disgusting little tears with the heel of his hand, still looking away from that doctor who had the gall to sit over there as if he was a welcomed spectator, which he absolutely was not. But Ian was shocked beyond belief when he actually felt the doctor's hand rest reassuringly upon his shoulders, squeezing it gently to let him know he understood. When Ian risked a look back, he saw the doctor's eyes gleaming with that look of sympathy.
And it was just then when Ian realized that he had said all his thoughts aloud.
"I do understand, Ian," said the kindly doctor. "If you're tired, then…then you should rest."
It felt like a bite of an ant. But he wasn't able to figure out what just happened, because suddenly he felt himself falling into the peace of a dreamless sleep.
Peace that he knew was only temporary.
oO0Oo
He suddenly bolted upright from his bed as a sudden spark of a giant lightning clashed through the night sky with a hollering thunder following after. Then, breathless and quickly, he opened the first compartment of his small bedside drawer and fumbled through the materials in it—and then heavily sighed with relief when he found his newly-bought mirror, resting where it was originally supposed to be, the topaz gem in the middle glinting back at him as if reassuringly.
So. That was all a dream, no need to worry about anything. All a dream…all a dream. He was just about to plop himself back onto the comforts of his pillow, but he suddenly saw a single piece of a white flower petal, floating down in the air until it landed onto his waiting hand.
Wide-eyed, Vikram Kabra enclosed his fingers around the said flower petal, and then finally slumped down onto the pillow of his bed and stayed like that until sunrise.
