Dramatic scene time.
Little warning beforehand: There are lots of descriptions of alcohol in this chapter. Like the smell and such. Just FYI
I hate not knowing what to do.
Despise it, really.
I want to have a number of strategies to use. A prepared list in my mind of what obstacles I may need to terminate and which I can use to my advantage. Sets of plan A, B, C.
Delalieu's hypothesis is not an ability. An ability I could control once we found it. But biology; biology is annoying.
All I know is that I need to share this with Kent. But I can't do that now because when I return to the quarters it's dinnertime, and at the end of dinnertime, I am sent to bed. But so is James, which gives Kent and I a few minutes of time.
"You know the drill by now, Aaron", Father says once we've all finished.
And I hate to say it, but I do know the drill by now. I get to go wash, put on my pajamas etcetera while Father runs a bath for James. Again, how he has time for this and hasn't gotten us a nanny is beyond me.
I don't humor him with a reply and instead just hum as I stand up to leave.
"May I go to bed now as well?", Kent asks.
He's been unusually quiet for the entire dinner, not that he usually talks very much. But so have Father been. Undoubtedly because both of them have expended their daily reserve of speaking to each other from earlier.
Still, Anderson is suspicious. Of course he feigns naivety and only curiously peers at Kent as he unstraps James.
"Voluntary early bedtime?"
"I'm tired."
Father shrugs. "Well, I won't stop you."
I'm the one to go to Kent's room once I've prepared for bed.
"You know, you didn't need an excuse to go to your room."
My brother is sitting in bed. He has put on flannel pajamas, despite the fact that he always takes it off before morning.
"I am tired…", he protests. "And besides I didn't want to spend more time with Dad than I have to."
It's obvious that he's still shaken by the experience. His voice is raw, as if he hasn't properly calmed down from his crying.
I go sit by his desk.
Comforting others is not my forte. Quite frankly, I'm awful at it. It's not a skill I've desired to have. My ability has usually been enough to prod and navigate whatever subject that crosses my path. I know what to say in response to specific feelings; but only because I've been taught what to say. Kent is the exception to this rule.
I'm going into it blindly.
"I was going to ask you about that", I admit "How did it go?"
"I feel like shit."
"Would you like to elaborate?"
Kent raises an eyebrow. "You mean If I'd like to talk about it?"
I nod. "James forgot your mother is dead", I prompt. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was a traumatic experience to see him act as if she was alive."
He looks at the wall across the room.
"Maybe. I just..." He pauses and fails. He takes a deep breath, pulls a pillow into his lap where he hugs it. He looks so small, my brother, in this bed made for an adult guest of a Supreme Commander.
"It was so hard when mom died. James didn't understand. He just kept asking for her. Dad went missing, too for quite a while. I stopped talking about our parents altogether to stop reminding him, which is why I should have known when he started calling her Mama again when he saw the pictures…"
He buries his face in the pillow. His back moves as he takes deep breaths. He sniffs. When he continues it's muffled by the pillow.
"It was… overwhelming. I just couldn't bear the thought of doing it all over again. To tell him his mom isn't coming back."
Again, it's like my brain is short circuiting when I watch Kent. Like some signal isn't arriving where it should. But my brother is upset. I want to do something.
"That's… an understandable reaction...", I say. "What happened after I left?"
He shrugs. "I kind of zoned out for a bit, but Dad calmed James down. And then, you know, I calmed down and I realized you were gone and Dad was there. Dad talked about… angels and Mom, and… how it would be the four of us from now on."
He looks up suddenly. "And it worked, you know? James didn't seem completely convinced, but I think Dad has managed to imprint on him-"
I raise a hand to halt him. "Stop right there", I say. "Imprint?"
Kent looks embarrassed. I can't tell for sure, but maybe Kent is trying to expand his vocabulary after all the dictionary quizzes we've been put through. "You know, that thing baby animals do when they're born…!"
"I think you're talking about indoctrination", I tell him.
"Dad isn't a doctor...", Kent says.
"I second that."
I'm shocked I don't wring my own neck when I spin around to look at the door where Father is standing. We must look like a pair of rabbits.
Father aims his attention at Kent. "Now, I thought you said you were tired."
"I am tired…!", Kent says for the second time that evening. But there is that hint of panic in his voice.
"We were just talking...", he blabs. And I wonder, How did he and Juliette manage to plan anything when he's such a horrible improviser? Or was it that I just wasn't terrifying enough as a commander?
Father hums and goes to sit on the bed. Still calm. Both Kent and I scoot out arm's reach, not that distance has proved to be effective when faced with our father. "What were you talking about to compare me to a doctor?", he asks, pretending to be curious.
Kent glances at me. I don't see a point in lying. Lying is an unnecessary complication. Especially when you're trying to do it with someone as imaginative as Kent. And it's not like we're talking about something forbidden. Actually, the topic of our discussion is quite natural had we actually been eleven and nine.
"We were talking about what's happened to James", I say calmly. I meet eyes with Kent, trying to convey that he's just going to make things more complicated if he tries to find an excuse.
"What do you mean?", Father says innocently.
"We're not stupid, Dad", Kent says, hugging his arms harder around the pillow so that it almost looks like he's crossing his arms. "James forgot Mom died…"
"I'm not saying you're stupid", Father chuckles, and to both of our discomfort he pulls Kent to him by his foot until his legs are draped over his. Not really sitting in his lap, but he practically is.
"But you know, your brother's very little. His brain isn't completely done yet. Neither is yours or Aaron's."
Adam frowns, and to my surprise he actually looks like a petulant child who's still waiting to be convinced by an adult.
"Is that going to happen to us, too?", he asks. "That we forget things?"
Kent gazes up at Father as he waits for a reply, and gently, probably unconsciously, Kent rests his head on Father's arm when he tilts his head back. And there must be part of Anderson that realizes the same, because there's a hint of charm, bordering on endearment in him (along with pride at his own work and satisfaction that something is going according to plan). And I think it's what makes Father not laugh at Kent again.
Instead he thinks. I can tell he is considering his answer. What and how much to tell us. He looks at me for a second, looks at Kent another, then sighs and pats the space next to him.
"Hop up Aaron, Daddy has something to say." And as much as I hate the condescending request I oblige. As I sit myself down I can smell a whiff of alcohol on his breath, but at least he isn't drunk.
"Well, to start you boys will be coming with me to the capitol, but I'm sure you expected that."
He looks at us in turn. Kent is the one to nod. "Yes", I say.
"Now, as for your heads...", our father continues. "We are expecting you to forget a few things."
To my utmost gratitude Kent actually looks as surprised as if he had first learned about this. Perhaps it's the fact that he's hearing it from our father that's making it finally sink in.
"Like what? A-am I going to forget Mom as well?!"
"No, nothing like that. Only things that doesn't really matter. Like passwords or high school math. Trivial stuff. You'll relearn it."
"James forgot though! And Mom dying isn't trivial!", Kent protests.
"And I said, your brother is very young", Anderson snaps, but quickly reigns back his temper as he cards his hand through Kent's hair that has been cut to almost the same length as mine. "And since you remember now I don't think there's a risk of you forgetting", he continues.
He's not lying. Or, at least he doesn't think he's lying. I don't know why, but I'm almost offended by his honesty.
And that's when I realize it: He doesn't think it's a problem to allow us to know. Because he thinks he has already won.
"Well that must be annoying!", I declare. Both of them turn to look at me in surprise. I hate to say how much Kent takes after our father, but it's clear to see when they're sitting next to each other like this. I do not dwell on this observation, however.
"Since we still remember why we're here! Tell me how you're reasoning here, Dad, please. Because in my mind we'll just grow up and do the same thing all over again. And that time we won't-!"
"When is her birthday?", he suddenly asks, interrupting me.
His calm cuts through my berating like a knife cutting the edge of a wire. It rings out painfully.
Her
I open my mouth to respond.
As a person who has memorized the personal information of every citizen of this sector this should be a piece of cake.
But as I reach for the imaginative cabinet holding her information.
Nothing.
I draw blanks. I make a noise akin to a gasp and a strangled noise.
Think Aaron. Think! I urge myself.
I'm blinking too fast. My heart is beating too fast. It feels as if I'm running through a library with torn out pages. And I start to wonder: What do I remember?
Juliette. My Juliette.
Her hair, her age, her voice, the feel of her skin under my hands during our last night together. Her eyes. What color were her eyes?
And the thing is: I know I knew these things just a few days ago.
He leans forward, staring into the quivering, pitiful excuse of a soul residing within me. He rests his chin on his knuckle as he awaits the answer. He even smiles at me, as if to encourage me. Kent watches in horror.
"August...", I say. But I don't even manage to convince myself that I know, and by his smug look I know I have been mistaken.
I attempt to swallow the growing lump in my throat. I only manage a hiccup.
He hushes me, putting on a perfect mask of pity and comfort. He brings a hand up to brush at my hair.
"It's alright, Aaron", he tells me. "It's not the same brain anymore...", he says and stops his hand to rest on my temple.
I am feeling sick.
"But you don't have to be scared, boys", he says, resting his cheek on the top of Kent's head that has been pushed against his shoulder. "You won't even remember what you forgot..."
It sounds practiced. Like he's waited for this moment; to crush my hope under his heel. To listen as cracks spread all over me and finally how I'm laying in pieces.
What does he want to do once there's nothing by sharp bits of dust left; glue me together? Glue us together?
I don't even realize Kent has started crying again. Father is bundling him up, like Kent did to James when the toddler fell and slapped his palms on the stone floor in the kitchen.
"Oh Adam. Don't start that up again you're going to get such a headache", he murmurs. Still smiling.
I don't say anything but I stand up and rush out. He isn't actually concerned.
This angers me even more.
I am filled with rage.
Kent's crying his heart out down the hall when he realizes he's going to forget James' childhood, and that James is going to forget him. That he won't be Addie anymore, his big brother that took care of him when they became orphans, but just an older brother.
How dare he?
How dare he think he is allowed to take these things?
To pull them up by the roots and setting them ablaze in front of our eyes.
But I am unable to do anything to him directly. I have no weapons. Not even my body, that I had taught to use as a weapon, is now useless. I probably couldn't even smother him with a pillow even if I tried. And if he woke up he'd be able to fling me across the room with a move of his hand.
Damn him! I think.
But then it comes to me. As fleeting as the fragments that had sailed through the air to my nose back in Kent's bedroom. There is one thing I could do. To ruin something he holds just as dearly.
The door isn't locked. I don't turn on the lights. One would be quite incapable to not find what I am looking for here.
I pick up the first one, the one standing ready at the table. A large black book is laying in the chair that I don't take notice off. All my life I never thought I would willingly touch one of these things.
But here we are.
I'm obviously not as strong as I used to be, but it isn't too hard for me to lift the flask above my head.
And
hurl
it
to
the
floor.
The shattering of thick glass has never been so satisfying. The amber liquid scatters around my feet, soaking my socks. A larger piece thuds against my ankle. And as much as I would like to really take in and observe the wreckage I need to work fast if I want this to have an impact.
I grab a second one from one of the shelves.
This one bounces off the rug but shatters as I hurl the third one at it.
Then a fourth one. And a fifth.
The rug is turning a dark color. The smell is so strong now I am starting to feel dizzy. I can hear my own breathing; so loud in my ears.
But this isn't a panic attack. No, instead, it's empowering .
There is glass everywhere. I feel finer pieces underneath my feet as I move to another section. I destroy another bottle.
I hear steps approaching. Someone must have heard me.
Another one.
The door is torn open.
It's my father himself.
"Jesus Christ!", he yells as he takes in the scene.
I see him come around the sitting chair. There's the noise of glass underneath his shoes. I reach for another bottle in a desperate attempt to smash another one; to make him watch while I did it. But something happens to me. His anger in combination to the sensations around me.
The smell… The dark room… My father, so much larger than me, reaching for me…
My heartbeat is too loud in my ears.
My knees buckle underneath me.
I don't have much time to think about this before I am suddenly yanked off the ground and unceremoniously carried out of the room.
Next thing I know it's bright and I'm laying on cushions. I'm trying to focus on something to make the ceiling stop spinning above me.
"Jesus Christ… ", he mutters as he pulls off my wet socks, they reek of expensive alcohol. My legs are in his lap.
It occurs to me that he says that a lot, despite never having been a religious man; as far as I have been aware of.
My father groans. "Daniels", he calls out. "We need some first aid over here."
I frown as I hear this. However, I am still too dizzy to sit up and have a look myself. But by the sound of it it wasn't just bourbon and whiskey that had made my feet wet.
Someone touches my cheek. The ceiling fades in and out.
"Aaron?" He taps it lightly a few times.
"No blacking out now."
I won't, I want to say. Instead all I manage is a soft groan. My vision is starting to clear a little, though, now that the air isn't saturated with the smell of alcohol.
I hear Daniels enter the sitting room. He squats on the other side of Father's knee and clicks open the medical box he has brought.
I wince as Daniels takes a hold of my foot. I can feel him tilt it to better survey the damage. The pain grounds me enough for me to evaluate the damage myself. I hadn't noticed the glass hurting me, but now that my adrenaline is coming down from its high, I am starting to feel the pain in my foot. The alcohol I've been stepping in is making it sting.
I manage a small flex of my stomach muscles, bringing me up in a quarter way sit-up, and see a tendril of blood trickle down my ankle.
The two of them are looking at the sole of my right foot.
"Sutures?", Dad asks.
"Not deep enough", the guard replies. He tears open a package, pulls out a stark white fabric of some kind, then starts to clean my foot from the blood and alcohol.
I lie back down and allow Daniels to patch up my foot with strips of surgical tape and add a few layers of white bandaging.
"Well, isn't this going to be a joy to keep clean...", my father muses as Daniels packs up the med kit. Then he looks up.
"You done?"
Daniels nods and clicks it shut.
"Good", Dad says, and with that one word Daniels is dismissed.
Dad turns to me then.
He just looks at me for a few seconds while I continue pretending that there's something interesting to look at in the ceiling. My walls, as previously deduced, are gone. I can't seem to find a way to block out his presence, or any presence for that matter. His men are lingering in the nearby rooms and I can sense their perverted anticipation for whatever violence awaits me at the hands of my father. Instead I am left to softly inhale and exhale, trying desperately to dismiss the fact that my legs are draped over his, creating more body-on-body contact, albeit clothed, that I can remember having with my father in a long, long time.
He clears his throat.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself? Feel like you accomplished anything?", he says. He is using that cheerful tone that he reserves for when he is still in control of his anger.
"Hmm?", he inquires.
I stay silent.
He loops an arm around my waist, and once again I am painfully reminded of my lightweight as he effortlessly scoops me up and places me to sit on his knee.
I don't have time to scramble anywhere before he has taken a hold of my foot, tilting it upwards.
"Look at this", he admonishes. "You threw such a tantrum you hurt yourself!"
I will not humor him with a reply. I will not humor him with a reply. I will not-
He furrows his brow.
"Aaron, I know you're not very happy about all this. But I need you to understand that I am your father, and I know what's best for you. And it", he grabs my chin, angling my face to look at him, "is not being executed for treason."
I can't help it.
"Why aren't you angry…?!", I demand. "You've been acting strange ever since I got here and it's really starting to weird me out."
He looks at me indifferently.
"Well, that would be giving you what you want, wouldn't it? To provoke a reaction by smashing Daddy's bottles? That would just be enforcing the behavior."
"I hate you."
The three words fall off my lips before I can halt them. Not that I really want to.
He does not take the bait.
I wait for him to speak again but he doesn't. I tsk before making a move to get off him.
"I'll just go back to my room then."
His mood changes. Like a shark sensing the movement of a lone fish.
"Oh, I didn't say there wouldn't be consequences", he says.
And before I know it he has picked me up and flipped me so that I'm lying face down across his lap.
I'm not stupid. I know what this is.
"You can't be serious", I deadpan.
"Believe me, I am", he says as he starts tugging on my pajama pants. The waist is only a stretchy lining, so it gives way ridiculously easily as he pulls them down over the curve of my bottom to display my underwear. He pushes the pants down to my knees and is just about to peel the cotton underwear as well when a voice chimes in.
"D-aad!"
I look up and see Kent standing in the corner of the doorway. He looks about as mortified as I should be. His eyes are red and puffy. At least he has lost the pillow he was clinging on earlier.
"Adam, I am a little busy right here. Go back to bed and I'll come see you afterwards", Dad says. Like giving me a spanking is just another task he needs to get done before retiring for the night.
He doesn't even wait for Kent to leave the room before he raises his arm.
"I-I don't feel well…!", Kent squeaks.
Father looks up. Lowers the hand ever so slightly. He collects himself. Remembers that he's supposed to pretend to be a caring father. He forces a smile.
"What do you mean?"
"I think I have a fever...", Kent tells him.
Kent looks anything but sick. He just looks terrified; which makes me question why he's trying to interfere to begin with.
Dad sighs but makes a hither motion for Kent. I'm still being held down when Kent comes to stand in front of him so that he can place his hand on his forehead.
The reaction is instantaneous. Surprise. Confusion. And then something I didn't expect: Concern.
As easily as he had flipped me I'm flipped back up to sit on the sofa. Dad's attention is solely on Kent now. He touches his forehead, cheeks, neck.
"You're burning up…!", he exclaims.
"I've been tired since din-" Kent yelps as Dad picks him up, bridal style, and marches out of the living room.
"You, go to your room", he tells me over his shoulder before disappearing in the direction of his office, and I catch the last glimpse of Kent; who looks far too surprised and confused for this to have been part of his plan.