CXLII
When he turns around, it's almost like looking into a mirror—except Henry knows his appearance is wretched, a testament to his odyssey.
The Henry standing before him offers a calm, nonchalant smile. "Apologies. Did I startle you?"
He doesn't respond to what seems like a provocation, though it isn't delivered as one. The other Henry simply runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair, brushing it back. His posture betrays how utterly confident he is in the current situation.
"I'd like to talk with you, though I imagine you're in no state for conversation." His gaze shifts to one of the straps of the backpack slung over him. "Would a bottle of water help?"
On the surface, the remark seems casual, even caring. But Henry sees it for what it truly is: a display of power.
This other Henry knows he carries bottles of water in his backpack.
Because he's been watching him.
In his current condition, Henry doubts he could prevail if a fight broke out; it's better to play along. Therefore, he allows himself to sit on the floor, takes one of the bottles from his backpack, and uncaps it without taking his eyes off him. This other version of himself looks away, turning his gaze toward the Eleven who is dozing in front of them.
"If not identical, she's looks much like yours, isn't she?"
He doesn't respond. The other Henry looks back at him, then slowly steps forward and offers his hand. "I want to show you my past."
Henry furrows his brow, reluctant to fall for this trick again. "No," he mutters, his voice raspy and dry.
The other Henry clicks his tongue. "I wasn't asking."
Before Henry can react, the other Henry's fingertips are already pressing against his forehead.
Just as it has happened before, he catches glimpses of numerous memories that contextualize this universe.
The most significant memory, however, places him in this very attic. In it, he sees Eleven—the Eleven now asleep—beneath him, his decayed hand tightening around her neck. Her tears slide down her cheeks, and her teeth grit in futile resistance.
"Choose me." His voice, deep and worn after decades trapped in the other dimension, makes the words sound like an order.
Yet Henry, the passive observer, knows the truth: it is nothing but a plea.
"Ne… ver…" Eleven grunts, her nails digging fruitlessly into his rotting skin. Her legs thrash the air in desperation, searching for an escape that no longer exists.
"We're the same, you and I," he insists, pressing his forehead to hers, seeking a connection that this version of Eleven refuses to grant him. "Why do you keep on denying it? Nothing, no one is left; only me."
"I will never… I will never accept… urgh…"
Eleven chokes, gasping for air. Naively, this version of him believes he can keep her forever; that forcing her will be enough.
That the lack of oxygen, the absence of everything, will make her surrender.
Henry knows better.
He presses his temples, trying to calm the onset of a headache. The other Henry watches him from across the room—he doesn't know when he got there—his expression thoughtful.
"To you, I must have seemed quite naive," he comments; clearly, he's seen his memories.
"More than that," he replies, and to his surprise, he truly means it; it's not just the lingering bitterness from his invaded mind that speaks.
The other Henry laughs without joy. "I thought that if I left her with no options, she would choose me," he admits.
"And how did that work out for you?" Henry forces himself to look at him, the headache barely receding.
The Henry across the attic looks up at the sleeping Eleven.
"Death seemed more tempting to her." His words make Henry shudder, though they don't surprise him; after Brenner, he doubts a cornered Eleven would ever yield to anyone's whims. "This is all I could save."
"Still, you absorbed her powers," Henry points out, referring to his restored appearance.
"That was before, to be honest." Another sigh. "I thought that if she didn't see me as a monster…"
"And all you're left with is an empty shell," Henry states mercilessly.
Suddenly, he understands the choice of words from earlier.
"That doesn't belong to you." Because it is no longer her, it is no longer Eleven.
Instead of getting angry, the other Henry watches him closely, as if silently judging him.
Then, with a half-smile, he replies: "I saw your memories, too. Yours, and those the other Henry showed you."
Henry falls silent, feeling suddenly exposed. The man before him, however, doesn't seem interested in fighting, not even with words.
He understands why when he murmurs in a defeated tone—the tone of someone who has lost everything—: "The three of us… We are nothing but hungry creatures."