Burned
Page 93
Porn?
The sounds coming from the monitor are base, guttural. I ease into the study, walking like an Indian in the quiet, stealthy way Daddy once taught me on a camping trip: heel to toe, heel to toe.
Barrons touches the screen, tracing an image, dark gaze unfathomable.
As I move around the desk and glimpse the monitor, I bite back a soft, instinctive protest.
He’s watching a video of his son.
The child is in human form, naked on the floor of his cage. He’s in the throes of hard convulsions and there’s blood on his face, ostensibly from having bitten his own tongue.
This isn’t what Barrons’s son looked like the only time I ever met him. Then, he seemed a lovely, helpless, innocent, and frightened child, and although it was but an act to lure me close enough to attack, it was one of very few times in his tortured existence he’d looked normal. I still remember the anguish in Barrons’s voice when he asked me if I’d seen him as a boy, not the beast.
As I watch, his son begins to change back into his monstrous form, and it’s a violent, excruciating transformation, even more torturous to watch than when Barrons turns back into a man.
The beast his son is becoming on-screen makes the rabid beast-form of Barrons that stalked me on a cliff in Faery look like a playful puppy.
Shortly after his son tried to eat me, Barrons told me he used to keep cameras on the boy at all times, reviewing them endlessly for a single glimpse of him as the child he’d fathered. Over the millennia, he saw him that way on only five occasions. Apparently this was one of them.
Why is he watching it now? It’s over. We freed him. Didn’t we? Or did the oddly malleable universe in which I seem to find myself lately find some way to reshape that, too?
The tips of his fingers slide from the screen. “I wanted to give you peace,” he murmurs. “Not erase you from the cycle forever. Now I wonder if it was my pain or yours I sought to end.”
I wince and close my eyes. My life hasn’t been completely blithe and carefree. When I was sixteen, my adopted paternal grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer that metastasized to his liver and brain. Daddy’s grief cast a palpable shadow over the Lane household for months. I’ll never forget the crippling headaches Grandpa suffered, the nausea from chemo and radiation. I watched Daddy wrestle with decision after decision, ultimately withholding IV antibiotics to treat the pneumonia that took Grandpa more quickly and far more gently.
Barrons is voicing the legitimate question of anyone who’s ever agreed not to resuscitate, to cease life-sustaining measures for a loved one, to accept a Stage 4 cancer patient’s decision to refuse more chemo, or euthanize a beloved pet. Throughout the caretaker experience, your loved one’s presence is intense and exquisitely poignant and painful, then all the sudden they’re gone and you discover their absence is even more intense and exquisitely poignant and painful. You don’t know how to walk or breathe when they’re no longer there. And how could you? Your world revolved around them.
I should have seen this coming. At least I have the comfort of believing Alina is in heaven. That maybe someday I’ll gaze into a child’s eyes and see a piece of my sister’s soul in there, because the fact is I do believe we go on. Then again, maybe I’ll never see a trace of her, but I still feel her. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if she’s only a slight shift of reality away from me sometimes, in what I think of as the slipstream, and if I could only slip sideways, too, I could join her. And one day I think I will slip sideways and get to see her again, if only as ships passing on our way to new destinations in the same vast, magnificent sea.
Perhaps it’s a sentimental delusion to which I cling so I don’t drown in grief.
I don’t think so.
Barrons says softly, “Eternal agony or nothing. I’d have chosen agony. I gave you nothing. You weren’t cognizant. You couldn’t make the choice.”
What do we crave for those terrible decisions we’re forced to make in the course of an average lifetime?
Forgiveness. Absolution.
There’s no possibility Barrons will get it, in this lifetime or any other.
We K’Vrucked his son to grant him rest. We didn’t merely kill him, we annihilated his very being. As the Sinsar Dubh put it, a good K’Vrucking is more final than death, it’s complete eradication of all essence, of what humans like to think of as a soul.
I don’t know that I believe in souls, but I believe in something. I think each of us has a unique vibration that’s inextinguishable, and when we die it translates into the next phase of being. We may come back as a tree, or a cat, perhaps a person again, or a star. I don’t think our journey is limited. I look up at the sky, ponder the enormity of the universe and simply know that the same well of joy that birthed so much wonder gave us more than a single chance to explore it.
Not so with his son. The child is no longer in pain because he is no longer. No heaven, no hell. Just gone. As Barrons said, erased. Unlike me always sort of sensing Alina out there, Barrons can’t feel him anymore.
Who knows how long he took care of his child, searched for the way to free him, sat in his subterranean cave watching him, cultivating the hope that he would one day find the right spell, or ritual or god or demon powerful enough to change his son back.
A few months ago the never-ending ritual that had shaped his existence for thousands and thousands of years ended.
As did the hope.
And the true, long overdue grief began.
The sounds coming from the monitor are base, guttural. I ease into the study, walking like an Indian in the quiet, stealthy way Daddy once taught me on a camping trip: heel to toe, heel to toe.
Barrons touches the screen, tracing an image, dark gaze unfathomable.
As I move around the desk and glimpse the monitor, I bite back a soft, instinctive protest.
He’s watching a video of his son.
The child is in human form, naked on the floor of his cage. He’s in the throes of hard convulsions and there’s blood on his face, ostensibly from having bitten his own tongue.
This isn’t what Barrons’s son looked like the only time I ever met him. Then, he seemed a lovely, helpless, innocent, and frightened child, and although it was but an act to lure me close enough to attack, it was one of very few times in his tortured existence he’d looked normal. I still remember the anguish in Barrons’s voice when he asked me if I’d seen him as a boy, not the beast.
As I watch, his son begins to change back into his monstrous form, and it’s a violent, excruciating transformation, even more torturous to watch than when Barrons turns back into a man.
The beast his son is becoming on-screen makes the rabid beast-form of Barrons that stalked me on a cliff in Faery look like a playful puppy.
Shortly after his son tried to eat me, Barrons told me he used to keep cameras on the boy at all times, reviewing them endlessly for a single glimpse of him as the child he’d fathered. Over the millennia, he saw him that way on only five occasions. Apparently this was one of them.
Why is he watching it now? It’s over. We freed him. Didn’t we? Or did the oddly malleable universe in which I seem to find myself lately find some way to reshape that, too?
The tips of his fingers slide from the screen. “I wanted to give you peace,” he murmurs. “Not erase you from the cycle forever. Now I wonder if it was my pain or yours I sought to end.”
I wince and close my eyes. My life hasn’t been completely blithe and carefree. When I was sixteen, my adopted paternal grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer that metastasized to his liver and brain. Daddy’s grief cast a palpable shadow over the Lane household for months. I’ll never forget the crippling headaches Grandpa suffered, the nausea from chemo and radiation. I watched Daddy wrestle with decision after decision, ultimately withholding IV antibiotics to treat the pneumonia that took Grandpa more quickly and far more gently.
Barrons is voicing the legitimate question of anyone who’s ever agreed not to resuscitate, to cease life-sustaining measures for a loved one, to accept a Stage 4 cancer patient’s decision to refuse more chemo, or euthanize a beloved pet. Throughout the caretaker experience, your loved one’s presence is intense and exquisitely poignant and painful, then all the sudden they’re gone and you discover their absence is even more intense and exquisitely poignant and painful. You don’t know how to walk or breathe when they’re no longer there. And how could you? Your world revolved around them.
I should have seen this coming. At least I have the comfort of believing Alina is in heaven. That maybe someday I’ll gaze into a child’s eyes and see a piece of my sister’s soul in there, because the fact is I do believe we go on. Then again, maybe I’ll never see a trace of her, but I still feel her. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if she’s only a slight shift of reality away from me sometimes, in what I think of as the slipstream, and if I could only slip sideways, too, I could join her. And one day I think I will slip sideways and get to see her again, if only as ships passing on our way to new destinations in the same vast, magnificent sea.
Perhaps it’s a sentimental delusion to which I cling so I don’t drown in grief.
I don’t think so.
Barrons says softly, “Eternal agony or nothing. I’d have chosen agony. I gave you nothing. You weren’t cognizant. You couldn’t make the choice.”
What do we crave for those terrible decisions we’re forced to make in the course of an average lifetime?
Forgiveness. Absolution.
There’s no possibility Barrons will get it, in this lifetime or any other.
We K’Vrucked his son to grant him rest. We didn’t merely kill him, we annihilated his very being. As the Sinsar Dubh put it, a good K’Vrucking is more final than death, it’s complete eradication of all essence, of what humans like to think of as a soul.
I don’t know that I believe in souls, but I believe in something. I think each of us has a unique vibration that’s inextinguishable, and when we die it translates into the next phase of being. We may come back as a tree, or a cat, perhaps a person again, or a star. I don’t think our journey is limited. I look up at the sky, ponder the enormity of the universe and simply know that the same well of joy that birthed so much wonder gave us more than a single chance to explore it.
Not so with his son. The child is no longer in pain because he is no longer. No heaven, no hell. Just gone. As Barrons said, erased. Unlike me always sort of sensing Alina out there, Barrons can’t feel him anymore.
Who knows how long he took care of his child, searched for the way to free him, sat in his subterranean cave watching him, cultivating the hope that he would one day find the right spell, or ritual or god or demon powerful enough to change his son back.
A few months ago the never-ending ritual that had shaped his existence for thousands and thousands of years ended.
As did the hope.
And the true, long overdue grief began.
