The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [131]
Simon became at once struck with the possibility that there may have been someone resting within the room he now occupied, someone awakened by the same commotion and by now alert to his presence, someone who may be upon him before he knew it. He turned again anxiously and pressed himself further into this room, the nervousness which overwhelmed him tightening his grip upon the penlight in effort to maintain a steady focus, as well as a grip on his senses. His eyes searched, his penlight canvassed.
There, before him, was an unkempt bed and a vacant room. Simon immediately knew, by the look of things, by the sight of the furniture and the posters and toys that this room belonged to Andrew.
And Andrew was nowhere within.
***
The sharp edge of the retractable razor was efficient enough to slice straight through a sheet of notebook paper as though it was air and the same effect applied to the unblemished skin over Simon’s right jawbone. He traced the bone line down from an inch before his earlobe and ceased just below the corner of his lips and short of his chin.
He could feel the blood flow beautifully and rapidly across the lower side of his face and towards his neck, and he felt no pain. It gave him the sensation of shifting his cheek into a running drinking fountain, except that what flowed was warm.
The warmth was good; Andrew’s room, in comparison, was cold, as was the rest of the house, as was the empty bed which Simon now sat upon.
Cold, as was the smell of death. Simon could almost inhale the death, see it stream in vapors from his exhaled breath.
Death. Fresh death.
From the master bedroom, the room to the right down the hall past the furnace.
It was his fault. He was to blame for this intrusion, for this crime. It all originated from his consent and he had been conditioned for it all along.
Which was why it was a good idea to inscribe such a work of art upon his face, by the way. It gave him a subtly sublime comfort, an outlet for his guilt, a release from inhibited remorse...if, by this point in his very young life, he could feel remorse.
This Salvatia entity, whoever or whatever she was, wherever she came from, was indeed real without a doubt, not a figment of a deranged and lonely child. If such a being could exist whose endeavors were responsible for Simon’s own daily realities, centered expressly on him, together with the munchkin minion of hers, which called himself Nigel, then the promises that brought him here must be true, just as true as she was real. It all stood to reason, the reason for his ultimate consent to take part in tonight’s escapade in the first place.
Salvatia was real, Nigel was real, as real as his own existence. There lay the meaning of his life, the essence of his destiny…what Salvatia persuaded him to attempt with her held a logical purpose, a purpose for her, and a purpose for him. A salvation for both...to kill his own brother was to achieve salvation for him and for her, for all time.
The problem was, he was never utterly convinced this was his own brother, his own family, the family residing in this house.
Correction.....
The family who now once resided....
Now, after five years of wondering but never having been granted the opportunity to find out for certain, this was his family. For certain.
And somehow, for some reason, his brother was nowhere to be found and remained alive. Simon had considered the possibility that Andrew wouldn’t be there, but he never expected to be as relieved over his absence as he was.
He never expected the photographs in the living room, never expected to be pitted against the truth.
He never anticipated the plan to go this way, to bring such enlightenment, to bring such woe.
Salvatia was there, though, in the house, and by now anywhere. Having discovered Andrew’s absence, she took it upon herself to do away with the mother and the stepfather anyway...perhaps in rage toward a plan ultimately failed, perhaps to partially complete a plan already initiated if nothing more.