To Be Obscure

| CH. 25

Whiskey worked wonders in the toughest of situations. I learned that many years ago. Victor paced the room, talking, and I, with a glass in hand, listened to every word.

The shortest life story ever told.

He and his wife, Catherine, took me into their care when I was five years old. My biological mother had been a prostitute in a nearby town, and Victor was the only man to have shown her any sort of kindness. Rather than argue about his apparent infidelities, they set their eyes on me. She'd never outright said if I was his child or not, but the woman was dying, and I was on the path of becoming an orphan.

He welcomed me with open arms and gave me his name. From then on, I was John Sutton, the son to him and Catherine. I was attached to him and followed his every move. When Henry was born, I helped more than any young boy would. I was the protective older brother, keen to show him everything in the world when our parents could not.

My mother cared for all the children in the town, while Victor and the other men tended the farms. Abigail—Victor's sister, and my aunt—loved me and Henry as though we were her own children, as she couldn't have any of her own.

Our lives were perfect for it was.

That is, until the plague blew into our village with a gust of wind and covered our world with darkness. Everywhere, people died—one by one. When it came time for us to fall ill, we did. Only, Victor couldn't remember if we'd recovered from it, slept through it, or died. What he could remember was the fire.

The King ordered every town infected with the plague to be burned to the ground. We were in our houses when they went ablaze; we were the only ones who escaped. We rushed through every room, waking up those of us that had slept, and ran through the black, sickening smoke that would have choked us.

At first, he said, we were frightened by the fire. It wasn't until it died down and the screams of our neighbors silenced, that we'd realized our skin was unscathed. We weren't burned or harmed—in fact, the dark marks from our illness had vanished. No one had a fever, no one looked sick. We seemed normal.

And Henry—who'd fallen ill first—hopped on my back with an energetic cry as he shouted out into the night, "I feel wonderful!"

We were alive, cured, and no one knew why.

When Victor stopped to relight his cigarette, Nathan awoke with a groan, but eager to listen. He'd heard it all, his eyes dancing with the reflections of rapid thoughts. Not once did he say a word.

Victor settled his cig in between his teeth. "Your friend doesn't speak unless he's yelling?"

I shook my head, helping myself to another glass of whiskey from the bottle that sat on the cabinet. I'd nearly finished it during Victor's recap of the life I never knew. "Contrary, he's actually a chatter-box, but," I looked at Nathan as I downed a glass faster than I meant to, "you've opened a can of worms with that tale."

"It isn't a tale," Victor said as he took in a long drag from his cigarette, "it's your life, your memories. I'm trying to help you."

I closed my eyes and took in a breath. For the first time, I partially remembered things before Margot, before France, but they were chopped in pieces that didn't quite connect. Like Henry—I could remember his voice but not his face, and Abigail—every image of her moved in a blur. I knew her hair, her figure—tall and curvy—but like Henry, I couldn't put a face to her name. No matter how much I drank, the pictures never became clear.

Nathan cleared his throat as he looked at me. "Stop drinking," he said.

I shook my head as I finished my ninth glass, but I couldn't pour another—the bottle was empty.

"Good," Nathan sighed.

Victor finished his cigarette and tossed the end of it inside a wastebasket that sat in the corner of the room. It was filled with them, nearly halfway. I assumed the room was his.

"You," he said as he pointed at Nathan, "what's your name?"

Nathan looked at me as though he needed approval, and I nodded as if I owed it to him. "Nathan," he said with a deep breath. "I'm—I'm Lamont's roommate."

"Hm." Victor rubbed his shoulder as he looked at both of us. "He's aware, obviously? Of this curse?"

The second can of worms was opened, and I rubbed my temple as Nathan lifted his finger. "Actually, it isn't a curse at all. By testing Lamont's blood, I was able to learn that not only are you guys, not demons, but you're still sick. You were never cured at all."

Victor furrowed his brow as he looked at me. I shook my head and waved my hand with a silent 'don't bother.'

"Let's get on with this plan," I said as I rummaged through the closet for a change of clothes. Victor and I were roughly the same builds, so I knew his clothes would fit. I grabbed a sweater, one like his, and swapped it with mine that was torn and tattered. I searched for pants next.

"Plan?" Nathan sat up straight, tossing a shirt in his direction. "What plan?"

"Oh, right," Victor rubbed his chin, "you were asleep for that bit."

Above the hanging clothes, I found jeans and slacks folded neatly on a shelf. I pulled down a pair of black jeans, measuring them to my waist. I was wider than Victor, but they'd do. With a quick tug and toss, my bloodied jeans landed in the wastebasket, burying the cigarette buds.

"How they'd sent Rosie out to find me, all with the hopes that I'd come back and take down this blasted place."

"You?" Nathan swapped shirts, making a face at the size difference. He was far too skinny for it, and the collar hung loosely around his neck. "Not saying you're not amazing, Lamont, but why you?"

"Because he is the only one Abby wouldn't see coming." Victor glanced out the window and at the bright moon. "It's well known that she and I have been at each other's throats for years now. But him," he turned to look at me, "she'd think he came back for forgiveness."

"I'm so confused," Nathan rubbed his face.

"First time for everything," I muttered as I rolled my shoulders.

"Okay, right, whatever," he stood and fumbled with his new shirt, "but you realize you guys sent a teen out on her own."

"We had to," Victor sighed.

"Okay, to take down a church? I mean, what the fuck!"

Victor opened his mouth to complain, but I shook my head, gripping Nathan's shoulder tight. "I'm going to be honest with you, Nate. I don't give a flying fuck about the church, and what they believe in—tamed Satanists, if you ask me. I only care about the two women out there that are waiting for me, you, and him," I nodded my head towards my father. "The vile bitch that's waiting for me—I'll slit her throat, get my revenge. After that, if they want to continue praying to their upside crosses, that's their own sin."

Nathan sighed as Victor laughed. "Are you sure you aren't drunk?" he asked me.

My laugh echoed his. "Never."