Across Acheron

Session 6

A whole week passed with a shitload of nothing. Everything blended, really. I couldn’t tell a weekday from a weekend, I couldn’t tell pain from anger, and I definitely couldn’t tell if Keenan was human or not. I was leaning towards the not side of that, but I didn’t want to believe it.

I also got real good at pretending. I told myself that I’d save that woman, but I spent a week pretending that she never existed. I pretended that I couldn’t hear her screaming when Cillian touched her, and I pretended not to hear Keenan when he told me, “Don’t listen to it. Don’t puke.”

Most of all, I pretended that it didn’t bother me anymore. That granted me a lot of points on Cillian’s side. He put his fists to my face a lot less. That didn’t mean that he didn’t pound me when he got the chance, though.

I kind of understood why Cillian got angry with me a lot. I think it was mostly because I didn’t act my age. I was twenty-four then, but I still acted as if I was about thirteen. I still cried when he hit me, and I still shied away from a fight even though I wanted to believe I was tough. I kind of looked thirteen as well; my brown hair never stayed neat and my blue eyes were always childish, as Keenan put it.

I didn’t think that they were always childish, though. When people come to a conclusion about something, they think that it’s always like that. Even if my eyes got all serious, which I’m sure they do sometimes, no one would notice it. They’re too stubborn to admit that they’re wrong.

Keenan was doing just that on a Friday—or Saturday—afternoon. I got out of helping Cillian out in the field because he was still pissed off at me for the night before. I was stupid and asked if he would turn himself in. My jaw still hurt like hell from the punch he gave me.

Anyway, Keenan watched me intently, his eyes filled with confusion. He only gave that look when something was odd or off to him and my serious eyes was giving him that feeling. I ignored him, though, because I had greater things to worry about.

“Are you still trying to formulate a plan?”

I never did stop. I had many plans in my head, but all would either end up with me potentially dead, beaten, or wanted. Keenan swore that he wouldn’t help me. It’s not part of my job, he had told me, but he was always in my room when I tried to think. I had asked him to get out more than a few times, but of course, he merely ignored me. It wasn’t as if I hated his presence, anyway.

When I nodded, Keenan sighed and started to throw an old hacky sack against my wall, playing catch with himself. “I don’t understand why you’re even wasting your time. That woman ruined your family, didn’t she? Or maybe it’s because you’re an amnesiac.”

“That’s not true,” I rushed to say. “I remember some things now. Though they’re not so clear...”

I was telling the truth. Kind of. I didn’t remember that woman, but dreams granted me small scenes with a warm hearted woman who I assumed was my mother, and man who always kept a cigarette between his thin lips who I assumed was my father. The dreams were always quiet, short lived, and never made much sense. I shoved them back as much as I could most of the time. They scared me, if I have to be honest with you.

I hadn’t noticed that Keenan was staring at me until then. His eyes seemed drawn. He looked away from me after several minutes, throwing the sack slower that time. “Oh.”

I’m still not sure what he meant by that.

“Maybe I should talk to her first,” I finally said after the silence choked me. “I mean, I need to get her to trust me first, right? We’ll never get out alive if she doesn’t trust me.”