Parallel World

19. Rehan

He knew what his Gift was. Had discovered it two years ago.

—

He remembered darkness. Self-pity. Hatred. Rage. So much rage. Some days it blinded him. Some days it allowed him to forget. Others it did not.

Pain and sorrow. Endless. They had planted themselves inside him, so deep that one day he had grown numb.

"What shall I call you?" the man said. He was balding, aging quickly. He hid his age with money so that it would be difficult to tell how old he was. He looked to be in his thirties.

But the boy knew he was 49. No one had ever been good at hiding things from him.

He had only hesitated for two seconds before the man repeated impatiently, "What shall I call you?"

The boy stiffened in his dark suit. They always said he looked best in black. He did not think so. But it did not matter what he thought.

"Anything you'd like, sir," he croaked. "It matters little to me."

"Good," the man said, smiling up at him. He was shorter than the boy by a foot. "You're cooperative. This will go excellently, I presume."

The 49-year-old man walked towards him, and sickness clouded his vision, bile rose in his throat. He pushed it back.

He had to think of his family. He had to think of Keila and Rumi and Adornas. He had to think of their smiles. Keila's pretty laugh. Rumi's stubbornness. Adornas' vulnerability. He had to remember his parents. They were all counting on him. He would not let them down.

He would give them a good life. Even if he could not be in it.

I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive. I will survive.

He had chanted those three words to himself over and over and over. Begging to be heard by any god who was listening.

But the world had not answered.

—

He remembered his first time.

The woman had been kind. The only person that had ever been kind. Her hair was brown. Her eyes green. Lips red. She watched him. Waited for the lust to form in his eyes. For his gaze to devour her body. Just the way they liked it.

"Do not be afraid," she said softly, spotting the fear in his eyes. She tilted her delicate head to look up at him, satisfied when his eyes had taken full advantage of her. Her fingers curled in his hair, burning straight through his skull.

"You will live to see the sunrise, beautiful child," she whispered. "You will live. I promise."

But he had not. She had taken him soon after those comforting words. Had patiently coaxed pleasurable sounds from him. He had made her believe he enjoyed it, that he wanted more. That was his job. And if a customer did not finish satisfied, he would get more customers.

So that he could improve his skills.

On that day words became dust. They no longer held any weight.

They no longer held any meaning.

—

Irais always smelled of rosemary and vanilla. Candles always burned low until they went out. The servants were always charming and kind. They had to be.