Kill Me, Kiss Me

FOURTY TWO

CONTENT WARNING: CHILD ABUSE, VIOLENCE

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED

SHIFTING cloth, blurred light, the dim murmur of voices coming from far away; it all appeared slowly. First, only pinpricks could be seen, patches of muted light that broke apart the shadows like they were bolts of silk. There was an expanse of floorboards, scratched and rough with age. There were fumbling hands, a thud, a cry. There was fear in the air.

The image steadied, focused. The toe of a shoe came into view, scratched like the floorboards, it shifted over the floor stiffly like there wasn't enough space to move. Fingers reached down, covered the lens, and the view swung and widened. In an arc - there was a room without windows. And then, there was the soft edge of a jaw, the outline of a pale neck, mahogany curls that brushed gentle against skin.

It was a foreign face. It was a familiar face. And if Theo looked in a mirror, he would see a shadow of this face reflected back. It would be an imperfect one, frayed and fading at the edges, but still a shadow nonetheless. No wonder, he could only think. The tilt of the eyes, the set of the mouth, the shade of the hair, they echoed each other, an almost perfect synchronicity. No wonder - the only notion on his mind.

The name of the face melted on his tongue. Theodore? No, not him. Not me.

"Murray." Trailing on and on, fusing into the video of the boy looking wide-eyed with horror, with false bravado.

There was no time to think why or how. There was no time to think anything other than this is Murray. This is the face from hell. The next moment, the boy's lips broke into a nervous smile, even though there was only fear in his eyes. How strange, how strangely this fear crept up Theo's spine. It gripped him gently like it belonged to him too. Now was he smiling along as well? He could not tell.

This could not be good.

This could not be good.

But the film did not stop. The camera swung around, and again, the stretch of shoddy floor, walls without windows, peeling wallpaper. It all went so quick. At the end, there was only a small, pale face.

"Murray." Soft and muted it said like a prayer, "Murray."

But the face. The face, oh, there was something wrong. Theo could not breathe, it would not come. The air rasped in his throat weirdly and would not go into his lungs. Or perhaps it was the pain in his chest, which one came first? He could not tell. The face came first. It was those dark lashes, black eyes, those expressive brows, curl of hair.

These had stayed the same. The picture they painted was a different one. And standing side by side, the two would share no resemblance, they would be two different people - the Keir now, the Keir then. The difference slowly killed him. For this boy had a forlorn face, and his sorrow showed in the softness of his eyes. It was that understandable sort of pain that was so ingrained in a person they seemed to have been born with it, to the point that once-sharp features were blurred and given an indistinct look. Even now, the fear in the boy's eyes seemed thin and opaque, like he was experiencing the world from the other side of a silk screen.

But Keir, Keir should've burnt like a pyre. As a boy he should've gone up in sparks brighter than the way he burnt now. He would've just been at the beginning of his fuse, the starting line - Ready, get set, go... There should've been a shot, a bang, a leap forwards, a light in the eyes, a vigour in the limbs that spoke of spirit and brave naivety. So how could he, a man who burnt his life like he wanted the whole world to go up in flames with him, have been so tepid and lukewarm, formless as a youth?