Ink | Soulmate AU | ✓

sixteen | it was you

   He looked into my eyes, and to see his so full of tears sent a chill straight to my spine. Oh my God, what had I done?

   'My son, Archie.' He cleared his throat. 'He... he was my son,' he said again, his voice now dangling over the edge of madness. Wait, was his son? What did—

   I didn't have time to process this information before he was sitting cross legged on the floor like a child, his eyes wild, muttering to himself; he had the pair of scissors from the coffee table in his hands, and nonsensical sentences tumbled out of his mouth, like 'He isn't here, Archie, where is he?' and 'What did you do with him, Archie? I know. You think I don't know, but I know,' he hissed. 'It was you that killed him, Archie.'

   He put the photo frame down gently on the floor and Adrianna was there, her arms around his shoulders, whispering things I couldn't hear into her husband's ear. I saw him open the scissors wide when she wasn't looking, pushing the blades as far as they would go, and drag one of them slowly across the palm of his hand until a huge crimson gash appeared in his skin and he winced; then his wife was tearing them out of his hands, throwing them across the room and holding him tightly, so tightly he collapsed onto her shoulder and began to weep.

   I was more uncomfortable than I'd ever been in my life, horrified, sitting there on the sofa watching him slip into insanity at the very mention of my soulmate; I pretended to be interested in my now lukewarm coffee, taking a long, disgusting sip, all the while watching him out of the corner of my eye, thinking about what he'd said.

   'You think I don't know, but I know. It was you that killed him, Archie.'

   Then, he seemed to stop crying out of nowhere, as if coming back to reality. Once he became lucid again, a look of realisation dawned on his face, as he noticed me. It seemed like he'd forgotten that I was there. I couldn't blame him, really; I almost had as well.

   He cleared his throat. 'A-Adrianna, could you— c-could you get me some water please?' His voice shook, but now he sounded more angry than anguished. Had I done something wrong?

   What a stupid question. I was so stupid. Everything about this was wrong.

   The woman, looking a little unnerved, scurried off without a word. Now the Professor's eyes were on me, cold and unmoving as ever, and I swallowed, hard. He ran his hands through his hair again, and I wondered if the action was a nervous twitch— but this time, when he took his hands away, his ashy hair was streaked with blood from the cut he'd made.

   I wondered whether I should make a run for it, but my burning curiosity kept me there, desperately trying to hold his gaze. Besides, I didn't think I'd get far. I didn't trust anything about this.

   He was the first one to break eye contact, though, and he glared towards the floor for a moment before he spoke.

   'Archie. I think we need to talk.'

***

   His son. His son? That answered so many questions, but it asked so many more.

   Back at home that evening, I sat cross-legged on the old sofa, staring at the wall opposite me but not really looking at it. I'd finally had chance to digest what had happened at the Professor's house. My tired eyes rested on one corner of the wall, where the cream paint was chipping off, exposing bare plaster beneath it. Most of the house was in a state of mild disrepair, but as a student, my job was to let it get worse, not fix it.

   My thoughts swam violently, desperately trying to stay afloat rather than drown, irretrievable, in that lump of chaos I called a brain. It occurred to me how many times in the past month or so I'd sat here, just asphyxiating in my own imagination.

   I was in love with my art Professor's son, which was awkward, but also let me breathe out a sigh of relief about one particular question – one that had nagged at the back of my mind for days now. Is George actually the Professor? The thought sent chills down my spine, but at least now I knew the answer was no. It had been a stupid, fleeting thought, but I was still glad it wasn't true. The evidence had almost led up to me believing that, but now I considered it, a father-son relationship between them made sense.

   Of course, Inking was carried through genetics.

   Before I could stop them, the Professor's dark words echoed through my head again, like they had all afternoon: 'It was you that killed him, Archie.' Could that possibly be true in any way? What did that mean? I'd assumed it was just delirium talking, but maybe there had been a deeper meaning to his words. That wasn't just something you made up.

   Was my soulmate dead? No— that didn't make any sense. The Professor's soulmate was dead, and they couldn't communicate anymore. So how could I still— then again, when was the last time I'd spoken to George? Around a week ago, right? He could have died in that time, I thought, distantly. There was chance.

   I could have written to him right then and there, and waited for a response to find out.

   But I didn't.

   Somehow, I knew he was alive. I had some kind of a sixth sense that I'd know, just know, if my soulmate wasn't on this planet anymore. I knew I'd feel it, a deep ache in my bones, shards of glass resonating in my heart. I knew it.

   Then, I realised– that must have been what the Professor felt. All the time.

***

   The evening slipped through my fingers; time seemed to rush past me like a cold gust of wind and I felt even more alone than usual. I wondered absently what the Professor and his wife were doing right now. I couldn't picture anything. It was hard to believe that scene had ever happened.

   I thought about eating to calm the growling in my stomach, but couldn't work up the appetite. Lumpy coffee gurgled unpleasantly in there, and I could feel the liquid sloshing about whenever I moved, making me feel sick.

   I could've done something. Watched TV. Read. Done some art. Anything to distract myself, to escape. But I was trapped in this vicious cycle of thoughts and I just sat there. Thinking.

   Nothing seemed to matter. I wished I cared about my life, my art course, my future— but I just didn't anymore. I still wanted to be alive, but not without George. Even though I'd never met him – which, in a rational thought process, seemed ridiculous – but destiny had chosen him to be the love of my life. It wasn't even like I solidly believed in destiny, but the thought of it comforted me slightly, and I didn't exactly disbelieve it either.

   Surely, the Government wouldn't take it away just because they couldn't control it? That was pure evil. How could they justify doing that to anyone? Innocent people?

   I scoffed at my own idea. Of course they would. They were the Government.