Writer’s note ~ One; if one didn’t see the subtitle, this is most definitely mature, and prone to be m//. It will likely be filled with gore as well. >> Two; it’s a work in progress. I’ll post it as I write it. Three; this story details the background/history of some of my characters, primarily Deyan Evangel. Four; feel free to post comments of any sort. Five; enjoy! ^^
Not all who die evil are born evil. Many are turned to the side of darkness by the experiences of their lives. Betrayed, drowned in lies, abandoned, unloved.
In fact, living amongst evil could either drive one to completely accept it. Otherwise they would completely reject it. Does this mark weakness? Do the weaker cave in to corruption?
It all revolves around morals. Morals, invented by the human race and comprehended only by them. Lesser creatures – animals, plants – they know nothing of human machinations. They exist simply for the continued survival of their species.
How can good morality be trusted in, when lined up beside the rest of humanity’s creations? Religion, politics…? These are petty, stupid ways in which humans try to dominate one another. The meat of the matter is that humans don’t understand that to reach their full potential, they must work together.
All they have achieved so far is the spawning of more evil, hate, ill will and vice in people who, perhaps, raised in a different environment, would not have yielded to it or even deserved it.
* * *
Slightly morbid at times, but with a charm more cunning than that of an older man’s, Deyequilan Evangel had not been born evil. He had started off innocent, considerate and happy, and he should have journeyed through life with only his innocence tarnished. The middle child of five, he was overshadowed by his two elder brothers and dominated by his two younger sisters.
With his ruffled raven hair falling into his eyes, plus the jagged brow which overshadowed his dark, deep-set eyes, he gained a rather intimidating edge when setting his gaze upon others. Only when a sparkling ray of sunlight shone past his messy locks and directly illuminated his eyes could their actual colour be seen: a dark, rich, midnight blue.
At the age of seventeen, Deyan was, well, not an introvert, but there was never something quite right about him. His mood was prone to jump from tier to tier, from high to low – from anger to joy, to silence and then to shouting. Some people liked him and some outright avoided him. What they never realized was that Deyan was a firm believer in giving what he received. He offered respect as he was treated to it; he was generous when others shared with him, and so on.
It took a lot of patience to deal with Deyan. Thus, the only people he was on speaking terms with were of the tolerant, uncomplaining, and optimistic sort. One such entity was his friend, Jason. The boys had only known each other for about a year, ever since Jason’s family had moved into town. Unlike Deyan, Jason was an only child, which had its own setbacks as well as benefits. Needless to say, their personalities lined up well.
Jason was down-to-earth, always got to the point, humble but strong-willed, and had his own quiet sense of determination which balanced Deyan’s hot-headedness. The boy had dreamy green eyes, mellower and more pleasant features than Deyan’s grim and severe ones, light brown hair which, while flat, was arrayed effectively. Jason often tried to mess it up, perhaps to match Deyan’s, but never quite achieved the same result.
Not to say that one of them was the more dominant. They really did balance out very well.
To the eternal bemoaning of all the children, they were gathered and educated together. They all relied upon their own initiative as to when they would quit being schooled. Deyan was of an age to easily stamp his foot and bang his fist and declare he’d had enough.
He stayed for one reason. One very pretty, coy, intelligent reason named Anita Candice Becker.
She had elected to stay in school for a couple of extra years, helping out with the little tots. Deyan always watched her from afar. He always had his eyes on the prize. Those soft, coiling curls of honey-blonde hair, that sweet smile, those slender hands and her careful step. Perhaps she was just a single segment of a dream, floating around in reality simply to taunt him. But he promised himself he would have her in his arms one day.
Caught up in teenage fantasy, Deyan lost the minutes and hours in which he was anywhere near Anita. Entranced by the curve of her lips or the peal of her laughter, time would while away around him and he, unaware, would carry on and then wake up the next day and wonder where his evening had gone.
His crush wasn’t exactly a secret, either.
Many rumours said that she was interested in Jason instead. Well, they weren’t just rumours. Deyan had almost walked right into them at the one time when Anita had thrown herself at Jason and practically smothered the boy’s face with her lips.
However, all gossip grew stale over the course of an entire year and most forgot about it. Deyan’s hope was a sweet, small flower, somehow still thriving amidst the ashes of the logic he had forced himself to ignore. Common sense told him that Anita would have given him some sort of signal by now if she was keen on him. Jason had admitted that he had no interest in the young woman, and he had rejected her.
Foolish optimism told Deyan that with life there was love, and with time there was always hope.
The stupid bitch would realise someday that I exist, too.
* * *
It all started in this bustling town of Skarden. The secluded country area, populated and cultivated, at the edge of a fertile mountain range, was home to nigh over a thousand residents. It was defined by small, cultured, unique characteristics: hundreds of pennants and flags snapping high over roofs; low lavender hedges and various other shrubbery; cobbled pathways under broad eaves; high brick walls and narrow alleys opening unexpectedly onto sweeping fields of wheat-coloured grasses and reeds. Lambs, calves and horses gambolled in the fields, and beyond the leas the flat land rose abruptly into green, misty hills which expanded further into beautiful, craggy mountains.
In his spare time, Deyan loved to sneak off to the foothills. Often he spent many hours there alone, thinking or daydreaming.
Rain fell often, due to the mountain range so close by; sometimes it was a light haze, and other times a satisfying and nourishing downpour. It left the fluttering flags hanging down lazily, drenched with moisture.
Except, one damp morning, all of Skarden had awoken to hear that there was one particular flag which was not only sodden with water.
It was dripping with blood.
The largest one, which hung over the town centre, in the middle of the worn town plaza, was torn and ragged and splashed with crimson. It was taken down hastily, but too late – waves of shock and horror already rippled through the town. Gossips whispered and families discussed. Whose blood was it? What did it represent? Why was it taken down and violated as such? Was it a warning?
That same morning, Jason caught up with Deyan as he usually did. (Deyan made a point of taking this route because Anita often came this way.) This kid should be renowned far and wide for his unfailing enthusiasm, Deyan thought drably as he was greeted with a charging tackle and a ruffle of his hair. By all rights Jason’s mood should be contagious. For some reason he was always cheery around Deyan. At least Deyan wasn’t impacting negatively on Jason. The darker boy – in looks and nature, too – always gave a mockingly deigning smile.
Both of them ignored the dreary rain fluttering from the skies, taking a side walk under long porches. Younger children (accompanied by a less excitable older woman) skipped down the street, giggling wildly and shouting to one another about every puddle they found. At one point Deyan had to ease aside a rambunctious little one by her pigtails. Her squeal didn’t deviate from sheer delightedness. “Careful, sweetheart,” he said, using the endearment which Anita often used. “Where’s Annie?”
“I’unno,” the girl mumbled, rolling her eyes, presumably for being interrupted in her puddle-diving game. “She didn’t come to get us today.”
“Alright. Thank you.” Deyan let her go, eyes downturned. Instant worry gnawed at his stomach.
Jason turned to his friend. “Oi, my mother made some extra apricot jam, would you –”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Are you serious? You don’t want any?”
Deyan started to argue then slapped a hand to his face, moaning with exasperated humour. “Never mind.” Every time he missed an opportunity at seeing Anita, irritation promptly became his prevailing emotion.
* * *
His displeasure certainly wasn’t appeased when they walked through the town square. At that moment, Skarden’s defiled banner was being hoisted down. Deyan craned his neck to try and peer past the buzzing crowds, and his feet curved towards the centre of the plaza.
“Tally-ho, boys!” Nestor, the oldest of a group of boys a little older than Deyan and Jason, called out to them. He was simply an acquaintance. Slightly wild-looking, with square features and brown, wavy hair, the young man was always around and about the town. With his mother always looking after his bed-ridden father, Nestor had a little more freedom than some of the other boys in Skarden.
“What’s going on?” asked Deyan.
Raising a casual hand, Nestor drawled, “Well, not much more than you can actually see right now. We’ll have to investigate why the flag was ruined as such...”
“Who cares? Let’s go,” Jason whispered, firmly pushing his hands into Deyan’s knapsack. “Away.”
With a sigh he conceded, nodding to Nestor as they moved onwards. The blood on the flag had been stark; all he could conjure in his mind for the rest of the walk were slashes of red and pools of bloody cloth.
Anita wasn’t at the school, either. Deyan spent most of the day moping and scrawling doodles onto his parchment instead of doing his work - the draft of a pretend official letter. Jason always had the sense not to disturb Deyan when the latter was down in the dumps. In fact, a lot more passed between the friends unsaid than said. Their companionship was based on mutual understanding without committing to verbal communication.
Not seeing Anita all day left Deyan guttered like a dying candle. Rather than spend the rest of the day with his family, he hoisted his pack higher onto his shoulders and went in the opposite direction to his home, heading for the hills. He always went alone. Only once or twice had he invited Jason or one of his siblings to come with him.
Soon the town melted away behind him to expose the wilder landscape at its borders. Deviating from the main road, Deyan trudged through dewy expanses of grass. Sheep bleated as he passed. The sun, cool behind its screen of clouds, provided little warmth and light.
He spent the better part of an hour walking along the foothills, ascending a bit here and there to get to his favourite location. He found it with ease, having been here countless times before. An extensive border of leafy plane trees cast dark shadows over a limpid brook. Deyan sat down comfortably amongst the roots of the largest tree. The scene rustled serenely about him. He thought he heard a muffled cooing. He glanced around, perturbed.
The boy gave a frightened jump. Across from him, on the other side of the clearing, someone sat. Those blonde curls were unmistakeable. In the failing light, Deyan thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Squinting, he jumped up and stalked closer, animal-like.
She was pale. Pale like the dead. Eyes glazed, open wide, stationary. Mouth open in a perfectly round ‘o’, trapped in a moment of surprise. Stiff hands clasped around a bouquet of blue agapanthuses.
She was dead. Her bowels decorated her lap, and the entire front of her white shift was no longer white – it was rusty red. She had obviously been forced into that pose.
Deyan jerked, filled with a horrified surprise of his own. As if he’d been struck by lightning and frozen in time at that very instant. Then the grisly moment shattered and he scrambled backward with a piercing yell. Again he yelled; he tripped over, knees and hands squashing into muddy grass. Cooing chuckles and cackles met his ears.
“Do ya love her? Do ya still love her?”
Hands clamping over his ears and eyes squeezed shut, Deyan got to his feet and stumbled blindly from the scene. The sadistic voices followed him.
“DO YOU LOVE HER NOW, EVANGEL?”
In response Deyan gave a heart-piercing scream. He ran like he’d never run before. He left Anita and the anonymous jeering voices far behind.
He had no perception of time. Retching with revulsion, grief and fatigue, he collapsed in the town square near nightfall. Hugging his arms around the bare flagpole, he gasped and caught his breath. Rain slipped from the heavens, and his tears were lost with the raindrops. He knew whose blood had adorned the town flag.
Months wasted, years wasted. Was life a waste, if it could be cut off as quickly as an ember suffocated by a handful of sand?
The emotion was not only what ruled him; it wasn’t that which only governed him. It defined his state of mind. Emotions grappled, weak and strong, dark and bright, within him, rendering him otherwise completely immobile on the outside. Panic, horror, despair, disgust, denial, rage, and utter screaming misery, all fought for control. He retched, bringing up sour bile. Slumped on the cobblestones, he was a wet, shivering, mess.
Instinct, rather than his conscious mind, forced him to stretch out of his foetal curl and crawl out of the rain. All he could see played out in the blackness behind his eyelids was Anita’s expression of anguished shock. Why was she dead...? She wasn’t meant to be dead. A thousand times, he’d fantasized that she would follow him out to the wilderness and proclaim her attraction. A million times, he had trailed his eyes over her face, but why did the last time have to be the worst?
Part of him wanted never to go back to the hills, never to speak of Anita’s fate, never to talk to anyone again. Sure, his love had caused him more pain than joy, but this...? Deyan’s conscience rebelled against the whole incident. She couldn’t be dead. She was supposed to be his, not the Reaper’s!
...
“Deyan? Deyequilan?” Something warm – someone’s hand? – was shaking him – gaining no response. “Deyan Evangel, LISTEN TO ME!”
It was the tone of voice his father – Phelan – used whenever he was being assertively stern. And, oh boy, only Phelan Evangel could force that much severity into every syllable.
He’s talking as if I’m purposely ignoring him... came the detached thought. Deyan couldn’t feel any one part of his body, but strangely his heartbeat resounded in his ears. Or as if I’ve done something wrong.
The strong, firm hands hoisted the young man upright. Still blood in his head rushed away, drawn by gravity as he was righted. Deyan blinked his eyes open and the world rotated around him for a few seconds. Swaying against his father’s arms, he waited until the room righted itself around him. Other voices babbled around him but they went through one ear and out the other.
“Why were you collapsed in the plaza?” demanded Phelan. His face was grim, it sported a lot of peppery stubble, and his thick, dark eyebrows contracted expectantly at his youngest son.
The babble increased, and other bodies swarmed around him. Deyan squinted around. He recognized the town hall, though he had never been in here when so many candles were lit... the golden light floated around, casting harsh shadows.
Somehow, Deyan’s stubborn defiance won out over his state of tired shock. “Don’t talk to me like that and I might just tell you.” His throat was still rough and constricted. Vision clearing further, he looked to the side, giving a short outcry and scooting further against his father – shying away from the desecrated flag laid out on a nearby table.
Phelan arched an eyebrow. “Well? Please tell us?” He had experience in dealing with Deyan, since the boy had been preceded by two other sons. Besides, this wasn’t quite the time for beating around the bush.
Deyan’s eyes squeezed shut as a fresh wave of horror engulfed him. A hand grasped his shoulder on his other side. “Yes, do tell us.” Deyan gazed at Nestor’s forbidding grin. For some reason it disturbed him immensely. The boy would be far more comfortable disclosing what he’d seen around less people... people who he knew well. Maybe just his father and mother. Or Jason. Where was Jason? Deyan hopefully looked around.
“Deyan, it’s nearing midnight,” Phelan explained, realizing that something was seriously wrong with his son. “Would you like us to go home?”
“...Yes. I mean, no, no!” Deyan’s mind latched firmly onto one idea. Anita. You have to explain about Anita.
And so he did. It took him longer than it would have had he not been so helplessly distant. Anita’s mother, unfortunately present due to her daughter’s absence of many hours, screamed and collapsed right from the start.
It reached a point where Deyan’s voice could not be distinguished over the ruckus. He chose to fall silent, tears dripping down his cheeks. The two dozen townspeople present shouted and argued over many different things – was it Anita’s blood on the flag? Why had she been found in a place where only Deyan could find her? Should they go and get the body now, lest it be ravaged further by wild animals? They couldn’t interrogate Anita’s mother yet because she was out cold.
Turning to Deyan with a kindly expression, Nestor asked softly, “Deyan...? Did you do something to Anita? Did you hurt her?”
Phelan snarled and the whole jabbering crowd went silent. “Don’t you dare accuse my son of anything! Hear me?” Deyan cried out in discomfort as Phelan yanked him up by the scruff of the neck and proclaimed “We’re leaving!”
As soon as they were out the door, Deyan said in a begging whine, “Dad, I’m sorry!”
“For what?” his father growled in response. “Killing the girl? You didn’t, did you?”
“NO! Dad...!”
“Then be more of a man. Stop crying like a babe which wants its mother’s bosom.”
Deyan glared at his father through the darkness which separated them. Rain started to slick through his lank black hair as they walked out from under shelter.
“Tell me the truth, Deyan.”
“I already have.”
Phelan expelled a falsely patient sigh. Deyan’s glare intensified. Father and son together, they walked back to their home. All Deyan now wanted was sleep. It was the next best thing after death, since for one, he wanted to die and secondly, his heart felt rather shrivelled and dead anyways. What better way to fulfil a need for inertness and lack of emotion than wonderful, indifferent sleep?
So much for sleep. Despite his need, Deyan could not sink into unconsciousness, instead tossing and turning, wracked with waking nightmares. He slept through most of the following morning. His mother – more delicate and cautious than her husband – said little to him. She only smiled and stroked his cheek, though Deyan was certain he glimpsed disappointment and mistrust in her dark blue eyes.
As soon as Deyan was awake and his father was aware of it, Phelan dragged the boy out of the house and through the streets without explaining.
“Umm... where are we going?” Deyan asked in a minute voice.
“You have to show us where... she... is.”
Deyan groaned. Anita, dead. Anita, resplendent crimson with her guts strung about her. Anita, staring straight through him with sightless eyes.
“Oh. Right.”
And so, another few hours were lost in journeying back to the site deep in the hills. Deyan, Phelan, one of the female town elders, Nestor – for he was a popular citizen – Anita’s mother, and three other men. The group was hindered in particular by the two women. They just couldn’t keep pace with the men, especially not when required to trudge through muddy swamps or climb over crags.
When they were near enough, Deyan gave his last direction – a trembling jerk of the thumb. “She should be there. In that clearing.” He tried to stay back but his father pulled him along by the crook of the elbow.
Needless to say, the sight in broad daylight was gorier than it had been yesterday during gloaming. More than one of the group heaved up their lunch, and Anita’s mother fainted dramatically, falling into the small stream and subsequently being dragged out, sodden dead weight.
Birds had started to peck out the dead girl’s eyes, and her exposed entrails were already rotting about her.
A howl burst from Deyan’s throat. Any doubt seeded in his mind was blasted away. Legs straining, he tried to flee, but his father’s grasping hands were there to hold him tight. “We need you to lead us back.”
It took most of the group the best part of an hour to overcome their revulsion and approach the decaying body. It was cleaned up and wrapped in thick cloths. Deyan paced the outer ring of trees, fuming with withheld madness. When Anita’s body was finally hoisted onto men’s shoulders and her mother was revived, Deyan led them back out of the foothills, at the front of the procession, grimly imprisoning his own hysteria.
* * *
The next day, Anita Becker’s funeral pyre was lit out on the open fields. Most of Skarden was there to mourn her. Thick, coal black smoke twirled into the blue. The sun had full reign over the skies for the first time in many days. It would have been an insult to her memory if everything was grey, gloomy and moist. Deyan watched the smoke from afar. The bell tower clanged a mourning sequence. Jason stood behind him, sober and silent.
Bye, bye, beautiful...
Ignoring Deyan’s pleas, Jason refused to leave his friend’s side. Apparently, Deyan’s long-time friend was now planning to double as his shadow. Deyan couldn’t pretend that his wasn’t a little honoured by Jason’s stalwart concern. So he kept his mouth shut.
Deyan’s condition did not improve with time. The boy sank into a deeper and darker state of thorough depression. Over the next few days over a hundred people approached him with repetitive, thoughtless questions and accusations. They were turning him into the victim of this whole scenario – as if he wasn’t feeling horrible enough.
Apparently, Anita’s body had been inspected before her burial, and there was clear evidence she had been raped before being killed. Now Deyan had to ignore allegations along those lines, too. He would never be desperate enough to rape a girl.
Solitude was a lovely cure for heartache. But this was beyond heartache. This wasn’t simply about unrequited love anymore. It was a case of possible murder, at the core of which Deyan had been marked. He wasn’t just avoiding as many people as he could because he was miserable. Their stares were flinty and their indistinct whispers spoke droves more than their direct words. Supposedly, they didn’t believe Deyan. The more he protested, the more cynical they grew. He gave up early on and segregated himself from the accusatory masses.
* * *
“You know... she wasn’t that great of a person.” Jason glanced warily at Deyan. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know. Love is blind, so they say.”
The twelve brassy tolls signalling noon rang through the streets, sounding faint from where the two young men sat on a low stone wall which edged an outer field.
Deyan didn’t answer. He didn’t offer a single reaction. He could have been mistaken for a lifelike statue. Who was to say whether it had or hadn’t been love? The kid didn’t say much these days, either way.
Often, Jason changed his tack. Yesterday he tried to make Deyan give out flowers to all the girls he knew (which didn’t go down well, since Jason procured agapanthuses). The day before that he’d tried convincing Deyan to put it all behind him. Today, it seemed, he was choosing to tarnish Anita’s memory.
Deyan snapped out of his reverie with alarming abruptness. All of his motions and attempts at speech were now sudden and sharp, all the time. “No, she was! She was kind and funny and beautiful and she –” Cutting off his desperate shouting, he met Jason’s mournful eyes. “ – err... I’m sorry. Go on.” Maybe love is blind after all.
Jason half-smiled, swinging his legs a little and scuffing his shoes in the dirt. “Everyone has faults. Anita was often bossy, hostile, untactful, prudish and vain. If she didn’t get what she wanted, she would scream. By the gods, do you remember how she screeched when I said I didn’t like her?”
His friend laughed harshly. “Actually, I do.” His temporary burst of humour tightened into a moody scowl. “Stupid girl. It’s not my fault she was so darn attractive. It’s not my fault she never gave me the chance to get to know her better...”
Jason watched Deyan carefully with those solemn green eyes, like he always did. “With love comes terrible hate. Did you hate her?”
Deyan didn’t require even a second of thought. “Yes. She didn’t love me back. She hardly ever talked to me. I hated her!”
A mild breeze swept a screen of hair into Jason’s downturned eyes. “Deyan...” he began cautiously. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I have to ask: did you kill Anita?”
Deyan squeezed his hands under the crooks of his knees, gazing darkly at the emerald hills which rose beyond the gold-and-green fields. “How could you even ask that, Jason?” His voice was a cracked whisper; it blended in with the gentle rhythms of the nature around them.
“And... they said she was raped. Did you...?”
Regretting his question, Jason’s heart sank as Deyan wrenched himself upright, effusing anger, and stomped back to Skarden.
The next time they met, Jason had enough dignity not to apologize for what he’d said. It wasn’t the fault of either of them that Anita Becker was dead. Deyan was simply thankful for Jason’s constant companionship, since the boy was one of the precious few people left who still talked to Deyan – or even looked at him without spite, condescension or disgust.
Poorly contained emotion seeped out of the cracks in Deyan’s mental shell. His increasing aggravation coincided with the growing amount of hostility directed at him by the people of Skarden. Prone to shouting and crying, the traumatized teenager spent longer and more frequent stints in the foothills beyond town (avoiding, of course, the clearing where he’d found her). His family did not actively support him; they said little, which in his opinion was just as unpleasant as being harassed.
The only positive sentiment present in Deyan’s demeanour was the burning affection and thankfulness he directed at Jason. But one boy could not help much; one friend could not heal all the hurts Deyan had endured.
* * *
Much of Skarden’s younger populace, in fact, contributed to the youngest Evangel male’s woes.
“We know you did it, Deyan!”
“You liked her, didn’t you?! Enough to take her by force? Did she like it...? Or did she scream when you fucked her?!”
Insane giggles, sardonic comments, feet eager to kick, hands grasping and shoving –
Splash. He went face-first into a puddle. A metal-plated boot balanced at the back of his head, effortlessly forcing the boy’s face deeper into the grimy water.
“Eat shit, Evangel.”
“At least Anita’s happy right now – she’d rather be dead than anywhere near you ~”
Worst of all, a timid little girl walked up to him. Deyan weakly turned his splattered face out of the water to see her speak.
“Anita was nice. I liked her. She loved us. And she’s gone now.”
I liked her too, kid... she didn’t like me. Cherish whatever kindness she showed you, for you got more than I ever did...
* * *
Situations like that occurred almost daily. He didn’t go to the godforsaken school anymore, but somehow he was followed around by determined ‘Deyan-haters’. Dirty, bruised or simply broken in spirit, he would stump back home and clean himself up. He would either curl up in an unoccupied corner of his home (since he shared a cramped room with his younger sisters) or sneak out of town.
Except, he wasn’t usually alone anymore, even if he desperately required solitude. Jason took to heart the task of sticking by Deyan’s side whenever he could. He offered much-needed support and talked through whatever problems he could, trying his hardest to help Deyan overcome his distress.
The kid respected Deyan’s privacy, but as he grew more confident he didn’t hesitate to do and say things around Deyan which he had never done or said before. Often, Jason went with Deyan when he went exploring in the hills. At those times he was reticent and observant, simply glad that Deyan hadn’t yet told him to get lost. It was a new, unfamiliar, but pleasant experience. Jason had never been in the deeper wilderness before. It was deemed unsafe by most of the townspeople; horrible events occurred there. Such as Anita’s murder.
“Deyan... can you show me where...?”
“No.”
“You have to accept it and move on. There’s no use hiding from her place of death.”
Deyan grunted cynically. “I don’t think she was killed right there.”
“Well, at least she died in a beautiful environment...?”
“Shut up, Jason. She wouldn’t have appreciated the sights while being raped and wounded.”
“Deyan.” Jason spoke his friend’s name with resonant, burning confidence. “The path to recovery begins only with acceptance.”
Believing that his companion was speaking genuinely, rather than pulling a wise crack, Deyan didn’t elaborate. Jason was, ninety nine percent of the time, utterly and totally serious. Deyan need not ever fear that his friend was mocking him. He continued to lead the way. Without saying anything he led Jason to that condemned clearing.
It was as if she had never been there; never been sat there and pried into that flowering-presenting pose meant to mock Deyan. Do ya still love her, Evangel?
“They killed her just to get to me,” he muttered, wrapping his hands around his knees as he stared around the clearing. “Just to mock my hopes and desires – just to kill off my wishes. I suppose the only way to do that was to dispose of her... but, what a waste of good life.”
Without blinking, his eyes narrowed at a ray of afternoon sunlight which twinkled through the tree branches, Jason listened. At first glance he would have seemed indifferent, with nothing of relevance to say, but the kid was thinking, always thinking. Deyan knew he was hanging on to every word. In fact, if they discussed this conversation later, it was likely that Jason would recall more of it than Deyan did.
“A waste...” he mumbled, with the hint of a sigh spiralling through his words. “And who am I to dictate the meaning of life and death? Nobody. But they made me into a scapegoat.” As for who ‘they’ were, he had no answer. They were the ones who had raped Anita, killed her, set her up in this clearing, and laughed at Deyan as he ran off. They undoubtedly knew Deyan well, else how would they set up such an evil, glib exploit? They could very well be amongst the crowds who now called him names and shoved his face in the dirt.
Jason’s nose twitched slightly and he shifted his hand. He allowed the silence after Deyan’s words to stretch, during which only the rustling stream nearby could be heard. Birds and crickets chirped; idyllically unaware of what had transpired here a few weeks ago.
“You could have had her.” Deyan said it with a degree of longing. “If not me, then you could. At least then she would have been closer to me... At least I might have one day heard her say the words ‘I love you’ –”
Jason interjected – “Even if she wasn’t saying them to you? That’s sick, Deyan.”
Deyan’s mouth quirked disdainfully. Yes, it might sound sick and twisted, but he would have resorted to desperate measures simply to have her near enough to be able to stalk her.
To begin with, Deyan had experienced a gutted sort of jealousy while seeing Anita’s keenness on his best friend. The relief which Deyan had experienced upon Jason’s admittance that he wasn’t taken with her at all had been staggering. After the temporary presence of harsh resent from Deyan’s way, their friendship had reformed. For some reason, though, on which Deyan couldn’t put his finger, Jason vehemently refused to help Deyan with his ‘Anita Becker campaign’. And the boy had been completely unaffected by her death. Not a single tear shed, not a single despondent comment.
It was expected, at their age, for them to already be pursuing future spouses. Even if a man and woman weren’t romantically compatible, it was often necessary for them to partner together if the cycle of life was to continue. Deyan had loathed Anita for simply not giving in. She had had a stubborn side to her; if she didn’t get what she wanted – well, as Jason had so aptly described – she practically screamed. Deyan, on the other hand, while being tenacious, was not pig-headed.
“She could have been yours...” Deyan said dolefully, rocking back and forth as he cradled his knees with his arms. “Why didn’t you open your arms wide and let her into your life?” Deyan unfolded his arms and legs to sit more comfortably. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head to the side and brushed his hand through his messy hair, expecting to hear Jason list Anita’s faults and flaws. His friend said nothing. Huh. Not a peep.
Deyan waited for an answer. He waited... and waited. His mind procured some of his old testosterone-induced fantasies. Wondering what it would feel like to wind her blonde curls around his fingers... to hear her say his name with a devoted touch... to hold her in his arms... to feel her angelic breath on his lips... Painful tears gathered behind his closed eyelids. He would have to find someone else to love now.
In his mind’s eye, he was with her, alone. In his mind’s eye his eyelids closed... he could hear her rustling closer. A whisper of wind announced her approach. Lost in the fantasy, he imagined her moving in to kiss him. His tongue and lips quavered and his hand spasmed.
Soft lips pressed to his. They felt so real that he sighed against them. ... Too real.
Afraid that his hallucination would break, Deyan didn’t open his eyes. The lips moved away and cool fingers nudged at his throat. They stroked idly, then moved away when he didn’t respond. Needy warmth kindled around Deyan’s mouth and it flooded his cheeks with a reckless red blush.
God, that felt good...
Deyan blinked his eyes open, unsure if he had moved on from a fanciful reverie to an actual nap. His vision readjusted from the blazing red darkness behind his eyelids to the golden sunlight which now struck him straight in the eyes, illuminating the dark, intense blue of his irises.
..........Why is Jason looking at me like that? Somewhat expectant... but scared at the same time... Had Deyan done something weird?
.......................Good lord. His pupils could now be seen to visibly dilate within the dusky colour of his eyes.
.................................................Did he just kiss me?
A disjointed stammer made its way past his gritted teeth and burning lips. “Uhh... did I just miss something?”
Jason’s raised eyebrow was lost in his handsomely slanting fringe. He was sitting very close – much closer than he had been before. His voice was cold, and significantly deeper. “I think you did.”
Deyan waited. As per usual Jason remained mute. “Well?” he demanded, weakly, lacking any real conviction.
“Well what?” Jason’s raised eyebrow fell back down with the scowl which distorted his features.
... “Well, what exactly did I miss?”
Jason tutted. “How would I know?” he said crossly. “Figure it out.”
Anguish tore at Deyan. He squeezed his eyes shut angrily against the glittering tears which formed, giving a small gasp of distress. Before he could protest, his friend’s lips were pressed firmly to his again. Gentle yet firm...
Deyan pulled back. So, it hadn’t been his imagination, after all. He felt no aversion; only a need for comfort and consolation. He let the indignant tears flow. Should he be happy? He couldn’t see Jason’s expression anymore for his sight was completely blurred now. Going numb, he felt his friend pull him into a warm embrace, and breathe against his ear: “To answer your question, that is the reason I did not want her.”
He didn’t try to understand it, nor did he question it. All he knew was that he was not averse to his friend’s affection. Emotionally, Deyan clung to Jason. The boy was the only person fully willing to back him up under the given circumstances. Amongst Skarden’s masses, stereotype and peer pressure resulted in an extreme bias against Deyan. Practically everyone – even those who had initial doubts – was now fully convinced of his guilt.
Everyone except Jason. The kid was the one person outside his family who knew him best, and who, perhaps, cared about him more than those of his own flesh and blood did.
Deyan hardly said anything to his friend. No words of acceptance, no denial, he just simply acquiesced. For if he didn’t, who would he have to support him? Also, he was quite uneasy about it initially... and disturbed, of course, as any young man would be, after learning how their best male friend felt about them.
There existed just one, mere issue...In the current age and society, affection between two men was not only frowned upon; it was not simply persecuted. It was against the law.
So, extreme care had to be taken between them. Physical contact was an obvious no-no... and even certain glances and turns of phrase could be seen as suspicious. Country life in Skarden could be harsh; the town was only prosperous as a result of excessive wariness and inherent distrust (or, in the technical sense, paranoia). All-round creeds included expressions such as ‘guilty until proven innocent’ and ‘act first, judge later’.
Even so, the two boys were unconsciously careful. Immediately after the incident in the hills which started it all off, Jason had apologized repeatedly and promised he would never do such a thing again, until Deyan had clamped a hand to his friend’s mouth and told him to shut up and do as he pleased. Frankly, Deyan thought that Jason had done an amazing job so far at hiding his feelings. Therefore, acting normal around others shouldn’t be too much of a challenge.
Some of Deyan’s unpopularity had begun to rub off on his friend. They often journeyed into the hills together, happy to spend time alone, away from reproaching glares and upsetting comments.
Over the first few days, Deyan had to seriously accustom himself to the idea of being touched and held by a person of same sex as him. Jason was very cautious, though, to the point where Deyan almost begged the boy to just touch his arm or hold his hand... so he could settle into the feeling.
Although the nature of their relationship had changed radically, they related to each other more or less the same as before. Little words were said, as one gleaned more from the other by reading body language, expressions and miens. They only spoke about that which was relevant, and there wasn’t much which Jason hadn’t already discussed with Deyan. In all honesty, everything Jason did and said to try and give Deyan an ego boost had been a waste of breath, time and effort. In the end one kiss had done more than days of discussion and encouragement.
Or, perhaps, saying anything at all would be plain awkward. Deyan much preferred to sit in silence with Jason, somewhere out in the wild, watching the wild beauty of the wilderness. Deyan wished he had brought Jason into the hills before, but selfishness had made him keep the sights and experiences close to his chest. Previously unwilling to share, now Deyan wanted to share everything with his friend.
The clearing surrounded by plane trees reassumed its place as Deyan’s favourite location. Reality had been flipped upside down when he’d found Anita there; it had flipped a different way – a better way – after he’d taken Jason there.
The weather warmed up, leaning into the dry season. The sun set later in the evening. Deyan loved to spend those languid evenings, as the sun sank below the hills, out of town, preferably with Jason. The two were inseparable. Deyan’s mother commented, disparagingly, on the increasing time her son was spending away from home, and with his friend to boot. Perhaps, Deyan sneered inwardly, she was now getting ideas that they were planning – together – on which young woman should be slaughtered next.
The thought had never once crossed Deyan’s mind that it would be possible to forget Anita Becker. Well, he didn’t quite forget her, but the mind space once full of longing for Anita now was overtaken by thoughts of Jason. Nor had he ever reckoned that he would like anyone other than Anita – no less a boy.
But, Deyan had to admit – Jason made his skin tingle. Never before had he experienced such contentment as when Jason wrapped his arms around him. Adjusting to the physical side of things, when they did touch it was precise and tender. One boy’s hand brushing the other’s knuckles; one leaning slightly against the other as they sat side by side. Only rarely did Jason move in to skim his lips against Deyan’s... as if he was still frightened that Deyan would turn away from him in rejection. The boy’s warm, soft lips – as well as the rest of him – were incredibly comforting.
The teenage passion Deyan had wished to direct towards Anita had not faded. Well, he didn’t want to think of Jason as a replacement...
Nevertheless, having access to the object of his cravings was an excellent way to satisfy the ache in his chest... but it only made his desire blossom further, which in itself was an insatiable beast, always needing Jason near, always wanting to touch him and drink him in by sight...
The first time Deyan leaned in to kiss Jason first, he did it with unfurling fervour, and something different clicked into place... they emerged from it with tangled arms and tousled hair, gasping for breath. Jason, panting, looked slightly shocked, as if he hadn’t ever expected to be kissed intensely. “I --”
And Deyan cut him off with another kiss; he pushed the boy to the ground, and Jason fought, almost spiritedly, against his friend. From afar they would have looked like they were simply play-fighting. Eventually their ardour died down and delicate affection replaced it once again.
Jason became progressively expectant of a stern talking-to from his mother. She, like most of the other townspeople, took the circumstances of Anita’s demise seriously – and in his opinion, a little too seriously, though June Midas had more purpose than most to be upset. She was good friends with the Beckers, and had recently spent a lot of time helping them out – thus why Jason had plenty of opportunities to go where he pleased with Deyan.
June’s friendship with Anita Becker’s parents – Charmaine and Dallas – however, had possibly been the stimulant of Anita’s covetousness of Jason. Yes, he sneered, he could imagine all of them encouraging her. June herself had tried to persuade Jason with wily talk of betrothal and needing to accustom himself to associating with girls, but he had rebuffed her resolutely.
Thankfully, Deyan had not yet been put in chains and thrown in a dungeon, nor decidedly executed on the spot. The town council had yet to seize him for proper interrogation and investigation. The Evangels were well-respected; they managed a fair portion of Skarden’s trades and accounts, far outranking any common farmer, blacksmith or tailor.
“Jason.”
“Yes, mother?” Unlike her tone, his voice was flat. Hers was so harsh it could probably shrivel weeds with its frequency. As such, she followed on brusquely, cutting to the chase.
“I don’t want you spending time with that Evangel boy. You spend more time with him than with your family and friends.”
Pfft. So now Deyan was ‘that Evangel boy’, huh? After knowing him – seeing him – talking to him – for over a year? Goodness. Oh, and he wasn’t a ‘friend’, either? Jason’s fingers clenched tightly into the dough he was helping his mother knead.
Well, to be technical, there was a lot more than friendship between the two young men, but June wasn’t going to be privy to that, was she? And if she did find out Jason would be strangled to death before he could say ‘but – ’... Besides, if there did exist a term for the boys’ relationship, Jason couldn’t think of it. They weren’t lovers yet, and he shoved that concept clean out of his mind... Hmm, maybe they were just very, very good friends...? He laughed inwardly – rather defiantly, too. He took his time in answering his mother – so much, in fact, that he didn’t answer at all and she lost her patience.
“Did you hear me?” June snapped, clunking her floury fist down on the table. “This is for your own safety. That boy, he finished off Anita, and gods know how much he wanted her! If he has his eye on you... I don’t want you killed, either... He might already have thoughts.” She allowed the threatening suggestion to irradiate through the silence like ripples across a pond.
Jason’s one visible eye flickered at her. His other eye – the left one – was slightly lazy. It had never been properly corrected, so he tended to obscure it under a tuft or screen of hair which he grew out for that exact purpose. He noted her hard, glazed eyes and the rough manner in which she worked the dough. The woman was fair, sturdy and stout, with dimpled cheeks and thick, always-accusatory eyebrows. One look at her certainly confirmed the stereotype of ‘goodwife’.
Most of Skarden’s inhabitants were of fair complexion. It simply made Jason marvel at Deyan’s dark eyes and hair...
So, to answer June’s question, no, he didn’t hear her. Not properly, anyway. From her very first sentence he’d decided that she was spouting a whole lot of biased bullshit. He could tell by her air that she was not merely concerned for his safety. Irrational hatred of Deyan Evangel, however, was a separate chapter.
June grew so frustrated that she stopped kneading altogether. As if she could read her son’s thoughts, she changed her approach and cried woefully, “I overheard you the other day. I heard you say you were glad lovely Anita is dead.”
Oh. Shit. Jason flicked his hair into both his eyes. Damn her for eavesdropping. He recalled, perfectly, the hasty end of a conversation topic with Deyan from two day previous.
‘You know, given a few more months, they would’ve forced me and Anita together. I’d rather her dead than with me. In fact, I’m glad she is...’
His voice was so under-used that it started out as a burbling growl. “Look, I had nothing against her! No death wish, okay? I’m sorry for saying that.” He spread his arms, bearing an insolent expression which belied his false apology. “I was just annoyed that you and her parents were trying to get us together.”
His mother tut-tutted, sounding like a particularly infuriating species of bird. Jason gritted his teeth. She changed tack again. “Stupid boy of mine. I always act as I see fit to benefit you as much as possible. Life is hard enough as it is...”
“Then maybe it’s best to be dead!” Spit flew from his mouth and he thrust his hunk of dough at her. “Leave me alone, and knead your own damn dough!”
He stormed outside, but didn’t leave the property. His father, a cleric (unfortunately), was due to return home soon, and it would be best not to leave the house only to run into him and be ordered home. Jason’s parents, as well as all the other mothers and fathers in the neighbourhood, now habitually imposed more stringent rules upon their children.
Settling into the garden, Jason allowed the late afternoon sunlight to wash over him. His ears identified a rustling, followed by a short meow. One of the local cats, rustling around in the herb patch, it seemed.
“Silly kitty, you’ll ruin the mint...” He hoisted the tabby up into his arms. When he was alone, the boy’s effeminate side became pronounced. He was well aware of it, too, but particularly skilled at disguising it.
Petting the cat provided him with a mental distraction; he experienced a severe fright when someone strode into the yard. At first Jason thought it was Deyan, but it took a few seconds to realize it the older of Deyan’s elder brothers. The resemblance between Flynn and Deyan Evangel was staggering; Deyan, however, often commented that because Flynn came first, Deyan was simply a repeat – boring and uninteresting to his parents’ eyes.
The similarity almost made Jason blush. Flynn’s physical lure, however, was offset by his ominous expression. Jason stood swiftly to greet the man.
“Jason, they’ve got him.”
“G –wha – Deyan?”
“Someone attacked him, I didn’t see what happened, but my father was there too.”
“Who did?” Jason’s emotion changed to panic at the speed of light.
“I didn’t see,” Flynn repeated, grimacing in a way that reminded Jason intensely of Deyan. “Shall I leave you here to fuss, or do you want to come and help?”
“Might as well.” Jason urgently plucked at the man’s sleeve. “Let’s go. Now.”
Nowadays, it was not safe for Deyan to walk through Skarden’s main streets alone. Even a walk to the baker’s required him to be flanked by his father, at the very least. Today, both Phelan and Deyan’s other elder brother, Nashan, walked with him, though they couldn’t completely stave off all insults and attacks. At one point a pair of galoshes flew at Deyan and, ducking too late, he was clipped in the head.
“Bad timing, Dey,” murmured Nash. The man was fairer than his two brothers, sporting browner hair and bluer eyes.
Deyan let out a typical, “Shut up,” rubbing the top of his head and kicking the offending shoe-projectiles aside. His eyes were set into a permanent aggressive glare; detached, full of animosity, and positively terrifying. The recurring humiliation cauterized him from the inside, scorching and blackening his sense of pride, pity, forgiveness and compassion. Every additional taunt cut him a little deeper; scarred him a little further. Yet the young man stored up all the pain, angst and hate inside him, allowing it to percolate evenly through to his outer demeanour.
“Here we are,” muttered Phelan, as they entered the town square, at the centre of which the main flag had not yet been restored or replaced. They had to organize some business in the town hall, namely un-enrolling Deyan from Skarden’s educational centre, and Phelan had some separate accounts to update.
“Evangels,” grunted someone behind them. As one, the three men turned to face a man who was much larger and taller than any of them. This person’s identity was very ominous... and at such a close range, dangerous. He twitched his head to the side, cricking his neck.
“Dallas,” said Phelan, nodding politely to Mister Becker. “I see you’re back in town.” Thank all the sprites of luck, but Anita’s father had left this hinterland for employment in larger, distant cities, and he had only recently been called back. So far, Deyan had been avoiding the man like the plague.
Dallas Becker was a bull of a man. Blond- and curly-haired, rippling with tanned muscle as well as a considerable amount of extra bulk. Deyan had often wondered how such a brainless mass of flesh and fat could sire someone as slender and comely as Anita.
“You!” The man pointed a bulging, pink finger at Deyan. Both of Deyan’s protectors backed away, although they weren’t the subjects of Dallas’ blaring accusation. Deyan’s head whipped from side to side, seeking his father’s and brother’s support.
“You... why aren’t you hanging from a stake at the town’s gate? Why isn’t your body rotting on a post?” Dallas, roaring at Deyan, bounded forward with incredible speed, arms outstretched. The boy gave a shout of alarm and scrambled back, breaking into a dash as the man’s incredible mass nearly overwhelmed him.
“My daughter... my DAUGHTER!” hollered the man, gutturally. He lunged out at Deyan, whose elbows zinged with pain as he tripped backwards over a gutter. “You KILLED HER, they say!” He stamped his foot into Deyan’s gut; the boy screamed with agony, sure that Dallas would squeeze the innards right out of him.
A voice called out to him; neither Phelan’s nor Nash’s, but Flynn’s. “Deyan! Hold on!”
“No, Flynn! Go! Get out of here!” shouted Phelan.
“I... didn’t... kill...” Deyan breathed hollowly, eyes rolled so high under the eyelids that only the whites could be seen. ...Why isn’t anyone helping me? Father... and Nash...or Flynn...
“Oh, YES YOU DID, you spawn of demons! Piece of shit! Heart of a rat!” The foot lifted from Deyan’s torso, to be replaced with dangerous pressure at his neck. Flashing lights scattered the boy’s vision as his supply of oxygen ceased. “I’ll... I’ll gut you! Like you gutted her!”
Rasping and retching, Deyan feebly tried to push away the man’s boot. He was sure, at this instant, he was going to die, for he glimpsed the flash of a wicked blade as Dallas drew it. The man was shaking madly now, unsteady with murderous rage. Quavering, he lifted his foot from Deyan’s throat and dropped down, incapacitating the boy’s movement with his knees and one hand. Deyan struggled, knowing that the end was close. He wanted to die quickly...
Dallas plucked at the bottom edge of the boy’s shirt. “Sweet, sweet revenge,” he muttered wildly, shuddering uncontrollably. His long knife was juddering like a pendulum of death. Deyan wanted to fight back; he jolted, but Dallas rested the blade steadily against the skin he’d bared on Deyan’s stomach. “Murderer...”
What irony. Possibly seconds from death, Deyan’s thoughts switched from panicky to sarcastic. In the end he’ll be the actual murderer... and it doesn’t matter what other people think of me, right? I know I’m innocent, and that’s all the matters. Or not—
“Dallas! NO!”
Deyan was unaware of the riot which had just broken out due to this confrontation. He didn’t expect to come out of it alive, either.
“Don’t kill me... it’s not what Anita would have wanted,” Deyan gasped, panting and weak with apprehension. His hand inched slightly past his side... maybe he would be able to snatch the knife from Dallas... “Leave me alive and I can help you find the true culprit.”
“LIAR!” Dallas was feral beyond reasoning. Deyan heard, rather than felt, the man’s fist drive – crunch – smash – into his face. He heard the crushing and crackling of his nose fracturing; it reverberated right through to the back of his skull.
“A few, but they didn’t do anything. It was probably in their power, but they decided to let Deyan get pounded and sliced like mincemeat instead.” Flynn spoke in a canine growl, reserving most of his breath for the fast moving he and Jason were doing.
“And Phelan was there?”
“Nashan too, but they couldn’t have done anything. The attack was so sudden.”
Worry oozed from Jason’s every pore as he ran. “Describe the attacker?”
“Err... big man. A really big man. Curly blond hair, voice like a bloody hunting horn, suited by a fit of murderous rage?”
“Heavens and underworlds,” Jason cursed. “I think that’s Dallas Becker. Didn’t you recognize him?”
“I don’t have all the time and effort to memorize every face in Skarden, kid! And besides, I’m out of town often.”
“So’s he,” Jason explained. He paused for breath and forced out a small apology. “Sorry. I suppose I know him by sight ‘cause the Beckers are family friends.”
“Lucky you,” commented Flynn darkly, adjusting his flapping cloak about him.
After a minute’s pause, Jason asked carefully, “Do you think Deyan will be alright?” He glanced sideways at Flynn, whose eyes narrowed.
“That’ll be judged by luck, though that Becker got him disabled fairly quickly. As I was leaving to get you I saw the man draw a knife.”
Freezing cold horror cascaded over Jason as if a bucketful of snowmelt had been dumped over the top of him. “A knife?!” he shouted, picking up the pace so Flynn had to hastily run faster to catch up. “You didn’t say anything about a knife!” Words could sting, fists could bruise but knives... knives could cut. They could slash, hack and sever...
The razor-sharp scrape of a sword emerging from his sheath made his head turn... Well, at least Flynn was armed. The crowd of people watching was much larger than Jason had imagined, and even now it grew as some detached themselves to run and alert others, just as Flynn had run to inform Jason.
“What can we do?” Jason queried urgently, trying to peer over the undulating and excited groups of witnesses.
“Not we, just me,” Flynn muttered, testing his grip on his sword. “Wait here.” All three of the Evangel sons – Flynn, Nash and Deyan – were renowned for their hot-bloodedness; they drove straight into a fight without thinking through the consequences... although, this situation certainly came close to life-and-death.
* * *
“Dallas, STOP! If he dies, we lose evidence! Wouldn’t you rather he helped now, and was disposed of later if necessary?” The person, accompanied by several others, shoved his way through the amassing crowds. “And – wouldn’t you rather he spent years suffering rather than a few moments during death? Think about it!”
While Nestor was telling Dallas to stop, he wasn’t exactly on Deyan’s side.
“Years of suffering?” hissed Nash, darting forwards. Phelan’s muscled arms caught him by the shoulders and wrenched him back. Once his son was safely secure, Phelan released him and strode forward himself, as Nestor and his gang – his clique – simultaneously stepped forward.
“Dallas,” he said. “If you kill my son, I will have you charged with his murder and you will suffer for it. Understand?”
“He’ll make you pay more taxes,” sniggered one of Nestor’s friends.
Quaking, Dallas drew back his blade with a crazed glint in his eye. “The little bastard will die...” he mumbled, lips glimmering with foamy spittle. Deyan groaned and twisted underneath his grasp. A disturbing amount of blood spilled from the boy’s wrecked nose, streaming down his face in every direction – into his mouth, across his cheeks and all the way to his ears; past his chin to dribble onto his neck
“Nobody has any evidence that Deyan killed your daughter,” Phelan said coldly, a calm, composed and utterly opposite to the deranged Dallas.
“Nor do we have any to the contrary!” shouted Nestor, speaking not only to Dallas and Phelan but raising his voice to every spectator. A few onlookers jeered, and a jolly laugh rang out.
With an angry snarl, Nash – no longer restrained by his father – leapt from the front row of the crowd, straight at Nestor, whose cronies moved in to defend him. It took four of them to do it, but they held Nash down. Flailing and writhing with a violently stoic expression, the young man sent an apologetic look at his father, who sighed visibly.
They just keep on putting the boot in, don’t they? The more they all abuse Deyan, the hungrier they are for his continued degradation...
This was quickly descending into a public humiliation; possibly a public execution.
“He’s gonna die, he’s gonna DIE!” screamed Dallas, dropping his knife and bashing Deyan in the jaw.
... “No, he’s not. Turn your head to face me... don’t bother picking up your knife, since I’m stepping on it... and stand up.”
The man’s brutally aggressive expression froze, as did his bloody fists. His eyes flicked down, to indeed see his knife under a shoe.
Deyan was sure his face was in pieces. Though, his eyes seemed intact, so he opened them. It took a moment for the mist of pain and humiliation to clear from his vision. There stood Flynn, the tip of his sword resting at Dallas’ throat. The brute’s weight lifted from him, and only then did he realize how closely he’d just evaded a very painful death... though, to be technical, he hadn’t escaped from the pain factor.
Dallas’ protestations and threats dwindled until he gave in to Flynn’s order. Deyan couldn’t concentrate on what was happening, nor on how much time passed.
Goodness gracious... my face hurts like all fucking holy hell. But I’m alive...
“Leave this scene,” he heard Flynn order venomously. “Next time, I’ll run my sword through you before you can even touch my brother.” Dallas spat out a few profanities and stamped away, lashing out at people who got too close.
Deyan let his head hit the ground. Darkness swam at his peripherals, and he wasn’t sure if his eyes were closing or if he was about to faint. Voices clamoured at his ears and footsteps swarmed nearby. He caught the scent of mint through his shattered nose, and warm arms wrapped around him.
“Deyan,” whimpered a deep, compassionate voice.
“Jason,” he whispered back, and he sank into unconsciousness with an appreciative smile.
Awakening came hand in hand with a strong sense of déjà vu; he had passed out in the plaza, only to be lugged to the town hall. Excepting the fact that, this time around, most of Deyan’s pain was physical rather than emotional. Immediately following his return to consciousness, he decided he preferred being dead to the world over the agony of wakefulness.
“How do you feel, darling?” crooned Elleftheria Evangel at her son.
Only the slightest trace of a grimace appeared on Deyan’s bloodied face. It was no more than slight, because as it was it caused a lightning-bolt of pain to strike through his nose, lips and jaw.
“Like my head has been ploughed,” he groaned in response.
“You stood your ground, kid,” he heard Nashan say, and it was his hand which presumably moved to rest on Deyan’s shoulder.
“But I didn’t do anything,” whimpered the boy.
“That’s okay. Like I said, all you c -”
“No! I mean, I haven’t done anything to deserve this!” Deyan cried, weakly trying to prop himself up on his elbows. His mother gently pushed him down again. She said, “I know, my love. We’ll sort it all out eventually.” He cringed as she stroked his bruised cheek.
When will all this violence end?
The hall was packed with over a hundred people. From his near-horizontal position on this makeshift bunk, Deyan strained his eyes to try and see past his family. He glimpsed the mayor – Rushford Graves; several of the town elders; Dallas and his wife, talking with Phelan and Flynn; Nestor and his group of friends; other various snoops and acquaintances. Putting more strength into his arms, he sat up and twisted his torso to look around for Jason. The boy was engaged in what seemed to be a low and furious conversation with his mother, June. Both appeared to be exclaiming and close to blows, but Deyan couldn’t hear them over the crowd.
Frowning, Deyan lay back down. “Mother?”
Ella, gazing around solemnly with her dark eyes, perked up. “Yes, my dear?”
“How... how bad are my injuries? How long have I been unconscious?”
With a sigh, his mother rubbed at her eyes, and when she spoke it sounded like she was going to cry. “Your injuries will heal with time, my beautiful boy. A black eye, dislocated jaw, broken nose... your teeth are intact, thank goodness for that... you were unconscious for about an hour.”
Even though Deyan was nearing manhood, his place as the youngest of three sons plus the manner in which he was subsequently treated, did not do much good to his self-esteem. Being called ‘darling’ and ‘beautiful boy’ at the age of seventeen provided the exact opposite of a morale-boost.
He never realized it, but when he pouted his mother crooned, and when he got too close she preened him like he was a chick and she a mother hen. It disturbed him. He shunned affection, when deep down, it was the only thing which kept him sane. He always believed that his parents loved him least of their five children, but this was a misassumption which Deyan had never tried to prove.
By his side sat his two sisters, Freesia and Dymanta – aged fourteen and fifteen respectively. They always reminded Deyan of a pair of light-hearted ravens, with their dense, dark tresses and large, dark, deepset eyes sparkling at him. He had never felt so glad to see them before. “Darling sisters,” he cooed affectionately, extending a hand. Freesia grabbed at it and bent his fingers into funny positions. Dymanta scowled and said, “It looks like Mister Becker pounded you with a hammer.”
“Ssshh. Don’t give anyone ideas,” Deyan murmured, using his free hand to pry Freesia away. Dymanta gave a gleeful grin which faded perceptibly.
“I want this all to be over,” she said.
“Me too,” added Freesia.
“I want it more.”
“No, I do!”
“I bet I like Deyan more than you do.”
“Oh, really? Well, what about the time you said he was a – ”
“Shut up! What’s happening over there?!” Deyan whacked a sister with each hand, sitting up ramrod straight. The sudden uprightness made blood drip from the tip of his nose. The girls hissed but otherwise did what he said, moving from his side as a commotion broke out at the other side of the hall.
The vicious smack rebounded across Jason’s face. Colour rapidly swelled up to his cheekbone, promising a bruise. “Let me see him! Let me TALK to him!” With a forward swipe he returned the ear-splitting slap. June shrieked and lashed out, nails scraping at and digging into her son’s arm, both preventing him from fleeing as well as trying to subdue his offending hand. Grabbing at her hand with his free one, he twisted violently.
Finally! The damned woman collapsed, screeching, “My wrist! My WRIST!”
... I will do anything for the ones I care about the most... even if that means maiming the ones I don’t care about as much...
With a forceful grunt, Jason shoved his mother back. The ringing silence following her screams was replaced by gabbling sobs. The whole hall now watched the two of them.
“You can’t keep me from my friends,” growled the boy. “Deyan?”
Oh, so they’re arguing about me. As Deyan swung his legs over the side of the bunk, every head in the hall flicked from Jason to him. He walked over, calmly and evenly, to stand beside Jason. Not a single catcall came his way; not one mocking laugh made itself heard. Peculiarly, perhaps the beating he’d taken as well as the support Jason had just proclaimed, made the townspeople present keep their vindictive words safely in their minds... for now.
All they saw now was a young man, walking and standing straight and tall despite the graphic injuries – blood, breaks and bruises – his face bore. Those daunting, depthless dark eyes glinted with cruelty and pain. For, not only had Deyan Evangel suffered pain. Within him was flowering a desire to dole out pain in return. For the time being he was unaware of it... but in months or years, he would lash back out at humanity with all the rage and grief he was storing, with only the full intent of making others suffer as he had suffered.
For a full minute Deyan stood there, allowing the hush to elongate until it was close to snapping. Every eye, almost wary and frightened, was on him – all except Jason’s. The boy stared off into the distance as June, sobbing and cradling her swelling wrist, was gently pulled away by a friend.
Deyan licked his bloody, swollen lips and began, “All of you! Out of all of you, minus my family, how many have so far believed me? How many of you have supported my plight?” The question was unexpected; rhetorical, but the answer was simple and even a dunce knew it: “None!” Deyan felt the dried blood on his face cracked as his expression changed. “Who has bothered to ask how I feel? Or how I am coping? Or even considered that everything I say isn’t a lie? NO-ONE, I do think! No-one... except this individual here.” He reached out to rest his hand on Jason’s upper arm. The boy stiffened and still didn’t meet his friend’s eyes.
“Just because I ‘found’ her, and just because I had wanted her, does not make me the best candidate as her murderer! Now you’re all driving me insane! First it was a pinch here, a prod there; now it’s insults and bashings from left, right and centre! Find some evidence or just leave me alone!”
“Deyan.”
The boy winced at the sound of Dallas Becker’s voice. The man got up and approached Deyan. Looking behind the man, Deyan saw his father’s and brother’s expectant expressions. They must have done some smooth talking.
“I would like to apologize formally and publicly for what I did earlier. No amount or anger or grief can excuse my actions. My accusations were ungrounded, and...” The man sighed deeply. “I’m sorry.” He held out a hand. Instinctively, Deyan took a step back. That was the same hand which had beaten him to unconsciousness. Though, he knew Dallas was being truthful. The man was disposed to docility. His murderous reaction beforehand had been uncanny, though he should have expected it – considering all the preposterous rumours which flew about town nowadays.
Deyan raised an eyebrow at the watching crowds. What was he expecting – applause? Warily, he stepped forward again and shook Dallas’ hand. The big man nodded, mustering a weak smile. Deyan didn’t return it, though contempt – borne perhaps of triumph – curled his lips slightly. Battered and no less aggrieved, Deyan broke the handshake and moved past Dallas to see Phelan and Flynn, pleasure at the apology fading away. The onlookers in the hall murmured to themselves and started to break up.
I’ll only be satisfied when every single person in this damned town apologises to me. They should prostrate themselves at my feet and beg for forgiveness.
Deyan sat next to Flynn. “You never cease to amaze me. What did you say to him?” Flynn was a dab hand at persuasion and manipulation. He could alter his conduct in such a way as to overpower others merely with phrases, insinuations and expressions. He was fantastic at bargaining and bartering – the reason why Phelan often sent him out of town to latch onto profitable deals on various goods.
“We made him see sense,” Flynn replied smoothly, examining his assaulted brother with a nonchalant eye. “What else?”
“We can discuss it later,” muttered Phelan. “I talked with Rushford Graves. I suggested that the treatment of the state of affairs concerning Anita Becker’s death be officially examined. It’s taken the council long enough to get up off their backsides and do something about it. Until now, they preferred sitting back and watching you get flayed.”
Deyan tut-tutted between his teeth, but it was a pensive sound rather than a disapproving one. “How soon will that be?”
“Soon,” Phelan said. “Now, quiet. We can go home and get some rest.”
“So, Dallas doesn’t think I killed Anita?” Deyan refused to stray from the topic.
“Yes,” Flynn said.
“Yes: he doesn’t think I killed her, or yes: he thinks I did kill her? Don’t be so ambiguous!”
“Take the hint. We’re not so sure ourselves – all that matters is that he apologised.”
Deyan shoved his hand against Flynn’s arm. “Stop winding me up, it’s not good for my health.”
“Enough. Let’s go.” Phelan and his oldest son swept upright in unison, gesturing for Deyan to follow them. He didn’t. As soon as they were out of range he stood and looked around for Jason. The boy must have had the same intent – he bumped into Deyan not a moment later.
“How’s your mother?” asked Deyan.
“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care right now.”
“Jason... thank you.” Deyan glanced around quickly before leaning in to sweep his lips against Jason’s. The action was so swift it was practically nonexistent.
Jason pushed Deyan back. “No. Thank you.” Guarded, he gazed around frantically, hoping that nobody saw them. If anyone had, they didn’t show their reaction. “Careful.”
“I have to go now. I’ll see you later.” He spared Jason an affection smile before darting away.
After Deyan turned away and left, Jason was left, standing still, brooding, lamenting his friend’s mutilated face rather than his mother's broken wrist.
{{ Many thank-yous to everyone who has so far indirectly commented on this! A little praise goes a long way, and I appreciate the mere fact that you are reading this. <3 }}
A fortnight later, all of Skarden’s residents, who were of age, were invited to a formal assembly. There was a singular discussion topic: the death of Anita Becker, and Deyan’s possible involvement. Dallas’ thoughtless, near-fatal reaction had definitely helped Phelan and Flynn convince the mayor and town council to observe the whole shenanigan with a more reasonable eye.
Though, technically, not all of Skarden’s older residents. Deyan was exclusively forbidden from the council – and not just because he wasn’t eighteen yet, either. He didn’t know where Jason was, since the boy was seventeen also. The gathering started after midday, practically leaving Deyan with the town to himself for the afternoon.
Wandering the quiet streets with hands deep in his pockets, the young man basked in the peace and silence. The town without most of its citizens was like a garden with no weeds: uncluttered. There were no nettles to bite at him and no gnarled roots to trip him up.
Of all the places he chose to drift to, he ended up at the Midas’ house. It was very lush. Vines crept across windows and wound around posts, and it had an expansive backyard with vegetable patches, groves of trees and rows of herbs. With a sigh, Deyan walked up to the front path. His sleeve snagged on a rose-bush and he wrenched it away. No longer was he welcomed here by June.
The front door was bolted tight. Deyan drifted to the back yard, traversing several plantations of herbs and strawberry bushes before reaching the back door. His hand twitched on the doorhandle and turned. It was open.
He almost marvelled at his own ability to lessen the weight of his footsteps. The floorboards didn’t even creak. Deyan had a talent for moving stealthily, but whyever would he need to use it in a town like this? To sneak up on someone?
Well enough to kill them before they notice? he thought unconsciously.
The house’s layout was familiar. Deyan had a good photographic memory for all sorts of things – from maps, to faces, to pages in books. After a minute of aimless drifting, he settled down in Jason’s bedroom. It was mostly bare. A modest cabinet packed with scrolls and books sat beside a broad, rough, wooden desk, upon which additional parchments and papers were strewn.
Silk curtains – an unusual luxury which compensated for the room’s plainness – hid the tall window which stretched from one corner to another. Currently, they were closed. If opened, afternoon sunlight would stream directly into the room. Instead of drawing them, Deyan located a candle in its holder on the desk and lit it with a flint. As the light strengthened and washed over the desk, he pulled up a stool and glanced over Jason’s papers. A quill rested on the top one; the date was marked at the top-right-hand corner as yesterday. Deyan scanned portions of Jason’s neat writing.
‘Life is a combination of small moments... they all amount to greater influences. Single decisions do little, but collected together, they decide the path of fate...’
‘When I let it consume me... it’s like the feeling I get when watching clouds scud across the sky. It spirits me away. Or... is it like watching a thunderstorm, waiting for lightning to flash? I get that feeling every time he looks at me. It’s like his gaze strikes right through to me...’
‘All of this... it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Hmmm... does there exist an analogy? Well, it is how I would feel if, let’s say, I was gifted a donkey for my birthday... no, that doesn’t sound right’
‘I never thought the love triangle would be broken. I thought I’d forever be wanting him, while he hounded after Anita, while she looked out for me. Finally, it’s just me and him. I still remember that day – the same day when Dallas Becker attacked Deyan – when my mother told me how she had overheard me saying that I was glad that Anita is dead. Well, I am. But I can’t tell her the reason, can I? The bitch wouldn’t understand.’
Feverishly, Deyan flicked through Jason’s papers. Diary-writing? Poetic metaphors? He would never have guessed that Jason had these. Hands trembling and ears burning, he searched through adjacent parchments until he found the tall, dated stack of Jason’s personal journals. Flicking through them, he looked at the dates. The ones at the bottom of the hefty pile dated from over a year ago. Deyan scanned the ones from a month ago... two months ago... six months ago...
They were all similar. In a sense, they frightened him. He had always suspected that Jason had a much deeper and more melancholy persona than he ever let on.
For how long has Jason felt like this about me?
Deyan couldn’t bring himself to read anymore. He put the papers back the way he had found them. The very next moment, footsteps resounded beyond the room’s doorway. Panic flared in his chest, rushing through his veins as tingling adrenaline as he frantically looked around for a temporary hiding place. He flung himself from the seat and rushed to the silk curtains, hastily whipping them forward to conceal himself behind them. Breathing so hard he was sure that either the curtains moved from his exhalations, or that he could be heard from several metres away, he stayed completely motionless. A hand tweaked the curtain away slightly so he could see the room.
Seconds later, Jason treaded quietly into the room. He closed the door behind him and moved farther in, until he stopped still, staring at the candle which flickered innocently at him. Jason approached the desk and picked up the candle-holder. Deyan could almost read the boy’s mind. He’s thinking: ‘Wait. I didn’t light a candle the last time I was here.’ Jason turned slowly on the soles of his feet, taking in the rest of the room for any signs of intrusion.
Once the boy’s back was turned, Deyan slipped out of the curtain folds and leaned leisurely against the wall as if he had been there the whole time. Jason turned back around, glanced up and jerked so violently that the candle flew from its holder, rolling across his latest journal entry and igniting the parchment. “Mmmmmmother goddess and fffffffffffffather...frrrrrrriar – ah – DEYAN!” Spluttering, he seized his burning papers and, throwing them down, he stamped on them. Once the fire was out, he turned to Deyan, panting from the shock, and fixed him with a flinty stare. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Visiting,” Deyan replied sheepishly.
Jason eyed him accusingly. “Yeah. Right. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He replaced the smoking candle into its holder and threw his charred papers back onto the desk.
“Bad time, huh?” He didn’t get an answer, so he added, “Where were you?”
“Town hall. I wasn’t actually allowed to participate in the meeting, but my mother didn’t want me unsupervised, either. So I had to sit there for hours with one of Nestor’s friends watching over me.”
“Errr. Okay.” Deyan waited for Jason to elaborate... or to at least sound less provoked. The boy didn’t say a thing. Deyan added, apprehensively, “Did you hear what they decided?”
Jason flicked his head a little to dispel hair from his eyes. “No, nothing. I got tired of waiting and left early.”
Gazing at Jason carefully, Deyan tried to figure out why his friend was acting so pissed off. “Ummm... I’m sorry?” he experimented.
“How much did you read?” Jason snapped, perching on the end of his bed. The moment he spoke so snappishly, Deyan jumped where he stood.
“I don’t know!” Deyan moaned. “Does it really matter?” At this point both of them were blushing a vibrant crimson.
“No, it doesn’t. Forget it.” The boy slumped back onto his bedcovers.
Deyan shuffled over and knelt next to the bed so his face was level with Jason’s. “Yes, it does matter. What you’ve written matters. Sorry for reading it.”
“Nah... I should’ve packed them away. If my mother reads them she’ll repeatedly strangle and resurrect me.”
“Do you think I won’t like what I’ve read, and thus leave you?” Deyan asked gently. What I read means more to me than anything else in the world, Jason...
Silence. Did that mean yes?
Deyan got up and lay across Jason, wrapping his arms around the boy and melding their lips together. The flavour of attraction mingled in their breath, and Deyan lost himself in the feeling, simply glad that Jason didn’t protest. He kissed the boy harder, and deeper, and one wound into Jason’s hair, the other creeping inside his shirt, caressing smooth, warm skin... A barrier was crossed – tension was broken – and –
“Jason! Are you home yet?”
The beautiful moment crashed down around them. Jason broke away and pushed Deyan off him, swearing as soon as his mouth was free. “Fuck it... my stupid mother’s home. I think that’s your cue to leave, visitor.”
And it means a verdict’s been settled.
“All you need to do is figure out how to escort me out without her noticing,” Deyan said huffily, scowling at his companion.
By the sounds of it, June was approaching rapidly, her footsteps ominous along the hallway. “Jason? Are you even home?”
“Yes, mother!” her son called back, thought the exasperation edging his yell made it quite obvious he had something to hide. “Right here!” He whipped around, grabbing Deyan by the upper arm and looking about frantically, just as Deyan had done a few minutes ago upon Jason’s entry. “Find somewhere to hide! Quick!”
“Where?!” Deyan protested, gesturing at the bare room with indignation.
“Don’t think, just do it!” Jason hissed. Deyan darted over and pressed himself behind the door the moment before June flung it wide open. The woman still bore the splint around her wrist, though in both the boys’ opinions it wasn’t quite necessary, and she kept it there to cruelly exhibit the damage her son had done to her. Just as, from the day of her injury and onwards, she had only displayed a more ruthless treatment of Jason. “I heard you yell. What happened?”
“I thought of your face, that’s what!” Jason spat. Immediately after the comment, he assumed an infinitely more polite expression, as if he hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud. “I stubbed my toe, actually.” A spasm crossed his blank face, signalling his emotional aggravation. With his lazy eye twitching at his mother, she actually let the insult pass unparalleled, and, closing her mouth against a regal protest, she denied Jason her opinion and left. As an afterthought, he added, “Tell me later what happened at the meeting,” at her retreating back.
Deyan, having narrowly escaped being squashed between a door and a wall, pushed the door away, giving its swing enough force to close it of its own accord. “Whew. That was close... can I stay a bit longer?” The last word deepened into a husky purr as from behind, he rested his hands on Jason’s shoulders, massaging firmly. Kissing the back of the other boy’s neck, he paused when Jason didn’t answer. “Mmh?”
“No... not now.” Nevertheless, the hint of a moan in his words betrayed his longing, and he relaxed against Deyan, flexing his shoulders and neck. They had never even discussed the concept of ‘making love’ together... though it seemed they would never find an appropriate opportunity. “Just leave... now. Please.”
Reluctantly, Deyan let go of his companion. “Alright. Get me outta here.”
It took them five minutes to escape the house unnoticed by June. Infuriatingly, she lingered in the wrong places or moved around too frequently. Eventually, Deyan burst from the front door as she went out the back one; once he was a block or two from the house, his accelerated rush of adrenaline settled down, making room instead for the electric lust which clawed and scrabbled at him from the inside, demanding release.
Jason can be such a challenge to fathom sometimes...
Making his way back home, alone, he noticed that most people were back to their usual business, since the meeting had finished. The season of spring had just been born, and Deyan, with his impercipience plus the trauma he had recently been put through, hadn’t noticed the fresh blossoms or the tweeting birds or the surges of greenery and squally weather... It rained quite often, in fact, but he barely noticed it, just as he wouldn’t notice ever-present sunshine. Today, the air was sticky and humid, and since his visit to Jason’s home, the clouds had started to unburden themselves. Rain trickled from the skies and dripped from everywhere in puddles – slicking from roofs, walls, tree branches...
Deyan intercepted Flynn, who was presumably returning home. “Where’s the rest of the family? And what’s been decided?”
“The girls went home early, and Father and Nash are out on errands. Otherwise, the situation is more or less the same as before,” conceded Flynn. “You’re on probation as a citizen – any more suspicious business and you’ll be in serious trouble. Mister Becker’s attack leaves you liable to turn the law against them, so they’re leaving your record clean.”
Deyan involuntarily lifted a hand to his face. The bruising was almost completely healed, indiscernible from his visage previous to the attack. His jaw still ached sometimes; his nose had set well enough – and in his opinion, he liked it better now than he had before, as if a slightly jagged, out-of-place nose was more interesting than a plain, unharmed one. “And what of finding the actual culprit?”
“I was getting to that. It’s been suggested that each family chip in an extra tax so we can bring in a mage from the big city –”
“A mage?!” Deyan interrupted.
“Yes, Deyan, that’s what I said. A mage. Specifically one who is skilled at finding evidence which ordinary mortals cannot.”
“... magic. Magic should show them all the truth,” Deyan mused. The supernatural dwelt across the land, but this bloody town was so damned backward that they weren’t even properly pagan. Nobody of notable magic potential had ever been born here. Deyan wasn’t even sure how magic worked, but its concept had intrigued him ever since he had learned to think for himself. The most common definition for magic was: the art of causing change according to one’s will.
He had always wanted to know more about the more arcane branches of metaphysics – the more occult aspects of this life he inhabited. One or two years ago, Flynn told him a story of a rather interesting wind-elemental he had met on his travels. The unfortunate townspeople, however, had little concept of mages, sorcerers, angels and demons, elves, dragons, spirits... they only had idiosyncrasies, superstitions and parables with which to sustain their narrow minds.
So, a visit from a mage of some sort would be quite nice. Deyan wondered maliciously if he’d be able to bribe a mage into undertaking some extra manipulations for him. He wouldn’t mind it if, for example, June Midas went ‘inexplicably’ insane.
“What are you daydreaming about? You’re smirking,” Flynn commented.
“Nothing...” Deyan’s dark gaze twinkled with veiled amusement amongst the ebony locks of hair which fell into his eyes. “Anyway, how soon will that be organised?”
“Probably after the vernal equinox, which gives us about a month of waiting.”
Spring equinox. Between now and then, Deyan would celebrate, for want of a better word, his eighteenth birthday. Additionally, the equinox was the one time each year when many of Skarden’s citizens left town to join in with the yearly rites which celebrated the rebirth of the earth. These days their main focus was drama, wild dancing, licentiousness and intoxication. Only those above eighteen years of age were allowed anywhere near the rites; Deyan had always looked forward to the day when he could join in... mostly because of the vicious fantasies in which he’d indulged of taking Anita for his own... even if it had been by force, but only on those nights of orgy and revelry. Though, he suspected the stupid little bitch might have stayed behind, intending to stay chaste.
Interrupting Deyan from his capricious imaginings, Flynn faced the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. The older male was much taller than his sibling, and it seemed Deyan wasn’t going to grow much more. “Now... that means, all you have to do between now and then is –”
“ – not slip up,” Deyan finished for him.
Flynn nodded his approval, and, with their expressions set into identical resignation, their resemblance was stronger than ever. “It is vital.”
Deyan returned home without speaking of his interlude at Jason’s home; instead, he thanked his family once again for supporting him. They assured him it was nothing. ‘We trust you’, they said, as usual, repeating sympathies which he had heard more times than he could bother to count. ‘We are confident in your innocence.’
The young man spent a mostly sleepless night recalling Jason’s journals, turning over the pages in his mind as if he were really there, at the boy’s desk, reading by candlelight with his heart drumming a tattoo in his chest. Some of the things Jason had written about had been true eye-openers; philosophical statements and doubts which he’d thought only a wise man might ever procure.
‘Some say the meaning of life is life itself.’
‘Dying is but an ephemeral instant in time – in that one instant life ends. Oh, of all the advantages humans have, even discipline, experimentation and logic cannot tell them what is on the other side of dying. We can only guess, dream and dread what is beyond life. Religion theorises things where a logical explanation cannot be found... it even goes so far as to invent things where they don’t exist. So, because humans have minds of their own, that’s why some things just go too far.’
And then, scribbled at the bottom of that page, crossed out with additional ink, had existed petulant assertions such as, ‘Some things go too far – like the concept of Anita Becker being my betrothed. By the time I was eighteen it would’ve been official. How the fucking hell was that supposed to work? I wouldn’t have wanted to even touch her.’
Thoroughly disturbed by these recollections, Deyan instead questioned his own love of Anita – which, upon inspection, and comparison with his current feelings for Jason, had been nothing more than blind infatuation. It was rotting in yet another forgotten pit of his memory.
Or, perhaps, his sleeplessness was due to an unconscious premonition, as if a part of him knew that there was no escaping the accusation. All of the denigration forced upon him had, in its own way, made him feel rather guilty for Anita’s death even though he’d had no part in it – as if loving her had meant she was destined to die.
Did Jason have a hand in Anita’s murder?
Deyan did not allow himself to start digging up evidence on his friend. Other than that one thought, he refused to consider the possibility.
It’s easy enough to create motives where none exist. Look at what’s happened to me.
Moving on, his mind conjured the old memory of Anita flinging herself at Jason, kissing him full on the mouth. Back then he had been jealous of Jason for Anita’s affection. Now, it simply made him envy Anita for getting to kiss Jason first. Perhaps Deyan and she hadn’t ended up so different, after all. Deyan lay awake, listening to the patter of rain outside as it descended to earth throughout the night.
* * *
Always an early riser, the youth awoke to a dark, saturated morning, getting up silently so as to not disturb his sleeping sisters. He dressed warmly, in his preferred cloak, leather boots and gloves, intending to go outside and enjoy, not so much the as-of-yet absent sunshine, but the scent of temporary innocence and freedom.
In fact, the current conditions weren’t dissimilar to the ones of the day during which Anita had been discovered as dead. The smallest hint of thunder touched the silence. Deyan couldn’t tell if the sun had yet risen, confused by the overcast skies. And even if it had, it was such an unfailingly defined moment in each day that it wasn’t altogether too attention-grabbing. Most days were the same. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset. Rain, shine, windy, still. The weather and other patterns of nature, in all their chaotic variances, were still predictable.
Wiping down the mist which had gathered on the bedroom’s one window, Deyan gazed outside, compelled to leave the house after the restless night, and so he did, stepping onto the drenched streets with no real destination in mind.
Before all the business with Anita’s unsolved murder, Deyan had loved living here, in Skarden. Now, however, he felt like a foreigner. Why do I even bother dignifying all the stupid, superstitious, paranoid fools who live here, with my presence? He started to consider leaving this place, before they could accuse him of anything else. Leave for where, though?
A young man at the opposite end of the avenue presented an obscene, one-fingered salute at Deyan, who, shaking his head in quiet disgust, turned back, deciding to take some less-travelled paths. He skirted past main streets, taking alleys behind houses and on occasion slinking through people’s open backyards. Moving past a cul-de-sac which opened onto an expanse of parkland, he paused beside a vast collection of swampy ponds. Ducks drifted along and dragonfly nymphs wriggled below the surface of the water.
A few months ago, Deyan might have delighted from such refreshingly innocent little facets of nature. Now, all he wanted to do was stamp in the shallows and kick up a fuss – not to harm the creatures, of course, but to vent some of the depthless hostility accumulating inside him. Even if he was freed from his martyr’s shell in a month or two, it was too late; the damage was done. Deyan was already receding from all that was good and kind in the world. It would only take a fraction more – one more effective push – to send him flying past the gates which separated true nightmare from reality – past which there was no return.
Having initially circumvented the main streets of town, Deyan eventually decided to cover the ground he’d missed and pass through the town square on his way back home. In hindsight, doing so was a mistake.
It was late morning by then, but it was hard to tell due to the pall of rainclouds stretching as far as the eye could see. The light mist drifting downwards should have been invigorating, but it was tainted by something else, thus transformed into a cloying, suffocating miasma.
The town square was the same as usual, lined with several stalls, the main shops bordering it with their doors wide open, welcoming business and liveliness, elders sitting on benches, and the town’s main flag...
Streaked with blood.
The latter factor didn’t engage with Deyan’s brain too well. He drifted forward, taking in snatches of frantic conversation from the crowds. Many people looked forlorn, a few women were crying, their faces blotchy, and Mayor Graves was trying helplessly to talk to several people at once.
Deyan flexed his fingers between the material of his gloves, staying well back. A couple of people noticed him at first, the number quickly increasing as hurried whispers and hand-smacks travelled through the crowd as quickly as a flare of fire along a line of oil. Their stares were baleful; sinister. Condemning.
Uh-oh.
Someone yelled, “GET HIM!”
The youth didn’t even hesitate to think. He turned, nearly skidding on the slippery cobblestones in his haste, and ran like there was no tomorrow... which there very well might not be if those glares meant what he thought they meant, and he was caught.
An onslaught of roars, cries and yells issued from the crowd. Glancing back in fear for his life, Deyan glimpsed several men detach themselves from the mass and begin the chase.
No other words could describe how Deyan felt right now other than completely numb, blind terror. A searing sensation cut through his throat and lungs, straining for oxygen to sate it as he galloped along, skidding around corners and vaulting over fences. More than once he stumbled, but with his head start he managed to keep ahead of his pursuers. His surroundings blurred dizzyingly as he flew along; never before had he registered running this fast. It seemed true animal instinct kicked in when he was in a situation completely akin to prey targeted by merciless hunters. Only one rational thought made itself heard: If I haven’t done anything wrong, then why am I running? Running will convince them of my guilt.
The boy was nevertheless wildly optimistic, as well as terrified, so he didn’t stop moving. If he had more effort to spare for insignificant thoughts, he might have wondered what his pursuers would do to him if they caught him.
Every muscle dedicated to keeping him on the move cried out in tortured protest. Deyan hurtled down a narrow alleyway, finding himself at a heart-stopping dead-end. Always the cliché. He raced right to the end, scrabbling at the high fence for some sort of hand-hold, of which there were none. Two of the men chasing him ran past the alley and then backtracked once they saw him. “He’s here!” called one.
“I didn’t do it!” Deyan said in a panicky shout, providing yet another explanation for his non-existent guilt. ‘It’ being whatever new misfortune had befallen the town. Was somebody else dead – murdered? “I swear!” He would added, ‘I wouldn’t have a reason to, since my innocence was temporarily affirmed yesterday,’ but never got around to gathering up enough volume from his tormented airways to voice more protests.
Looking around frantically, seconds from being seized by the approaching men, Deyan grabbed at a couple of discarded barrels which sat in the corner. With his remaining strength, he violently pulled at one, toppling it. It landed on his right foot, but he didn’t have the breath to cry out in pain. The boy scrambled onto the mouldy wooden cylinder, kicking one of the men in the face as they lunged for him. The vessel began to roll backwards beneath him, but it provided him with enough leverage to leap up – his heart feeling as if it was plunging down into the regions of his bowels – and latch onto the top rim of the fence. The rest of his body was left to slam against the sturdy stakes of the fence. Deyan kicked out again, as much to additionally dispel his pursuers as to give himself momentum – and with an agonised heave he lurched over the barrier, escaping the dead-end.
Oh, of all the bloody luck in the world... The men who’d given chase had centred their search around this area. Deyan trembled where he stood, momentarily at rest, each inhalation and exhalation a faint, husky growl. In a sudden flurry of dark clothes and movement, he was off again. Craning his head around as he ran, the youth was one step closer to believing he was well shot of the men who were chasing him.
He didn’t even register the jagged corner of a wall as he flew right into it. Certain that his left eye socket was fractured, he staggered back and balanced almost comically on his heels for a split second before toppling to the ground. As he turned his face out of the dirt, he thus freed his ear to the air, hearing gathering shouts and fast footsteps.
With an almost detached kind of provocation, Deyan raised a numb hand to his face. His fingertips trailed over the hot slickness of fresh blood pouring from the blunt, vertical wound across his forehead.
Angels and demons... I think I’m becoming inured to pain. Or, I’d like to hope so.
That was the last thing – the last thought – he was sure of – before unconsciousness took over him. After that he felt no more – in the same way as anyone would feel no more pain or sensation upon falling asleep.
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Once Bitten, Twice Shy {M}, Full of mature themes; W.I.P.; m//
