Quote:
Prompt 3: In the dark of the night, evil will find you--and this is the worst kind. This is the kind you did to yourself. Before bed, between one tired, fluttering blink and the next, you see a figure in the darkest corner of your room--a ghastly silhouette hovering. You lock eyes with it--and then it hits you. A wave of regret, pulsing and unyielding. The combination of something embarrassing or horrible, or a regret nagging at you for an unfinished deed, or remembering a failure of yours--you are consumed with the thoughts of something you regret. It feels like an eternity passes as you're wracked with guilt and grief and regret; you don't remember falling asleep, but when you wake, the figure is gone. If you're lucky, the regret is too.
One night, long after his wounds had healed, when the village and the cellar and the creature that kept them there had finally begun to slip back into the depths of memory, no longer as fresh as they’d been only weeks before, Lovely blinked through the stress and fatigue of the day and saw, in the corner of the room, a dark figure lurking.
He gave a start and stepped back, taking up a defensive position, as he would if he had his rapier and dagger available to him. His hands remained empty, utterly useless. Instinct prevented him from powering up in the apartment; the last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves here, where the war still existed, but seemed, for a time, at a distance. He was powerless, his efforts ineffective. He could neither defend himself, nor protect the only person in the world worth protecting.
Ilian remained in the living-room, completely oblivious, playing their old, antique piano before their neighbors returned home for the night and complained about the nose through the walls.
The figure was little more than shadow, a black silhouette in the darkest corner of the room, immune to the glow of the bedside lamp. Lovely locked eyes on it, unwilling to look away and lose track of it, to offer it any sort of opening to attack, but it did not speak, or move, or even breathe. It stood there, still and quiet, and cast an unnerving gloom over the room.
Memories swam through his mind as he stared at it: The darkness of the cellar. The sight of a large, antlered creature in the woods. A swirling fog that obscured everything. Ilian’s voice through it all, calling his name. The pain of his injuries, and the misery that filled him when he thought that he might never make it home, that Ilian might be in danger, and he could do nothing to save him.
He was weak. Helpless. Paralyzed by fear. Overcome with bitter disappointment.
And all the while, the memories kept playing, new and old alike: The city drenched in the orange glow of sunset. Fingers against ivory keys, filling the concert hall with song. Raised voices and blood splatter, a lifeless body at his feet, brown curls soaked red. A wide grin on the face of a young man, barely more than a boy, who looked so much like Ilian. The hand of a General slipping into his chest, filling his soul with darkness. A shattered window; an empty apartment; a tired, broken boy in a cage. The dank pit of Negaspace, as barren and decrepit as the foggy village.
“You know I love you, right?”
Lovely gasped and stumbled. He spilled onto the bed when the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. It was all he could do to breathe through the guilt and the fear and the anguish that filled him, while the shadow continued to lurk, dark and faceless, its presence suffocating.
Later in the evening, when the apartment had gone silent, Lovely opened his eyes to a room shrouded in night. He did not remember falling asleep, nor was he aware of how much time had passed, but he could feel the warm presence of a body in bed beside him. He rolled toward it, curling into Ilian’s back, draping an arm over him as he peered over Ilian’s shoulder into the corner.
A beam of silver moonlight filtered through a gap in their cheap, busted blinds. Through it, Lovely could see that the shadowy figure was gone.
Had it been there at all, he wondered? Or was it little more than a figment of his imagination, brought into existence by his own tired mind, and the despair he tried so hard to keep well hidden.
With a shiver, Lovely laid back down behind Ilian, tucking his face into the back of Ilian’s neck.
Sleep returned to him, but the darkness invaded his dreams.
