by Nicole Mello
“Who are you?” Henry asked, directly addressing Adam this time. Adam seemed to finally shift his attention from me to Henry, who I could feel edging around me. I adjusted my position to keep Henry behind me as subtly as I could. His fingers dug into my forearm.
“I’m his son,” Adam spat at him. Henry was silent; I didn’t dare to look at him. “I’m the life he created and abandoned. Didn’t you see fit to discuss me, Father?” He said the word in such a twisted, disgusting way, in a way I had never heard it before. It chilled me. “Didn’t you talk about me to your loved ones? Our family?”
“This is not your family,” I said, and my voice shook and betrayed me. Adam could sense my weakness, I could tell. He stepped closer, and I had to tip my head back to maintain eye contact, so large was he. “Leave this place. Leave us alone. Leave, and never come back.”
“I don’t know why you think you have any sort of power over me or what I do,” Adam said. He looked over our heads at the house we had been occupying since our escape. “Do you share this home with anybody?”
We were silent. I could feel Henry shake his head. Adam nodded.
“Good.” He pointed towards the front door. “Go inside, if you please.”
“Why?” I demanded to know. Henry’s grip on my arm tightened.
“Because I have a story to tell you,” Adam answered. I would have said he sounded almost patient, if I didn’t know better. “It’s quite a long one. I would rather we all be comfortable for it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Henry agreed at once. I shifted to look down at him, but Henry’s fingernails almost broke my skin in silent warning. I didn’t move. “We’ll go inside. Don’t worry. We’re going.”
Henry turned first, wrapping one hand around my wrist and pulling me with him. I could hear the tremendous footfalls of the demon behind us after a moment.
“Why are you doing this?” I hissed to Henry, in as low a voice as I could manage, trying to keep my words quiet enough that Adam couldn’t hear.
“Because there’s a gun in his belt,” Henry murmured back. “I don’t know if he means to use it on us, but I’m not about to test him and take that chance.”
I fell silent again, allowing Henry to lead me into our house. Adam still followed behind us; the hardwood creaked under his substantial weight, and, had I been able to turn around, I’m sure I would have seen Adam ducking down under every doorway and stooping to be able to fit in our rooms, all of which had relatively low ceilings, especially in comparison to him. Henry shut doors as he went, perhaps for his own peace of mind. We went to the kitchen, where Henry released me by the table, which I took as a hint to sit down. Henry pulled out one of the chairs at the table and motioned for Adam to sit. The entire situation was surreal; it was like a dream meeting a nightmare, if you can imagine that.
“Why don’t you sit and start saying what you want to say?” Henry suggested, motioning towards the open chair. “I’ll make some tea for us. Do you want anything to eat?”
Adam sat down in the chair and faced me directly. He did not answer Henry. Henry looked between us for a moment before he started digging through the cabinets for our tea kettle. I turned my attention back to Adam, who was staring at me so intently.
“What is it you want, exactly?” I asked him, my voice rough, though the tremble was beginning to settle, under a considerable amount of willpower from me. Adam continued to examine my face. Neither of us spoke. The only sound came from the apple tree outside the window tapping its branches against the side of the house, and from Henry trying to make tea as quietly as he could. Finally, Adam answered.
“I want you to hear my story,” Adam said. “I want you to know what my life has been like since you abandoned me. But, first, I want you to tell him who I am. I want you to tell him what you did.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why does it matter if he knows? Why does that matter to you?”
“I’ll admit, my original, primary intention in coming here was to talk to you,” Adam confessed to me. “But I’m also very angry with you. Victor, I won’t lie to you — we’d never lie to each other, would we? I like to think not. But, please, Victor, understand how angry I am. I don’t want to take vengeance on you, but I will do what I think is right. At this very moment, I think that it is right you tell this man, whom I have never observed you without, who seems to live in this house with you, and whom you seem so desperate to protect, the story of my birth. I would love if you told him, and please don’t begrudge me this; I’m going to take whatever small, non-violent measures of revenge that present themselves to me, unless otherwise provoked. Do you understand me, Victor? Or would you prefer that I call you Father?”
“Victor is fine,” I answered. I tried to make my voice as strong as possible, but it was still a bit choked. He studied my face.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he noticed. There was a gleam in his disgusting eyes. “Small measures of revenge, like I said. I’ll call you Father.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Henry. “What is his name, and who is he to you? I saw him in the little portrait.”
At the time, I didn’t ask what portrait he was referring to; I was distracted from that detail by his questions and his threats. I feared for myself and for Henry. I wanted to do as he said, until I got an opportunity to either attack him or flee. Otherwise, I knew what I had to do.
“His name is Henry,” I said. Adam motioned with one large, neatly-scarred hand.
“Henry what?” Adam urged. “Full names, please.”
“My name is Henry Florence Clerval,” Henry said, his voice welcome and terrifying as he interjected. The tea kettle whistled on the stovetop, and he shut the burner off and removed the kettle. He spoke as he poured water into three mugs, arranged in an orderly line on the countertop. “I’ve been Victor’s friend since we were kids.”
“Surely that’s not all,” Adam suggested. Henry set the kettle back on the cooling burner and opened a box of teabags.
“That’s all.” Henry turned and offered the box to Adam. “Take whichever one you like.”
Adam did not observe the names or the flavors of the different teas. He chose one at random and handed it to Henry, who nodded. He didn’t ask me. Henry knew exactly what I liked and how I took it. He didn’t think to ask. Adam picked up on that, I noticed, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to keep a careful hold on anything that gave him an upper hand over me. Henry placed the tea bags carefully in the mugs and set the mugs on the table, one by one. He gave us each a small spoon, then set the small container of creamer and the little dish of sugar at the middle of the table. Each step of the process was painstakingly done, Henry taking the utmost care as he moved gingerly to set it all up. He took his seat in silence. Adam watched him as he composed the tea set and settled, as though Henry was a specimen under a microscope.
“Tell Henry Florence Clerval what you have done, Father,” Adam said, after a great length of time. “Spare no detail.”
Even I, in my muddled, numbed state, could read the threat in Adam’s voice. I could barely bring myself to look Henry in the eye during the length of the confession, but instead kept my focus mainly on my hands. I didn’t want to see his face when he learned of what I had done. I’m still glad I didn’t look; I don’t want to know what he thought when he first heard. He was so sensitive, such an open book, that his emotions would have been plain and easy for me to read on his face. I’m glad I didn’t know. Ignorance can still sometimes be bliss.
I admitted everything to Henry, as I have admitted everything to you today. I told him every detail, under the prodding and urging of Adam, the hellbeast who was now masquerading as my son, my horrible son. I only stole glances at his face now and then, but I couldn’t bear to look at him for very long. I told him of the ideas that came to me after the death of my mother, and the execution of those ideas; I told him about my daughter; I told him of that night in Cambridge; I told him of my suspicions regarding Will’s death. Adam did not comment on
any aspect of it. In fact, he remained silent nearly the entire time, offering no insight of his own, much like you are now. He only spoke to remind me of some forgotten detail which he had remembered and I had not.
Henry remained silent during the duration of the story. I mean entirely silent, mind you; he didn’t say a word. He stared at me; I could feel his eyes burning holes in my head, but I hardly dared to look up. There was no positive response, but there was no negative response, either. He remained passive the entire time. I wasn’t quite sure how to take it; how does one take something like that? Tears fell, but I’m not sure why. I wanted to ask, but I thought it would be better to finish — like ripping off a bandaid, right?
When I finished bringing Henry to the same place, knowledge-wise, that I was currently at, the three mugs of tea had gone cold, untouched. I reached out to touch Henry’s hand; he withdrew in the same moment. He seemed almost surprised to see my hands. Without a word, he gathered up our mugs and dumped them all out in the sink. He busied himself with making new mugs with steaming hot water and fresh tea bags. Adam watched him for a moment, like observing Henry was a favorite pastime of his. It made me uncomfortable, to watch his watery eyes following a human being with such interest, such intensity. I looked away, but Adam reached out and snatched my wrist the moment I did.
Never have I felt something so horrifying. His skin was chilled, like a corpse’s, but I could feel the unnatural heat of the blood right under the skin of his palm. I recoiled immediately, ripping my wrist out of his grasp, and Henry abandoned the teapot in a second, shoving Adam’s shoulder back. Adam looked startled to be approached in such a way, but he did not move to attack Henry in return. He probably knew Henry was no threat. His natural curiosity allowed him to watch the situation play out, rather than act.
“Don’t touch him,” Henry snarled. His fingers were digging into the horrible, dark, grey flesh of Adam’s shoulder, visible because of the enormous white undershirt the beast had on. Every inch of him was stained in something, and much of the undershirt — which seemed to have, perhaps, once been white — was covered in smoky grey splotches that almost seemed like ashy. He smelled of smoke and the woods, in a deeply unpleasant way. In contrast, Henry was clean, his fair skin light and covered in freckles, and the contrast between them was almost laughable. His long hair was tied up in a loose bun; Adam’s was thick and unclean. Adam was tremendous and disgusting; Henry was small and pleasant. They were like photo negatives of one another.
“Wait until you hear the whole story before you rush to defend my father,” Adam spat right back. He shoved Henry’s wrist away. Henry was strong, but he was still delicate, fragile in comparison to the beast that sat before us, and I can only imagine that any amount of force from Adam would cause anybody pain. Henry didn’t falter. He stayed in position for another moment, looming over Adam.
“In my house, you will listen to me, is that understood?” Henry said. His tone, it seemed to me, left no room to argue. Adam did not say anything: not a word of agreement, but not one of disagreement, either. Surely he didn’t fear Henry, but he was so manipulative, so eager to play with us and our emotions, like we were beneath him, toys for his pleasure.
“I will tell you of my story, beginning with the night of my birth and ending with right now, this very moment, the present,” Adam informed us, doing a thorough job now of ignoring Henry. Henry backed off, returning to his previous position stationed in front of the stove, where he kept a close eye on the kettle as the water boiled. Adam remained focused on me. “You will pay me the same respect that I paid you, Father, when you told your side of it all. Now, I shall tell mine; you will listen, and be silent.”
He stopped speaking, and looked at me expectantly. I realized, belatedly, that he was waiting for me to agree with him. I nodded, a jerky, unnerving movement, and Adam inclined his head. He was horrid, grotesque and beastly, but he was more calm than I was, in that moment. He accepted the tea when Henry placed it down in front of him, with more force than he had the first time.
With this, he began his story.
Chapter Thirteen
“After my birth, the subsequent fall from the window, and then that scene which you described where I attempted to approach you in the bedroom which served as my delivery room, when you frightened me so terribly, I fled. I was afraid; I didn’t understand it yet, but I was. I just didn’t have a name for the feeling. I didn’t have a basis of comparison. I just had the sensation, overwhelming and terrible, nipping at my heels as I ran. I was a newborn, in every sense of the word but the physical. Obviously, I am — and was at the time of my birth — rather physically imposing. I was not aware of his fact at the time, not as I am now. I only knew myself, and you, Father, and, then, I had not even seen myself. I did not yet understand. I was simple. I was a blank slate, which you immediately snapped over your knee.
“I ran as far as I could until I grew weary. I was in a city of some sort, and the darkness provided some measure of protection. Even in the night time, my figure was imposing, and nobody dared to approach me. Once they get closer, their revulsion was clear, but I didn’t understand it. I just knew it was negative. Basic human instinct, I suppose. I’m not a scientist, Doctor, not like you. I don’t understand the intricacies of the body at the level you do, but I do, perhaps, understand human nature far better than you have ever been able to.
“I eventually came upon a side alley, where I observed a man tucked into an alcove, resting. It struck me as the very thing that I wanted to do, so I did it. When I awoke, the sun was in the sky, and everything was lit. It was incredible; I had never witnessed something so interesting. I had fallen asleep in one world, and woken up in another. As I said, Father, I was remarkably simple in my early days. If only you had cared for me, as a parent ought to care for a child. If only you had loved me, or had taken responsibility. Oh, well — if ifs and buts were candies and nuts, I suppose, eh, Father?
“I saw the man wake up a short time after I did. I was pleased that he, too, made the transition from that dark world to this new, lighter world, and I followed him when he packed up his few belongings and began to move. When I followed him, people seemed to ignore me more than they did when I walked on the street alone. I did not enjoy this location very much, busy and so full of stimulation as it was. It was overwhelming for me, and I felt a desire to get back to you. I felt rejected, but did not understand rejection. I only wanted to return to you.
“I left the man, and I, now alone once more, began to walk again. Walking was something I did so much of, especially in those early days, and, now, more recently, I have taken it up in some capacity once again. Walking I understood; it was something I could do. A sense of direction and a natural inclination towards navigation, however, I did not possess. I could not find my way back to you; I did not know where I was. I had no grasp of language, no reading skills, no speaking ability. I could grunt, but people ignored me, as though I was a homeless man who lost his tongue. People are so indifferent in the city, but can you blame them? The cities are full of empty faces.
“After a time, I reached the edge of a highway, which was incomprehensible to me. I continued along this edge, going along guardrails until I thought to climb over them and make my way into the woods. I loved the woods. When I breached the perimeter of the trees, the sun was half-set in the sky, and everything was dusky. I was in awe. The sunlight was nothing in comparison to this partial darkness, where everything was painted in colors I had never seen before. I was in love, I knew; the world called to me, and I answered.
“I wandered in the woods aimlessly for a time that second night. The moon was full. I looked up, and the love I felt increased tenfold when I laid my eyes on the moon. The night before had been so stormy, I couldn’t see the moon; even if I could have seen it, I was so preoccupied, it’s likely I wouldn’t have. But, is there a chance I wouldn’t notice such a thing as this? I was hooked, addicted; that reflector of light which is closer to us than any other astron
omical body was so incredible to me. Nothing could compare. The sun had just hurt my newborn eyes when I looked at it; I had only vague impressions of what it looked like. The moon was kind, gentle. I could almost see a face, if I looked close enough. She lit my path, and kept me company. I learned later that the moon was often referred to as female, as Luna, and it was then that I gave her that name, but I had no words when I first became acquainted with her.
“She gave me the strength to journey on, when I was beginning to lose hope in finding you, Father. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I believed you could give it to me. Were you not, after all, the one who had given me life? I didn’t understand it. I didn’t have the words. But, Father, I knew, in the heart that you so carefully placed in my body, that you would be able to help me. Well, I should say, I thought I knew; clearly, I was wrong.
“I traveled in the woods and forests. If I found myself approaching another city, I detoured; I hated the cities, I decided, and I wanted no part of them. I sometimes stumbled across small towns, but nobody saw me. If they did, they ignored me. I ate what I found; I drank from streams and rivers and puddles. Instinct drove me to most of the actions I went through during that time. I had no concept of self-preservation, save the basics that are inherent in all beings. I did what felt right to me. Luckily, I survived; I did not consume a poison berry, a tainted root, or contaminated water. That was just chance, but I am thankful. I tried to communicate with the moon, my Luna, in the way that infants try to speak to those around them, with grunts and whines, the only noises I understood. They were, of course, the beginnings of words, but I had no understanding of how to construct words, never mind what they meant.
