Ignite the Shadows

by Ingrid Seymour

  The car comes to a stop and I snap out of the mental anguish caused by the automatic movie playing in my head. James ushers me into the van’s back seat and slips the ring off my finger. No one notices.

  “Oso, first aid,” he orders like some sort of general.

  Oso hops to it, a regular soldier. He grabs a small metal box from under his seat.

  “Where are you hurt?” he asks after a quick glance at all the blood.

  I point at my arm and cringe from pain and shame. I cracked. Things went wrong because of me. Blare gets in the van. Xave follows, squeezes into the back, and slides away from me, as far as he can.

  “You okay, bro?” Clark asks him.

  Xave ignores him, leans his head on the side of the van and closes his eyes. Aydan looks pale and breathes in and out in measured rhythm. Oso’s dexterous hands work quickly, cleaning the wound and uncovering the gash.

  “How bad is it?” James asks.

  “Not bad. A bit of skin glue will hold it together.” Oso pulls out a small tube and gets to work. “So … what happened?” he asks as he glues me back together, like a broken toy. “It was all so fast on those tiny cameras, we couldn’t make heads nor tails out of any of it. Next time we need sound. We were so jumpy we almost crashed in there to help.”

  James opens his mouth to explain, but Blare beats him to the punch.

  “She freaked!” The words come out accompanied by spit. “That’s what happened. You owe me ten bucks, Oso. She didn’t bite her tongue like she said. She screamed like a little schoolgirl.”

  Oso gives her a nasty glare at the mention of the bet. At least he was betting on me. “But nothing came of it, right?” he asks.

  James shrugs and looks at Xave.

  “It could have,” Blare says. “And it still could, if we keep acting like we’re running a pre-school. Xave better not show his face around anymore or it’s ‘game over’—unless we’re planning to kill him for real.”

  “Shut up, Blare!” Aydan bursts out. Everyone jumps, even Blare. Until now, Aydan has seemed the quiet type and—judging by everyone’s surprise at his explosive words—this isn’t typical behavior.

  “So says the one who also freaked,” Blare mocks.

  Aydan’s hands twist on his lap. He answers in a barely subdued tone, like the price of keeping his anger in check is too high. “It affects everyone differently for different reasons.”

  James puts a hand on Aydan’s shoulder, a warning not to say more. Aydan stares at the floor, clenching his jaw. But there’s no way Blare will ever understand his meaning. She isn’t one of us. The horror she experienced can’t be anywhere near what I just went through, what Aydan and James must have gone through. It’s one thing to see the monster, and quite another to realize that you’re it.

  A whimper escapes me without my permission.

  This is what I am: a monster, a real freak of nature.

  I want to cry. I want to die, want to bash my skull against the ground and kill the thing that lives in there.

  I. Am. A. Monster.

  Tears roll down my face and I keep whimpering like a sad puppy.

  “She’s losing it,” Blare says.

  “Leave her alone,” Xave growls, suddenly alive after I thought he’d died of resentment and hatred. “You’ve no idea what she just went through.”

  “Same thing as all of us, jackass,” Blare growls back.

  “Wow, why don’t we just chill it, everyone,” Oso says. “We can just—”

  “No, not the same thing,” Xave interrupts, looking like he’s gone from a dying ember to a raging bonfire. “She had to pretend she didn’t really know me or care about me. She had to convince those freaks she intended to do away with her best friend. She was brave.” Xave looks at me. Our eyes lock, and his gaze shines on me, giving me strength.

  “And whose fault is that?” Blare says with an upward twist of her mouth and eyebrow. “That wouldn’t have happened if—”

  “Just shut up.” Xave points a menacing finger at Blare.

  “Listen, you—”

  “Enough!” James shouts.

  Blare looks injured, betrayed.

  “Blare,” James’s voice is quieter now, conciliatory. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

  She seems to shrink a few inches, looks outside through the windshield.

  James rubs his forehead. “We’re all in this together. We’ll talk about it later. This isn’t the best place—”

  “Fine,” Blare says and moves away from James as his hand approaches her shoulder. She slips into the front passenger seat with a grunt.

  Oso shakes his head, then removes his bloody latex gloves. “There you go. Hopefully that won’t leave a scar. It wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance. It never is.”

  The bandages are comfortable. My arm still hurts, but it feels much better. Numb somehow.

  “Change the bandage for two or three days. After that you can uncover it. Keep an eye out for swelling or redness. Okay?” Oso wipes a tear off my face. “It’ll be all right,” he says in a tender voice, too tender for such a big guy like him. “It gets better.”

  I appreciate his effort to cheer me up, but he doesn’t understand. Things might get better for someone like him, but for me they won’t. I don’t see how I’ll ever get over being whatever the hell I am. I’ve seen what James wanted me to see. I’ve been a victim of his experiment. Maybe I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d just told me what I am, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes. But this was cruel.

  I wish I’d never agreed to come. I wish I’d been happy with thinking I was crazy.

  Chapter 19

  I’m in my bed, blinking at the ceiling. My tongue is a cotton ball. When I sit up, a serious headache pounds in my temples.

  It’s raining outside, a thousand drops tapping at my window. After shutting my eyes for a few seconds, they snap back open. How did I get to my bed? The last thing I remember is sitting in the van, seething, staring at James, telling him with the intensity of my gaze that I needed answers. Real ones. My body quaked with rage and I felt ready to explode, sickened by what he put us through.

  Now, I’m in my room and I don’t even know how I got here. Was there something in that bottled water he insisted I drink? Anger tightens my chest. I’ve allowed him to make me a pawn in his cruel game, and now he thinks he can make decisions for me. Even if they involve drugging me and turning me into a monster.

  Well, I’ve had enough.

  I go in my small bathroom, determined to take a cold shower. As I undress, I’m surprised when I notice the bandage around my forearm. I’d forgotten about the cut. I make a fist and release it. The pain is gone. Oso said to change the dressing, but I don’t have gauze or surgical tape. I look in the medicine cabinet and all I see is a box of SpongeBob Band-Aids. They’ll do. In one swift motion, I rip the bandage off.

  “Ouch.” I stare at the tiny hairs stuck to the white tape, then look at my arm. Wow, the cut looks almost healed. Oso really did a great job patching me up. I wonder where he learned to administer first aid so well? Maybe he’s a doctor, like Dad. He always fixed my skinned knees and elbows and—no matter how bad the scrapes, even the time I fell off my scooter and left half my knee smeared on the asphalt—they never left a scar.

  Aydan is a programmer for Sylica Rush. Clark is a welder. Oso could very well be a brain surgeon for all I know. I wonder what James and Blare do? Thinking of them reminds me of the wicked pinpricks in my index finger. I examine it. Black blood is crusted around it. It looks nasty. I curse under my breath. Why didn’t I ask Oso to dress it, too? The last thing I want is an infection.

  I run warm water over my hand, expecting it to sting, but I don’t feel anything. I rub the dry blood away to reveal a ring of small white dots wrapping all around my forefinger. I stare at them confused. They’re completely healed over which seems impossible after the way those freakin’ spikes from hell speared my finger. It certainly hurt more than what t
hese scars lead to believe. I stare at them for another moment, then shrug. I guess self-harm turned me into a wimp. Who knew?

  After a quick shower, I use four Band-Aids to cover my wound. It looks silly, but at least I can say I’ve followed Dr. Oso’s directions. I put on skinny jeans and a form-fitting black top, then shuffle out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

  “How do you feel?” Mom asks when I enter. Her eyes are shining.

  I frown. “Um, I have a wicked headache.” I start digging for acetaminophen in the junk drawer.

  “Judging by the state Xavier delivered you in, I’m not surprised.” Her tone is preachy. That gets my attention. Since she stopped caring, I’ve come home in worse conditions than last night. I’ve had a few wild nights here and there. She can’t possibly be pulling the reproachful parent card now, can she?

  “Uh, hi,” a deep voice says from behind me.

  Startled, I look back toward the foyer and drop the bottle of pills. Luke stands there in all his blondness, wiping his hands on frayed jeans.

  The pill bottle rolls to his feet and he picks it up. “Here you go.”

  I snatch it and give Mom a look. I hope it says it all.

  Him? Here?

  So fast? So wrong!

  How? Why?

  “Honey, Ma—” Mom catches her mistake. “Luke came to talk to us last night. I tried to call, but your phone went straight to voicemail. He had a proposition for us, so I asked him to join us for breakfast, so we could talk.”

  “A proposition?” I say as if I’m waiting to hear a death sentence instead. I can’t deal with this right now. Not after last night.

  “Yes. And I think it’s wonderful.” Mom looks at Luke and beams as she sees herself in his eyes. I look back and forth between the two. Seeing them together is unsettling. He looks like a male version of Mom.

  “Why don’t you tell her about it?” Mom tells Luke.

  “Um, I thought we were just having breakfast.” Luke has the look of a snared rabbit. “Maybe you two should discuss it by yourselves.” His blue gaze sparkles with innocence, even under the faint light of this rainy morning. His eyes look achingly familiar, the way Mom’s used to look all those years ago, the way they do now.

  My gaze keeps jumping from one to the other. Mom radiates, hangs on Luke’s every word, and I can’t help but wonder why she’s never beamed this way in my presence. She loved Dad, and I look just like him. His same black hair, brown eyes, tan skin. Why didn’t she ever see the sun setting in my eyes? Why doesn’t she love me the same way?

  My heart breaks with a thousand emotions, and my mind reels with just as many questions. I want to understand, but it makes no sense. I want to know if it would have been different if I looked like Luke. If he hadn’t been abducted by that man. If Dad hadn’t died. If all four of us had been together. If anything had been different, would I still be the last one to cross her mind when she wakes up in the morning?

  But Luke and I are different. So different. And suddenly, it hits me. He’s my brother. My twin brother and we look nothing like each other. I look just like Dad and he looks just like Mom.

  He’s not like me.

  There’s no droning in my skull.

  He’s my twin brother and he’s nothing like me. Nothing like me!

  I’m the only monster in this place, and suddenly it all makes sense. Even if Mom doesn’t know what I am, she must sense it. That’s why she can’t love me. Something in her nature, some deep-buried instinct in her gut prevents her.

  Who could love a monster?

  I’m gasping for air. They’re staring at me as if I’m crazy, as if … as if … they know what I am.

  “I—I’m not hungry.” I turn and leave.

  It takes all my strength to walk to my room and gently shut the door, when all I want to do is slam it against their … sameness. I collapse face first on the bed. The pillow chokes my sobs, shoving my pain and disappointment back into my throat.

  My pillowcase is soaked in tears and my eyes tired and dry by the time a knock sounds at the door. I sit up, ready to tell Mom to leave me alone, but the face that pokes through the crack is not hers. It’s Luke’s.

  “Is it okay if I come in?” he asks. “You can tell me to go to hell if it’s not.” He smiles sheepishly.

  I bite my lower lip, hesitating for some odd reason. I do want to tell him to go to hell and take his proposition with him, but I’ve never been able to resist Luke, and it’s nice to finally know why. I’ve heard twins always share a sort of connection, even after they go separate ways. I think it’s true. It feels true.

  He sits on one corner of the bed, occupying a space too tiny for his tall frame.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in a quiet whisper. “She …” he points toward the door to indicate Mom, “took me by surprise last night. I thought I’d be the one surprising you guys, but,” he raises his eyebrows, “she just overwhelmed me with …”

  He doesn’t know what to call it, but I do. The word he’s looking for is joy.

  I straighten. “She’s been waiting for you for a long time.”

  “Yeah,” Luke says in a breathy, bewildered sigh. He swallows, shakes his head. “Listen, I understand how hard this must be for you. I never expected her to … go along with my idea so easily. And not just that, but to take it to a whole new level.” He laughs an uncomfortable laugh, stands and paces the room, shaking his head from side to side.

  Luke’s eyes take in the room: the corner where my dusty computer equipment litters the overcrowded desk; the bare walls from which I ripped the music posters of bands I used to like and the wads of tape left behind. The room is in twilight, windows covered by black curtains. A lone lamp with a dirty t-shirt and a bra hanging from its shade offers the only illumination.

  I squirm, feeling exposed and bare like a newborn. Luke clears his throat, looks at the worn rug by the foot of the bed and stuffs his hands in his jean pockets.

  “I know this is too much to take in all at once, so I’ll leave. You need to talk it over with her and make sure you guys agree. I … I don’t want to get in the way of …”

  “Why don’t we talk it over? You promised to tell it to me straight, remember?” I say as I start picking up clothes from the floor and shooting them into the dirty bin. I’m trying to look like I don’t really care, like it’s not a big deal and this part of my life isn’t caught in a whirlwind, too.

  “I don’t think it’s … my place.”

  We exchange a quick glance, smile at the personal joke. I remember telling him it wasn’t my place to mention he was my brother. I was wrong.

  “Mom and I don’t really … talk, not since…” I can’t finish. The pain of losing Dad resurfaces too easily, like a huge whale starving for air. I inhale. “Really, it’ll be better if you tell me about this idea of yours.”

  I plop on my desk chair and shake the mouse to awaken my cyber haven. The three monitors come to life, adding a bit more light to the room. I turn my back on Luke and pretend to check my email.

  “O-kay.” He clears his throat. “I told you they don’t want me living by myself since I’m only sixteen and all. So, I thought maybe I could start by spending a few weekends with you guys. You know, to get to know each other and see if there’s something there.”

  My hand rests on the mouse and the cursor blinks, blinks, blinks. “That sounds … reasonable.” Then I want to know. “So, I take it Mom loved the idea and ran with it. How far did she take it?” I think I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. I swivel the chair and face him.

  Luke sits on the bed again, his back turned, facing the opposite wall. “She wants me to move in. Right away.”

  I hate that I can’t see his expression. I don’t know how he feels about the idea. Hell, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about it. I didn’t have time to give it much thought since we last talked about it. This is all happening too fast. My life as I know it is disintegrating like sandcastles in a windstorm. If he moves in it wo
uldn’t just be awkward, it would be yet another aspect of my life becoming unrecognizable.

  Suddenly I’m protesting, unable to hide the irritation in my tone. “But that wouldn’t work. Where would you sleep? This house’s a shoebox.” I need control over something. I can’t let James, Mom, Luke, turn my whole life over on its head.

  My anger echoes against the walls, and its irrational quality slaps me as it bounces back. Luke is graceful enough to ignore it, maybe even understand it. Who knew he could be such a stand-up guy when I always figured him for an ass?

  “What if there was enough room? How would you feel about it then?” he asks, finally turning to face me.

  His calm question takes me by surprise and throws a bucket of ice water on my anger, an anger that I realize is misdirected. It’s not Luke’s fault. He’s the victim here, taken away from his family before his mother even had a chance to hold him in her arms. I was born last, strong and wailing at the top of my lungs. Luke was first and had to be whisked away and put on a respirator. It seems impossible, considering how tall and muscular he is now.

  Then that man used his doctor’s badge to gain access to the NICU and steal Luke from under everyone’s nose. And most ludicrous of all, he raised him as his own, with no one the wiser to the twisted criminal living in our midst.

  A criminal. What does Luke think of that? He seems well-adapted—not like someone who was raised in a dark basement, but you never know. Before I can help myself, a question I should keep to myself flies out of my mouth. “What was he like?” I hold his gaze even though I want to crawl under the desk and hide behind my high-performance CPU.

  For a moment, he just stares at me, face expressionless, but twitching a bit with the effort of keeping it blank. He looks like someone trying to choose his words very carefully. “He …” Luke stops, then stands and begins to pace along the bed. “It’s hard for me to reconcile the man I know with this … new person.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You may not want to hear this, but he was a good father. We had a good thing going, just the two of us. I had no reason to doubt his stories about a mother who abandoned us shortly after I was born.” He huffs bitterly. “But she wasn’t even real. No matter how good he was. None of it was real.”