Page 27 of Connected
Although Miller didn’t exactly jump at the opportunity, he wasn’t slashing anyone either. Yet. Neither Owen nor Keaton believed that he’d suddenly atone, but his turmoil meant a few more minutes of life. It was a tiny victory.
And from somewhere else, the unseen entity pushed a bundle of emotions at Keaton. It was like getting hit while playing dodgeball, but instead of a ball, Keaton felt urgency and excitement and… yes, some of that hope that Owen was talking about. Someone was trying to send Keaton a message. If only he could figure out what the hell it was.
“I will make you suffer,” Miller growled.
Owen shook his head. “So what? That’s easy. Have you ever made someone happy? Has there ever been a time when someone was thrilled that you’re there, that you exist? That’s the real challenge, my friend.”
“I will live forever! I can make you writhe with a twitch of my fingers! I can open portals?—”
“Yeah, yeah. But at the end of the day, are you satisfied? Is that empty pit inside you ever full?”
The empty pit.
Keaton was walloped again, this time by an epiphany. Adoubleepiphany, in fact. Owen was right about that gaping hole in Miller’s psyche. And Keaton knew how to fill it.
“Owen!” he shouted urgently as Miller waved his blade around, deciding where to cut next. “Owen, think about some good memories. Think hard!”
Owen, bless him, obeyed. They all flowed from him into Keaton: joy, wonder, excitement, affection, amusement, gratitude, satisfaction, serenity, competence. Even that overused old thing, love. And hope. Glowing, sparkling hope.
It was delightful and intoxicating. Keaton laughed, which made Miller spin to look at him. Miller with the vast emptiness inside him.
Keaton did something he’d never imagined was possible: instead of absorbing emotions, he threw them out. Hard. Just as the unseen entity had done to him. Keaton became a conduit, like the coal chutes inside the tipple, but instead of conveying fossil fuel, he poured all of Owen’s lovely emotions into Miller.
While he was at it, he poured his own. He picked up every good memory he could find and opened it up so the emotions could flow out. Successfully completing a tricky home improvement project and making a decrepit room livable again. Performing a scene and knowing he’d nailed it. Reading letters from fans who said he’d made their dull days brighter. Collecting his sobriety pins year after year. Staring up at the Milky Way on a clear Wyoming night. Realizing that Owen Clark still thought he was pretty hot shit.
Miller’s eyes widened and he dropped the scalpel. “No,” he gasped.
“I hope, dammit!” Keaton was laughing and shouting at the same time. “I hope that Owen and I will get out of here and fuck until we can’t move, then cuddle up and sleep for days. I hope we’ll stay together. I hope that people can find a way to solve disputes without killing each other. I hope people will choose leaders who truly want to better everyone’s lives, and I hope scientists will find ways to cure terrible illnesses and stopclimate change. I hope everyone has a comfortable home, good food and water, and a loving family. I hope artists thrive. I hope everyone can be their authentic self.”
He would have gone on, but Miller collapsed onto all fours.
Owen chimed in, not yelling but speaking firmly. “I hope that Keaton knows he’s amazing. And I hope, Miller, that all your hate, all your despair, withers and dies.”
Miller made a terrible choking, gargling sound. The unseen presence exulted. The lights flickered and went out.
Keaton and Owen were alone in a dark room, the air thick with coal dust, rain pelting the metal roof. Owen lay on the floor, naked, filthy, and bleeding. Keaton, released from the binding ropes, had fallen to his knees.
Miller was gone.
CHAPTER 12
Keaton was doing the best he could to stop Owen’s bleeding. He’d taken off his shirt, torn it into strips, and held a folded strip against each of Owen’s cheeks. The contact stung, but Owen didn’t complain.
“You’re getting coal dust in these wounds,” Keaton said. “You’re going to end up with nasty scars.”
“Don’t care.” Owen shifted on the floor and wondered where his clothing had gone. And his phone and weapons and wallet. Keaton had jeans, shoes and socks, and the now-ruined shirt, but his wallet and phone were gone too. So were the keys to both cars.
“I should go get help,” said Keaton.
“We’re miles from anywhere, and it’s still miserable outside. We’ll be okay until morning unless Miller comes back.”
“He’s not going to. I think we broke him.”
“You meanyoubroke him.”
Keaton sat so close that their upper arms touched. They both leaned back against the wall. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but Owen, still wobbly, wasn’t keen to go wandering around the tipple barefooted and bare-assed in the dark. He was fairlycertain that even if he did, he wouldn’t find a Jacuzzi or feather bed.
“We did that together,” Keaton said, voice contemplative. “You were spouting positive emotions like a firehose. I channeled them into him along with mine. I’m not sure mine alone would have been enough.”
