Page 11 of Splintered
* * *
Another essay.Political thought of the Middle Ages. Evan swam in red ink, in crossed out words and grammatical errors. He reached for his second glass of wine, the bottle open beside him. The only light on in the house was overhead, the dusty crystal chandelier scattering a cold glow. The dining room was dark and old, one of the rooms they hadn’t planned on remodeling until later. It was Ben’s refuge, with its walnut wainscoting and burgundy paint, a time capsule of the house’s very first days, a hundred years ago.
Thundering footsteps again. Evan, reappearing at the foot of the stairs. They were like strangers under the same roof living on opposite sides of the house. The kitchen was neutral ground, and simultaneously where they fought the most. Ben looked up, already exhausted of the coming argument.
Evan waited. He was dressed in black jeans and a white polo shirt. He looked phenomenal, enough to make Ben ache.
“I’m going out,” Evan said clumsily. He fidgeted. There was no invite for Ben to join him. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Ben tipped the wine bottle into his glass, upending it until the cabernet rose almost all the way to the brim. “I won’t wait up.”
He didn’t look at Evan.
Evan hesitated. Ben heard him, the back and forth of his weight going from foot to foot. The groan of the floorboard Ben had learned to avoid when he was fifteen. He’d hear it tonight when Evan came home.
Or maybe not, if Evan didn’t come home.
“Ben—”
“Bye.”
The door opened and closed.
Ben grabbed his glass and downed his wine, three deep swallows before he coughed. Cabernet wasn’t meant to be pounded. Sand filled his throat, the scratch of wine shredding his tongue. He coughed into his hand, and flecks of wine sprayed out, tiny splashes that looked like blood. He rubbed his hand on his jeans and grabbed his red pen.
Maybe his heart was bleeding down his ribs, but the only red he’d show was on paper. He stabbed the next misplaced comma, brutally circling the stray. Words swam before his eyes, the mixture of church and state, the influence of God on the everyday man, the sway of religion, the fear of the Devil, the past, the future, and everyone trying to escape their bone-deep fear of change.
Ben pitched forward, his head resting on his folded arms as the tears finally fell.
* * *
Chapter Four
Screaming tore through the house,the kind of screaming that ripped throats raw, that rent souls in two. That shredded vocal cords and squeezed bones until everything in the world felt like it was about to explode.
Ben bolted upright, throwing back the covers and leaping from the bed. He hit the dresser and the wall as he ran, cursing as he ripped the door open. What the fuck was happening? Who was screaming? He twisted back once, searching the bed.
No Evan.
Another throaty wail, as if the scream was right in front of Ben’s face, as if someone was bellowing inside his own skull. He raced down the hallway, into the pitch black of the house. He’d grown up in the house, but in the middle of the scream, it seemed as alien and hostile as his darkest nightmare.
He stumbled down the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time, his thoughts pressing against the screaming, the multilayered bellows, the high-pitched shrieks overlaying the deep roar of an animal meeting its dark end. Something was dying and exploding all at once in the house. Like a chorus was being murdered, like every musical piece ever written was being bastardized and shredded at once. The sound seemed to multiply, square upon itself, expand until Ben didn’t know if he was screaming too.
Down the stairs, and he stumbled on the carpet in the foyer, falling. He hit the floor hard with his palms, a sharp crack rocketing up his arm. He cursed again, rolling to his shoulder. His gaze fell on the living room—
Evan thrashed on the couch, the source of the wailing, the hollering, the explosion of sound and anguish and total harmonic violence wreaking through the house and seemingly ripping the fabric of reality. The chandelier in the dining room shivered. The floors quaked beneath his hands and knees.
Ben pushed to his feet, cradling his wrist to his chest, and ran to Evan. “Evan!” he shouted, trying to raise his voice over Evan’s. He couldn’t, couldn’t even come close. “Evan! Wake up!”
Evan roared, his body jerking and shaking and trembling like he was being shaken from the inside. Like someone had grabbed him and was ripping him apart, shaking him until all his ligaments and bones and muscles fell into their separate pieces. Ben reached for him, some part of his mind shouting that wasn’t right, some echo of his first aid teacher training rising in the back of his mind.
Seizure, his mind vomited.Don’t restrain the victim.
But this wasn’t a nameless victim and this wasn’t training, this wasEvan. He grabbed Evan, trying to stop the shakes that were about to rip his head from his spine. “Evan!” He screamed. “Evan, wake up!”
Evan’s eyes burst open, his eyelids flying back, his gaze fixed on Ben.
Ben recoiled, shrieking.
