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He studies me for several seconds. “Santiago can’t know?”
“Nope. No one can. Pretend you haven’t seen me here, and if you say something—” I try to come up with something that would matter to him, but the problem is…I have no idea what he even likes besides hanging out with us in silence. “I’ll deny it and call you a liar!”
“I don’t lie. Ever.” He sits up on the couch and puts his backpack next to him, swinging his legs back and forth as he glares at me. “You’re mean, Florian. Why are you mean to me?”
What?
“I’m never mean to you.”
He frowns. “Santiago is always nice, but you’re mean, and you hog his attention a lot.” Huh? This conversation is so surreal but, at the same time, interesting compared to everything else I’ve experienced lately. “I think you’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, but you shouldn’t worry. You’re his best friend in the whole wide world, and I’m just me.”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to this, so I stay silent. Maybe we need to find a fourth boy in our group so we all can have a best friend, and no one feels left out.
I like Octavius, but he’s not as vitally important to me as Santiago.
I lean my head back on the pillow, and familiar voices start to laugh in my head, mocking in its nature as it whispers unwanted thoughts into my mind.
My body needs sleep, but I won’t be able to sleep with all this. Usually, Dad’s stories bore me to death, and I finally fall asleep or pretend to so he will stop, but what should I do now?
Palming my head, I shake from side to side, only to freeze when Octavius’s question pierces through the fog. “Are you having a nightmare?”
“No. An unwanted memory and I’m tired.”
“Oh. I’m going to read to you. I found a new book, and it’s awesome.” Since we all come from long-lasting dynasties, we started reading and all other stuff since a young age and frequently discuss books among each other. “It’s about a Trojan prince. Paris.”
“The one that caused a war?”
“Yeah. But he loved her, and he was ready to die for that love. It’s admirable.”
“Foolish and selfish too.”
“Yes.” He flips the book open and starts reading, and in a while, the hideous voices change to Octavius’s, and his interesting book lulls me to sleep.
He comes a few times in the following weeks to hang out with me. We don’t talk much, but he always reads to me.
And when I heal and come back home, finally squeezing the life out of Santiago and pretending nothing happened to me…he never says a single word to him.
Looking back on that day, I thank my godfather every single time.
Because he saw something my father would have probably missed.
My trauma and the consequences of it were so deep, no shrink would have helped me.
I would have been a statistic without his guidance. Either I would have killed myself or…murdered someone innocent because the voices and memories ate at my soul.
Channeling them into the future, though, gave me a purpose and a will to live.
I might have been damaged beyond repair, but I could use that damage for the greater good. Although the greater good doesn’t exist, right?
I murder rapists and all other pieces of shit, but I enjoy the process. I thrive in it, and this makes me a monster just the same.
There is no justification for my actions, but I’m alive.
And it counts for something.
