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I crash through the first closed door I see, one that isn’t open and grungy, one that needed to be open. I lean forward on my knees, sucking in each breath with deep inhales and exhales. An arm latches around my stomach, and I still before turning in the embrace. I recognize the ink that’s displayed so professionally onto the golden skin and turn to face him.
“Nate?” I whisper, confused. His touch is like fire and ice, it both burns to the touch and freezes to be healed.
He clenches his jaw in the way that makes it pop out slightly, his eyes on mine. This isn’t playful Nate, this is angry Nate. “You’re my enemy, Tillie. By blood, and now by choice.”
I launch from the bed, rubbing my drenched skin viciously to get rid of the residue of sweat. The dream was vivid, a little too vivid because minutes later I’m still trying to get the images out of my head. After tossing and turning, I give up on sleep and crawl out from the sticky sheets. One of the drawers is slightly open in the bedside table. I don’t remember it being open when I went to sleep, but then again I don’t remember actually looking at it to know for sure. I quickly check the door is closed before kneeling down to open it farther.
I feel like maybe I’m intruding on Daemon’s privacy, and for a second, I pull my hand back, shame washing over me. “Actually,” I whisper as if he can hear me. “Maybe if you didn’t want me snooping through your shit you should have stayed alive.” Fleeting anger possesses me, so I yank open the drawer, and a medium-sized wooden box catches my eye. The words Puer Natus are engraved into the ancient style wood box with burnt crusted markings on the edges. It looks mystical, otherworldly. I pop it open, and a black book with the same words are scribbled sharply over the top. My fingers run over the markings, the flap of leather catching the cushion of my thumbs. Whoever did this carved the wording with some sort of blade.
There’s a voice inside of me that says to put it back. To not open things that I find in this house. That I shouldn’t open boxes that I have no intention of closing. But there’s another voice, one that lives in the particles that float in the air I breathe. One that has urgency rippling through my veins. Quickly pushing the box and drawer closed and slipping back under the sheet, I wriggle into the mattress and squash every thought that is echoing inside of me and let the one outside have its way. The soft lampshade gives me just enough sight to read, but I run the palm of my hand over the words anyway and my heart catches in my chest. My throat swells with a strange stir of emotions and I know instantly that this is Daemon’s writing.
I open the cover and the first page shows a drawing of a young boy standing in front of a small cabin style home. It’s all shaded in pencil, smudged with black and grey, no color. Madison can draw, and I guess Daemon could too. The art makes me sad and I’m not sure why. There’s something empty about the image that shows little while feeling like it’s displaying just enough. The window in the building is cracked, there’s no grass or any detail of the landscape, just a small boy facing a diminutive style cabin. There’s an old chair that’s facing the doorway and a fireplace behind it.
On top of the image, are the words CAPITULUM I. I grab my phone off the bedside table and type the words into Google translate. Chapter One.
I suck in a breath, chapter one? As in a novel? I know that Daemon wasn’t very good with English, but he was fluent in Latin, why didn’t he choose to write it in Latin, instead of using images? I ask myself this, but realistically I know the answer. He’s Daemon, his brain worked inversely to others. Almost like where we saw numbers and words, he saw pictures and evil.
I let it go for now, running my hand over the first page. Was this him as a child? Is he showing me his first memory?
“Goddammit, Daemon.” I flip the page over to find another drawing, this time the boy is inside the house, the door slightly open with his shadow sprawled out over the busted porch. There’s a dark rocking chair that’s opposite him in front of a fireplace, again, with very little detail. I feel like he didn’t add anything extra to the drawings that he didn’t feel necessary, therefore, what is in here is very important. Squinting my eyes, I look closer at the rocking chair. It’s all smudged in with grey pencil, but if—I freeze. Eyes peer back at me in almond blue orbits. They’re not obvious, only there.
