Shadows; ’07
You don’t beat it by hiding it in the darkness. Shine a light on it, whatever it is; be it Brother Shadow or the black dog or the demon that haunts your footsteps as you sit, walk, run.
Don’t hide, don’t let it slink off to lurk in the black places.
Life, you figure, isn’t dark or light. Isn’t good or evil, black or white.
It’s about the contrast.
35
Revenge is a dark, dark thing.
Love is bright.
Keane knew how to trap a shadow.
With light, and dark. With contrast, the thing that lets you see the shape of things and tell the difference, whether right or wrong or light or dark.
Full dark outside and heavy curtains. But so bright inside. A hundred flickering candles and lanterns and torches burned in the living room of Keane’s old house, and in the center of it all, Keane.
Cross-legged, once more. He didn’t know why he didn’t sit on the couch, but he wanted…needed…to be in the circle of light. He wanted to see him coming.
Brother Shadow.
Keane felt something pass through the gap around the closed door, something fast but sly.
Felt him .
He’s not you, Teresa told him. He’s not you.
Keane repeated the thought in his head, trying to figure out where he ended and his shadow began.
Within a circle of light casting a thousand wavering shadows, he called him.
And there, from the yawing darkness shattered by myriad lights, he came.
36
One by one Brother Shadow snuffed the candles. Keane smiled.
He called. He…it…came.
He smiled as the dark grew.
Finally, as he’d known he would, Brother Shadow was before him. No longer fractured, but bold and strong in Keane’s shade, cast against the wall by the sole remaining lit candle.
“Brother,” said the shade. His voice, dark and wet like drips in a cool, forgotten cave.
Keane did not reply immediately, but looked with his haunted eyes at the creature that lived in him. A demon, a parasite, a memory, a shade of him.
The shadow solidified until it wasn’t dependent on the candle for existence, but on Keane.
With an awful ripping noise, the shadow pulled itself from the wall. A flat thing that looked weak, but deep black with no features, long, flimsy in construction, yet powerful, in its way.
Keane smiled at the black outline as it, too, sat on the carpet, facing Keane. Despite the lack of eyes or mouth, Keane could tell the shade was happy.
Won’t be for long, he thought. Not for much longer.
“Brother,” said Brother Shadow again.
Keane’s heartbeat was steady. He was not afraid. Odd, that it should be like this. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t angry.
He was…
What, Keane? What are you?
Sane.
He was sane. Because this wasn’t him. This wasn’t some darkness within him, but an entity in itself, something that was perhaps coexistent, but not him. It wasn’t him.
And he could hurt it.
He opened the book on his lap.
“What are you doing?” said the darkness. “What is that?”
“Something you wouldn’t know about,” replied Keane at last. “Love,” he said, and read from Teresa’s diary, fighting his own shadow with nothing more than the words of a thirteen-year-old girl.
37
Keane read out the words written down in tight, girlish script in a clear voice, unafraid, at last, and ignorant for the first time of the creature seated before him. He allowed himself to get lost, for a time, reading the first and only entry still legible in the damp and mildewed diary of a schoolgirl falling in love.
I think I might be in love with a boy in the year above me. He smiled at me today. I don’t know his name.
The next entry.
I asked one of the older girls for the boy’s name. It’s Keane. Keane Reid. I’d like to kiss him. Actually, diary, don’t tell anyone, but I think I’d like to do more, too. Hehe.
And the next.
Me and Wendy followed him on break
You don’t beat it by hiding it in the darkness. Shine a light on it, whatever it is; be it Brother Shadow or the black dog or the demon that haunts your footsteps as you sit, walk, run.
Don’t hide, don’t let it slink off to lurk in the black places.
Life, you figure, isn’t dark or light. Isn’t good or evil, black or white.
It’s about the contrast.
35
Revenge is a dark, dark thing.
Love is bright.
Keane knew how to trap a shadow.
With light, and dark. With contrast, the thing that lets you see the shape of things and tell the difference, whether right or wrong or light or dark.
Full dark outside and heavy curtains. But so bright inside. A hundred flickering candles and lanterns and torches burned in the living room of Keane’s old house, and in the center of it all, Keane.
Cross-legged, once more. He didn’t know why he didn’t sit on the couch, but he wanted…needed…to be in the circle of light. He wanted to see him coming.
Brother Shadow.
Keane felt something pass through the gap around the closed door, something fast but sly.
Felt him .
He’s not you, Teresa told him. He’s not you.
Keane repeated the thought in his head, trying to figure out where he ended and his shadow began.
Within a circle of light casting a thousand wavering shadows, he called him.
And there, from the yawing darkness shattered by myriad lights, he came.
36
One by one Brother Shadow snuffed the candles. Keane smiled.
He called. He…it…came.
He smiled as the dark grew.
Finally, as he’d known he would, Brother Shadow was before him. No longer fractured, but bold and strong in Keane’s shade, cast against the wall by the sole remaining lit candle.
“Brother,” said the shade. His voice, dark and wet like drips in a cool, forgotten cave.
Keane did not reply immediately, but looked with his haunted eyes at the creature that lived in him. A demon, a parasite, a memory, a shade of him.
The shadow solidified until it wasn’t dependent on the candle for existence, but on Keane.
With an awful ripping noise, the shadow pulled itself from the wall. A flat thing that looked weak, but deep black with no features, long, flimsy in construction, yet powerful, in its way.
Keane smiled at the black outline as it, too, sat on the carpet, facing Keane. Despite the lack of eyes or mouth, Keane could tell the shade was happy.
Won’t be for long, he thought. Not for much longer.
“Brother,” said Brother Shadow again.
Keane’s heartbeat was steady. He was not afraid. Odd, that it should be like this. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t angry.
He was…
What, Keane? What are you?
Sane.
He was sane. Because this wasn’t him. This wasn’t some darkness within him, but an entity in itself, something that was perhaps coexistent, but not him. It wasn’t him.
And he could hurt it.
He opened the book on his lap.
“What are you doing?” said the darkness. “What is that?”
“Something you wouldn’t know about,” replied Keane at last. “Love,” he said, and read from Teresa’s diary, fighting his own shadow with nothing more than the words of a thirteen-year-old girl.
37
Keane read out the words written down in tight, girlish script in a clear voice, unafraid, at last, and ignorant for the first time of the creature seated before him. He allowed himself to get lost, for a time, reading the first and only entry still legible in the damp and mildewed diary of a schoolgirl falling in love.
I think I might be in love with a boy in the year above me. He smiled at me today. I don’t know his name.
The next entry.
I asked one of the older girls for the boy’s name. It’s Keane. Keane Reid. I’d like to kiss him. Actually, diary, don’t tell anyone, but I think I’d like to do more, too. Hehe.
And the next.
Me and Wendy followed him on break
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