today. I think he saw me. I could have died. I didn’t, though. Obviously. Der.
And the last.
Mum told me last night to say hello. I did. He said hello. Like an idiot I told him I liked him. Just like that. I can’t believe what a twat I am.
But, get this, diary. He asked me out.
Asked. Me. Out.
What do you think of those beans, then, huh?
Keane closed the words and their light away with one hand, the book clapping shut and the light flowing from the words snapping off.
But the room was still bright. Not from the candle—that light was dimly orange. But from the rents in the shadow before him, light shining through. The shade poured light from a thousand word-shaped cuts in its black body. It screamed, but silent, like a shadow should.
“Get back in your fucking box,” said Keane.
The shadow burst into a thousand fragments, tinkling onto the carpet like shattered ice, cracking in a thaw.
Then, those evil black shards sank into the fibers of the carpet without a sound and were gone.
38
Keane stayed in the candlelight for the remainder of the night. His legs became uncomfortable, then went entirely numb. Sleep was impossible, sitting like that, legs folded beneath him, unfeeling.
A night spent in thought, without water, food, cigarettes. Without moving, relishing his discomfort.
Like a knight standing vigil against the darkness.
Sitting, honey, said his wife. Teresa was back in his head, where she lived and always would…where memories and true shadows were meant to live. Not out in the light. They weren’t supposed to escape.
Brother Shadow?
Gone. Nothing but cold spots on the carpet. Not wet, like Keane expected, but icy patches you couldn’t see. Deadly black ice.
What was he? What was Brother Shadow?
Was he real? Was he? Or was it all just some wicked fever dream of an insane and grieving mind?
Could a man’s demons take on life, roam free and independent…pull themselves screaming (that tearing noise…like a child torn from its mother…) from the very air, the darkness itself? Did the dark have a life of its own?
Keane didn’t know.
So he sat vigil, like some kind of knight to watch over the body of a slain brother-in-arms, to keep demons and dragons at bay with nothing but heart and steel and a thin wall of light.
Light was thin. A flimsy shield against the things that lived in the other places. Real, imagined, and those created by man himself.
Morning came with a gentle and slow sunrise he felt more than saw because of the heavy curtains. As night gave way to the day, the final candle sputtered and died where it had burned all night, on a coffee table. The table was covered in wax. Some had run onto the carpet. Real enough, thought Keane, grimly.
Whatever it was, it had been real enough, and he beat it.
It took him a full five minutes to stand without agony in his legs. When the pain of his vigil finally passed, he left their house behind with all its shadows and memories locked inside.
He threw the key into the undergrowth in the front garden. He never came back.
39
The following morning he wasn’t a new man, entirely, but something changed within him. A lightness grew.
He bought his first pair of trainers for perhaps twenty years. A thirty-nine-year-old man in a shop full of arse-less teenagers, trying to find a pair of simple white running shoes and coming out with something blue and silver and lighter than a pair of underwear.
He put on his new running shorts and white socks and sneakers and a T-shirt made of some kind of material that was supposed to stay dry. He stepped out of his bed-and-breakfast room, said good morning to the owner and grinned at the look he got at his new garb.
Keane stood on the pavement outside his temporary home dressed entirely in new clothes. Everything he wore felt shiny, like some kind of New Age armor. He had everything he needed on him, and nothing he
And the last.
Mum told me last night to say hello. I did. He said hello. Like an idiot I told him I liked him. Just like that. I can’t believe what a twat I am.
But, get this, diary. He asked me out.
Asked. Me. Out.
What do you think of those beans, then, huh?
Keane closed the words and their light away with one hand, the book clapping shut and the light flowing from the words snapping off.
But the room was still bright. Not from the candle—that light was dimly orange. But from the rents in the shadow before him, light shining through. The shade poured light from a thousand word-shaped cuts in its black body. It screamed, but silent, like a shadow should.
“Get back in your fucking box,” said Keane.
The shadow burst into a thousand fragments, tinkling onto the carpet like shattered ice, cracking in a thaw.
Then, those evil black shards sank into the fibers of the carpet without a sound and were gone.
38
Keane stayed in the candlelight for the remainder of the night. His legs became uncomfortable, then went entirely numb. Sleep was impossible, sitting like that, legs folded beneath him, unfeeling.
A night spent in thought, without water, food, cigarettes. Without moving, relishing his discomfort.
Like a knight standing vigil against the darkness.
Sitting, honey, said his wife. Teresa was back in his head, where she lived and always would…where memories and true shadows were meant to live. Not out in the light. They weren’t supposed to escape.
Brother Shadow?
Gone. Nothing but cold spots on the carpet. Not wet, like Keane expected, but icy patches you couldn’t see. Deadly black ice.
What was he? What was Brother Shadow?
Was he real? Was he? Or was it all just some wicked fever dream of an insane and grieving mind?
Could a man’s demons take on life, roam free and independent…pull themselves screaming (that tearing noise…like a child torn from its mother…) from the very air, the darkness itself? Did the dark have a life of its own?
Keane didn’t know.
So he sat vigil, like some kind of knight to watch over the body of a slain brother-in-arms, to keep demons and dragons at bay with nothing but heart and steel and a thin wall of light.
Light was thin. A flimsy shield against the things that lived in the other places. Real, imagined, and those created by man himself.
Morning came with a gentle and slow sunrise he felt more than saw because of the heavy curtains. As night gave way to the day, the final candle sputtered and died where it had burned all night, on a coffee table. The table was covered in wax. Some had run onto the carpet. Real enough, thought Keane, grimly.
Whatever it was, it had been real enough, and he beat it.
It took him a full five minutes to stand without agony in his legs. When the pain of his vigil finally passed, he left their house behind with all its shadows and memories locked inside.
He threw the key into the undergrowth in the front garden. He never came back.
39
The following morning he wasn’t a new man, entirely, but something changed within him. A lightness grew.
He bought his first pair of trainers for perhaps twenty years. A thirty-nine-year-old man in a shop full of arse-less teenagers, trying to find a pair of simple white running shoes and coming out with something blue and silver and lighter than a pair of underwear.
He put on his new running shorts and white socks and sneakers and a T-shirt made of some kind of material that was supposed to stay dry. He stepped out of his bed-and-breakfast room, said good morning to the owner and grinned at the look he got at his new garb.
Keane stood on the pavement outside his temporary home dressed entirely in new clothes. Everything he wore felt shiny, like some kind of New Age armor. He had everything he needed on him, and nothing he
Similar Books
