Chapter Five: Dreams of Long Ago
by Sheenasma
Something woke him.
He thought it was another headache, one of those ones that slammed
into him with no warning, blurring his vision, pounding behind his eyes,
so that he could hear his own pulse, his own heart throbbing. The
muffled cadence beating hollow behind his brow. It was almost like
that, but not quite as subtle.
This came from beyond him, yet was still a part of him - this rythym
that captured his breath and stole away his silence. It wound around
him, reverberated in his chest, like it had all those years ago when.....
When what? Damn, it was not quite there. He had long stopped
listening to the whispers that teased his brain, rapping at doors he
refused to open. Doors he could not remember ever shutting. Now
this. The beating....it was making demands on him, and he somehow
knew it would not stop, would not stand to be ignored. He would
have to go there. Inside himself, the one place he had never been able
to re-order to his own specifications. That was why it was so much
easier to just forgetting.
And he had been forgetting for so long now...so long he had actually
made himself believe he was like other people. He knew there was a
truth inside him somewhere, something so fantastic that he himself
would not believe it if he were forced to allow it into this life he had
made.
He was who he wanted to be, who he had let himself become. His
past was one he had created, so thouroughly it was a reality. So
normal he bored himself with it. He was a man of conscience and
reliability, a man he liked being...he had made himself that way, chose
the pieces of his whole. Whoever he had been before he could not
remember, there was none of that him left. Only the name...the name
he had not been able to erase.
Quentin Collins.
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Roger was still an idiot, good. He may have steeled himself to her, but
he could still be manipulated. How simple it was, to just let him talk.
Look suitably passive and feed his arrogance with her silence while
she listened. On and on Roger went, as always Roger did, talking but
saying nothing. The fool still did not realize that his words were merely
that..words. How pleased he looked with himself, rambling with that
voiced that always deepened a notch when he fancied himself in
authority. No one ever really heard what he said. He was just like his
grandfather. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his believing his
talk could matter, but instead she only nodded at him, her eyes
neutral.
“Of course, of course. I want nothing more than to see my son.”
The fool’s self importance would not let him question that she was
sincere. He began again, enchanted with his own perceived power of
persuasion. Talk, more of Roger’s words, which were all that Roger
really had. Funny that he found himself so commanding, when she
would be lucky if much more of his talk would not put her to sleep.
The places and the people, they had not interested her then, and they
did not interest her now. They were meaningless, just names Roger
spoke into the air, circling around her with no more force than the
slightest breeze. She took cursory note of the one, Victoria, the new
governess, then let her thoughts filter Roger out again. But then, what
was that? She could not have heard him correctly.
“I’m sorry, Roger, who did you say?”
But she had heard right. There it was again, heavy in the night,
inflaming her. How coldly a fire could burn.
Quentin.
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The beating, it was choking him, blinding him. He left the room, but
didn’t really believe he could outrun it. It had found its way inside him,
draining him so that he had to hold onto the wall as he stumbled down
the hallway. Louder it grew, until he was no longer trying to get away
from it, he was following it. Through the corridors, down the stairs.
He stopped. It had taken him where it wanted him to be. He knew he
was supposed to look, but was afraid to. Afraid of the face that he
had stopped noticing there on the wall, afraid of all the other faces
and voices it would force him to take out of the furthest corners of his
mind. Afraid of the ones who had hurt him, more afraid of those he
had hurt. To face them would be to face himself.
He sat on the bottom stair, buried his face in his arms. He would not
look, he couldn’t. Damn why would it not go away, he wasn’t ready.
He would never be ready. Silently he begged the man in the portrait,
please, please, don’t you understand...I can’t see you, if I look at you
I will see them. And I cannot face any of them. Please.
He heard the door open, looked up. Roger. Someone behind him.
Sweet Jesus, no.
Her eyes met his, and tore into his memory, prying the locks, forcing
open the doors. The beating grew louder, it battered his soul. He tried
to stand, but found himself too heavy to raise himself to his feet. He
couldn’t think, but knew he had to look away from her. Turning his
head he felt the beating lift him, forcing his gaze upwards.
The portrait on the wall, the one he had refused to notice. He had
been lying to himself, he knew that now. It had always been there,
even if he had tried to pretend otherwise.
The beating began to soften, this is all it really wanted. For him to
know.
Barnabas...his heart had reawakened, and released with him were all
of Quentin’s tortured memories.
Gently now, beating quietly, slowly. Barnabas’ heart, free.
Quentin understood, and his own heart breaking, he began to cry.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
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