Parrish Posting

–

''If you will not run away from him,'' Malachi said, staring down at the six skulls, ''what will you do were he to die? Remain on his tomb, faithful dog, until the day you die? Live in this wretched house, haunted by monsters and ghosts alike?'' He raised his piercing blue eyes upon me; I shivered. ''Do you truly have no will to live for yourself?''

''I have,'' I protested weakly. ''If I were free, I would...''

What would I do? What was there for a lonely orphan in the world? Infinite freedom, I have come to understand, is a more pleasant expression to convey absolute loneliness. Even then, I instinctively knew, in the depths of my bones, that there was nothing waiting for me outside of Harrington Lane.

Malachi smiled, an ugly, bitter thing. ''You will never be free, Will. He is in your head. It would be like asking yourself what you would do if someone cut out your heart.'' Then, somberly, standing up, he added, ''I pity you. It would have been better if you had died with your parents, I think. Anything is better than what you are enduring underneath the yoke of that man.''

I said nothing. In my throat, my heart beat wildly, a pulsing, living thing, screaming and thrashing. From far away, I heard my mother's faint voice, almost drowned by the enticing song of the fire. Yes, it would have been better, thought I.

''I am glad I was the one to survive,'' he said abruptly. ''I cannot bear to imagine little Elizabeth here.'' His eyes fell back upon the hanging Antropophagus. Slowly, akin to a frightened animal, Malachi made his way to the corpse and, raising his hands like a benevolent priest, he pressed them to the smooth alabaster skin of the monster. His fingers dug into the flesh; his breath quickened. ''A monster house, Will,'' he whispered, looking back at me. ''All of his precious monsters displayed in jars, meant to be admired. How can you live here? How can you live?''

''I don't have any other choice,'' I said. Thank me for saving your life. ''The doctor requires my services.''

''He is a selfish man, to use you so terribly.''

I shrugged. ''He is all I have.''

Malachi turned back to me, fierce. ''Not anymore, Will. You have me now. I shan't let anything happen to you.''

In his striking eyes burned a fire I knew all too well: I had seen it reflected in my master's eyes on nights without ends. One did not possess that fire, for it possessed them, and it burned, you see, until one writhed and howled, screaming for release while holding the flame close. The fire had nothing to do with me, nor, in the monstrumologist's case, did it have anything to do with monstrumology. It had always been, and would always be, about its victim, a purifying ritual set on a pyre, sparked by self-loathing and wrath, while the audience stood and clapped.

I was so weary of watching, of cleaning up the pyre when nothing remained but bones, ashes and the acrid smell of burnt flesh.

''Nothing will happen to me, Malachi,'' I said, gently taking his hand. ''Come on, now. We should eat before the day truly begins.''

He followed me up the stairs, his hand warm in mine.

He follows me still.

–

I went outside after our impromptu gathering in the kitchen, leaving Malachi to defend himself against Kearns' incomprehensible behavior. Outside, I ran straight into the monstrumologist who was, for some reason, pacing right in front of the entrance door.

''I'm sorry, sir,'' I muttered, stepping aside to avoid getting jostled again.

Warthrop whirled on me, furious. ''What do you think you are doing, Will Henry? Nothing, again?''

''I was about to prepare the horses, sir.''

The doctor opened his mouth, undoubtedly more than willing to deal with his wrath by lashing out at me, but after considering me a few seconds he deflated completely. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and sighed. I took a tentative step forward, reacting instinctively to the exhaustion pouring off him.

''Do go on, then, Will Henry,'' he said quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. ''We have much to do today, therefore your help will be much appreciated.''

I hesitated. ''Are you alright, sir?''

Before he could answer – although I doubted he would –, the door behind us opened and Malachi stepped out. For a brief moment, I feared something would happen, that Malachi would try to hurt the monstrumologist again, but nothing did. Warthrop regarded Malachi then nodded before walking away, back to pacing in a less crowded area.

''I heard him yell at you from outside,'' Malachi said. An undercurrent of loathing tainted his words.

I shook my head, suddenly irritated. ''It does not matter. Come help me. We need to prepare the horses.''

Working with Malachi was akin to rediscovering how gently the sun warmed me in the spring, something I had forgotten I missed during winter. He was not my master, obstinate and self-righteous, but quick and attentive, observing me to understand what he was meant to do. We talked quietly as we brushed our horses. I learned about his siblings; about their familial ritual, at night, to listen to their father read them the Bible; about the overwhelming feeling of holding little Sarah to his chest, the knowledge he would do anything to keep her safe.

''And I haven't,'' he said, matter-of-factly, as he hoisted a saddle upon my master's stallion. ''I haven't kept any of them safe.''

''It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have saved them from the Antropophagi.''

His jaw clenched. In the dim light, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. ''I should have tried. Instead, I ran away. I might as well go around with the mark of Cain on my forehead, Will. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand.''

''It wasn't your fault,'' I repeated forcefully, coming around my mare to face him. ''I saw them stuff a girl's head in their jaws. I saw them spring from the steady ground beneath my feet. I saw and felt and tasted the death they brought upon an old man.'' Taking a deep breath, if only to banish the constricting feeling closing around my lungs, I stared at Malachi's wide eyes and said, ''You were lucky. You didn't survive because you were chosen or because you ran. You were just lucky, Malachi, that they didn't follow you, that they were already too replete to want you.''

His expression twisted. ''It isn't luck, Will. It can't be luck. I'm dead too.''

''I know.''

He turned away, wiping at his eyes. I pressed his arm and he folded, collapsing upon me, crying silently. It was strange, to hold such a tall boy in my arms, for he needed to contort himself to fit into my embrace. I supposed it was not about comfort per se: he would do anything to feel the warmth of another human being against him. That desire, I knew intimately. I would not let him starve as I had been starving, as I still wasstarving.

''I wish I had a brother like you,'' I murmured against his head. Malachi sobbed harder, fingers digging into my back. ''I wish I had someone to try and save me, the way you tried to save your sister. I wish someone had been there, that day, to pull me away from the fire, to run away with me. Would you have run away with me?''

''Yes,'' he choked.

I closed my eyes, fighting against the overwhelming urge to cry. ''I think you did all you could, Malachi. I think you were a good brother, to the very end.''

''They are gone,'' he cried, and I felt it, his grief, pushing against mine. ''They are all gone, my family! I am no brother and no son anymore. What am I now? What am I?''

I held him until his cries petered out.

–

Before the fire, Malachi's arm found me, drawing me against his side.

I am no son either, thought I, finding the shadows of my parents dancing in the flames.

Behind the flickering flames, I caught the doctor's eyes, fixed upon us, the pair of grieving boys with hollow chests. He stared, for a long time, before looking away, jaw clenched. Did he think, given the choice, I would choose Malachi over him? That I would run away from him?

Even in the depths of the earth's bowels, surrounded by blood and death, brought there by his hand, it was the doctor I would choose.

He is in your head.

I turned into Malachi's embrace, pressing my face against his shirt.

–

Flesh and blood everywhere. The sum of Malachi Stinnet splattered all over me.

No, no, thought I, hysterically, wiping at my face, a choked sob stuck into my throat. No, no, please.

There was no time to grieve, in the dark cave. There was no time to think of the young boy smiling at me, for the first time, triumphant and joyful. She lunged at me, the matriarch, her single eye glinting.

When they found me again, the monstrumologist and Kearns, I was knee-deep in the crater the grenade had created, cradling the hardest bone in Malachi's body, the only piece which had not been blown away.

''His occipital bone,'' I said incoherently, waving it up at them to see. The doctor frowned, dismayed, crouching down to press a hand against my face. ''He is dead.''

Warthrop's face tensed. ''Are you injured?''

''He is dead,'' I repeated, willing him to understand.

His hand brushed back my hair, touched my jaw, examined my chest. ''Are you injured?'' Against my arms, my wrists, pressing down hard, as though he wished to tear open my skin to banish the gangrenous memories that had settled within my flesh.

''No, sir.''

How can you live?

''Good,'' he breathed out, closing his eyes briefly. Then, he took Malachi's bone from me, sliding it into his pocket before hauling me to my feet. I would never see it again. ''We're leaving, Will Henry. It's over.''

Malachi's eyes smiling up at me. For Elizabeth. The deafening sound of his body bursting open, tendons and muscles tearing, bones cracking, letting go of his soul. Over it was, indeed: Malachi was free.

I was not.

–

A month later, I went to visit his grave. There had been no body to bury, given that there was not enough Malachi Stinnet left in the physical world for such a thing. Still, his name had been carved upon his family's tomb, beneath Elizabeth's.

''I have been dreaming of you every night,'' I told him. His family might be listening too, thought I, but I do not care. Let them hear that their departed son is fiercely missed. ''I do not know if you still linger here. Most likely, not. Still, it is the only place I can go to address you.''

The wind caressed my face. Above me, the green, vibrant foliage rustled. I crouched and reached for the stone: it was cold beneath my fingers, despite the sunshine.

''You saved my life. Most days, I do not know if I should thank you or curse you.'' I looked away, to the spot where my parents' remains lay. ''Sometimes, I can understand that it was not about me but about yourself. You needed to save someone. You needed to save me.''

I stood up. The monstrumologist would require my services soon.

''I told you I wished I had a brother like you. In my dreams, you are my brother. And we run away together, like you said we should. Sometimes we are cowboys, sometimes soldiers. Once, I distinctly remembered us chasing Moby Dick alongside Captain Ahab.'' I swallowed. ''I despise waking up to realize none of it is real but I know you are in a much better place now, Malachi. I hope you are happy. I hope you remember me.''

Please, keep me a place by your side, thought I, as I walked back to Harrington Lane.

–

I see him now as I write. The young boy settles upon my desk, leaning back on his hand to smile down at me. It is a tender day, today: he is happy and triumphant and free, watching over me as he promised he would. Tomorrow, he will slip away to find his family again, and I will only be left with his suffocating shadow, the shell of the boy who found his grief in me.

I envy him but he tells me not to, that my day will soon come.