Acylia's Heart

1.

Chapter 1

It begins with a soft brown hue speckled with tiny shards of gold. Like autumn leaves.

Brian's eyes had always been like autumn leaves. In that moment just as they are floating to the ground, upon those small pockets of air that seem to have been reserved just for them.

The memory takes shape slowly, filing in the missing colours. The olive undertones of his skin, the nondescript brown that his natural hair had been. And then as the memory sharpens she can remember how the grass had been damp as she led upon it, and how endless the night sky had seemed. So rich and so full of the billions of stars that shine every night to remind us that we are but a spec of lint in this universe.

She remembers how he had led beside her. She remembers how the world had just gotten too loud. So much shouting, such loud angry voices. And something inside her had started bubbling and coursing, panic poisoning her mind. She'd began shaking when he had sighed and taken the covers of his bed, grabbed her hand, and taken her outside to lay on the cold grass and shiver and stare at the stars. He had begun talking to her about school, and the weather, and gave his own names to the constellations she knew he had no idea of the real name for.

This memory surfaces now, she realises, because this was the first time she had felt truly alive - in those small hours of the morning, led by his side. And right now she is almost certain she is dead, or dying, or somewhere in-between.

But in memory she had finally felt alive because he was her first friend. Because despite the fact she was still mute at the time, he spoke to her, conversed with her. Even though it was one sided. Something many people could not bring themselves to do. Because he was not scared of her. Because he treated her as his equal, as another human being - even if they were both just a little broken.

Then he had told her about his dad. About the reason he was there, with her, with the foster parents those angry voices belonged to. She supposed something about her being unable to talk, something about the very essence of a one sided conversation eased people into talking about things they would not under normal circumstances. No judgement could be uttered from her lips, no questioning, no speculation. She could give him nothing but a quiet understanding.

And this, she knew, is what he needed right then, under that night sky.

He was older than she was, and used terms she didn't quite understand at the time. Like homophobia and sexuality. But he told her his story. And it seemed to her pre-adolescent mind that this homophobia was like a weapon, emerging from his own father's mouth.

He told her about the horrors he'd lived through, the knifes that were held to his throat, the fists that so often connected with his body, the doctors that eventually noticed one too many broken bones. The social workers that had placed him with her and the angry voices who held no place in their hearts for the likes of her and him. People who could summon smiles and masks and facades as easily as they could the harsh lines of annoyance to their faces.

"People don't understand" he had said laying there on the grass "- that it doesn't take much to be raised without love. People don't understand that not everyone makes it out from that." He had lit a cigarette then, and she had watched the smoke flow from his lungs and glide out his mouth like mist across salt water. His careful glaze had noticed hers and he had said "We're all addicted to anything that threatens to kill us kid, and that's why people like me and you - " he points flippantly towards her and then himself " - the broken kids from broken homes, we have to stick together."

He puffed on his cigarette. The smoke had smelt stale and bitter; it stuck to the back of her throat. Then he threw it across the garden to fall onto the damp grass and sizzle out. And he had fixed her with a firm gaze and said "you're going to be all right little mouse, I'll make sure of it."

And he had stuck to his word.

~ * ~

The memory that follows surfaces around Brian's nickname for her, little mouse.

For almost a full year this was all he called her. Refusing to use Jane, the name social workers and officials had given her.

Jane Doe.

A nobody.

She didn't appear in any records when they found her, no name, no birth certificate, no DNA in their extensive records that could identify her.

She was just Jane Doe. She had no age, no name.

Mute, mentally unwell. Unresponsive. She was labels and stamps, she was schizophrenic, she was delusional. Broken beyond repair.

A fake age was given through logical estimates by doctors, after rigorous testing and therapy to try and unlock the mystery that even she did not know the answers to. A fake name was given when they ran out of options.

Little mouse.

Because she was quiet, obviously, and small he said. Because she'd once squeaked when he'd unintentionally scared her.

"It's time we gave you your own identity little mouse" Brian had said the day she'd acquired a real name, "one that wasn't given to you by police officials or therapists"

They'd searched through baby name websites for hours. They'd settled finally on a name he claimed as much unique as it was pretty, a strong name he said. She'd smiled brightly enough for him to know she agreed that this was the one.

A couple days later, he'd knocked on her bedroom door. "I have a present for you" he'd said.

They'd sat on her bed, and he'd gave her a necklace. It was simple, silver and in swirly writing spelled out her name.

Aria.

He'd clasped it around her neck and had said "Now everyone will know who you are. Who you really are. Not Jane Doe, not the mute, not freak." He'd frowned, shook his head, and then cleared his face into a smile "you're Aria, nothing more nothing less, don't let anyone tell you any different chick."

She's cried. And then she'd spoke for the first time. It wasn't much, a thanks, quiet, her voice breaking. But to Brian, it was the greatest gift. And he was soon crying too. They'd took that day as her birthday, he said it was the day she became Aria Thomas, his sister, and that she was the only person who mattered.

For a long time, he was the only person she'd spoke to. And only when alone. But eventually she'd entered the world of the living, it wasn't easy, but she did it with the constant support of Brian and then Anne and Harrison too.

Her family.

Aria wonders if they're here now. If she's in a hospital maybe, on her death bed. Been in some accident. But time slips and hurdles away from her, and she's dragged away from conscious thought.