What Remains

Chapter 18

All Eyes Bewildered
Desire is so different
When god bore you hungry

I don't know how long it's been. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a month. I've hardly spoken a word, and I can't even remember how my own voice sounds. All I can hear is his. Kenny's voice, prodding at my mind over and over. He's here, even when he's not. Lingering in the shadows, behind me in the reflection in the mirror. He stares me down, asserting himself over and over like a bad habit. I can't fucking walk. I've been confined to this bed since Kenny brought me back. He talks to me sometimes, when he thinks I'm sleeping. He tells me about his sister, Sydney, and how alike we are. Sydney is his younger sister. He didn't kill her, he thinks, but he can hardly remember anything from before he was 16. He told me that he has a path behind his house, and it looks really pretty this time of the year with the autumn trees. And on one of them, he says, he put Sydney's old hair tie on. Sometimes Kenny brushes my hair— either with his fingers, or actually with a brush. He tells me that he's sorry for what he's done. I doubt he's really, genuinely sorry. He sounds more smug, even proud because he got what he wanted; I'm here, stuck in his hell all for him to enjoy. To savour. A vessel for his hollow affection. He says he cares for me. I hear it every other night, but I know he's just saying it to satisfy his own imagination. A lie in his in-between mind. Then when I'm wide awake, Kenny hardly speaks. He feeds me, makes sure my leg is set properly, then leaves. He's brought me a few things; a couple of books, papers and a mechanical pencil. He brings me crow gifts like some different coloured leaves... shiny things like necklaces and earrings with missing pairs. He probably thinks he's being thoughtful, or that he's helping. I like looking at the trinkets, admiring them for their own personal beauty, but I drop them each time I remember that he brought them.
I have to admit, I've tried to walk on my own a few times. In short, each time didn't end well, either getting caught or hurting myself even worse. I'm tied to the bedpost again, but tighter and the rope is smaller in length. It's so uncomfortable.
One positive thing I can say about being cooped up for so long is that I've gotten time to think. I've realised that I'm no longer afraid of death like I used to be. What my father did to those people, cutting them up while they were alive, gave me this fear that something like it would happen to me.
It evolved into, blatantly, the fear of death. Not much can beat the memory of my first existential crisis. Oh, my teen years.
But since I've met Kenny, it kind of dissipated little by little. I've come to terms with my current situation too. My friends are dead, I know that. It's my fault, and I know that too. I should have done more. I know it all.
I'm going to hell, but I'm dragging Kenny down with me.
But the thing is, I'm not miserable. I'm calm. I guess I kind of believe I am dead. I'm as good as dead anyway.
I can't really feel much pain now, and it's like I'm living in a dream constantly. Always dizzy. Always patient. Just calm, and waiting for whatever happens to me.
I get nightmares sometimes. I shoot up, usually crying. Most of the time, I have dreams about my friends killing me— not even that, torturing me, screaming at me like they're dying all over again. I always can't move, just confined to a tight stance while they cut things into me, burn me. Other times, It's Kenny. The first night replays over and over again like a bad, scratchy record. Some events misplaced, or others made up completely out of nowhere. Those nightmares always last the longest.
My hallucinations have died down a little. I'll hear words, fragments every now and then, but I don't see them as much. I catch glimpses. May sitting in a chair, Justin splayed black and blue on the ground, or everyone just standing, staring blankly. They don't get up and walk, not anymore. Their heads sometimes shift towards me, their eyes slightly darting to one side to give a quick, almost mocking glance before I blink and they're suddenly gone. They really don't speak on their own terms; they repeat my thoughts, echo them back to me in their voices. It's like a fucked up game of marco-polo.
And sometimes, when I find myself feeling just that specific amount of loneliness, I'll try to keep myself from blinking just so I can feel like they're really here with me.
Just so I can feel a bit of normalcy.

Kenny enters the room. I'm already sitting up, hands clasped neatly in my lap as I watch him make his way to the bedside. He has nothing, so I assume he's ready to check my leg. He lifts the blanket and reaches, drifting the fabric on his palm to my ankle. He moves my leg up, and I grunt in pain. He softens his touch, then slowly moves my leg upward. It hurts less, and I can control myself. I release a breath as he lets my leg down. Kenny covers me back up, then pauses. I watch his hand glide into his pocket, then reappear with something shiny clutched within it. He grasps my hand gently, then places the chain in the center. His hand lingers, tightening for a second over my own, then releases. I readjust the position of the necklace, and nearly gasp as I see it— it's Danielle's.
"I found it in, um.." Kenny trails off. "I recognized it." He doesn't elaborate.
I unclasp the chain, then hold both sides with each hand, then offer the necklace to him. He takes the chain, leans forward over me and reclasps it around my neck. It falls as he lets go. I bring the chain up to just at the bottom of my eyesight. Danielle wore this thing all the time. She loved space. The little silver stars catch the sunlight, and I almost smile. Memories, nice ones. I see that Kenny's watching me intently, curiously, guiltily even. I let the necklace fall back onto my chest, and look directly at Kenny. "Thank you." My voice is quiet, despite me raising it to be higher. I've lost it a little. I don't sound how I think I used to.
Kenny is clearly taken aback, and stays silent for a moment. But I can tell he's at least a little happy I spoke. "You're welcome, Quinn."

Kenny's talking to me. It's nighttime, and he's here by my side. Other than him, it's completely silent. No wind, no rain, nothing. I feel his weight next to my hip on the bed; it's spread, so I think he's leaning on his arms. "I couldn't sleep." He says. This is how he starts most of his rambles. "I was thinking about before.." He never really talks about our past, so I'm a little intrigued. "At first, I thought Syd came back. Your hair. That look on your face." He pauses, collecting his thoughts, "You locked eyes with me, you know." He remarks. "I understand now why you just looked away. You thought I wasn't real."
That was him?
When my friends and I had entered the house, I saw a figure staring down at me. I stood and let it watch while my friends kept going. At first I was confused because I had taken my medications, so I shouldn't have been seeing anything—
But then I felt this odd sense of calm. Like I was seeing someone familiar. An old friend, maybe. So I didn't mind. I was okay standing there in that silent darkness.
I could only stand and study that plain white face for a little while longer before Danny called after me. When I looked back, it was gone.
It was Kenny.
I feel him shift,"But you were so.. calm. " Kenny pauses for a long period after that. "And then the next morning," Kenny starts up again in his hoarse voice, "I came in— you didn't try to scream at me. You just.. looked at me; it was that same stare." I feel his weight lift, "I didn't know what to do." He says it like he himself doesn't believe it. There's another long pause, before I feel a head of hair rest just below my navel. "Don't leave me." He whispers just loud enough for me to hear. It hurts, but I don't want to feel bad— I don't want to, but I do.
Slowly, unsurely, my hand places itself on his head. He freezes completely, but I don't stop. My fingers smooth back his hair from his masked face. After a minute or two, I just keep my hand still. Soon, I feel his hand grasp my own, keeping me in place. I don't speak, and neither does he. I think he's embarrassed, and I guess I understand.
In the morning, I'll wake up and this will all just be a memory. He won't speak of it, I'm sure. This is just another situation I'll forget. His words are false, they must be and I know that... but something in that tone, in those words.