I BORROW HIS PAIN

1

CHAPTER 1: COMMODORE HADSON and HEARST CASTLE

"You can't be a warrior with an art of confusion," Hearst said, pacing around his brother's dim attic room. His cowboy boots thudded on the floor, loud in the stillness. He pulled off his bowler hat and tossed it aside before sitting next to his brother. The denim jacket he wore earlier now lay crumpled on the floor, leaving him in a plain white polo shirt and dark trousers.

"Because you need focus more than pain," he added softly, gazing at Commodore. The boy across from him wore a cold, stainless steel mask that concealed his face.

Commodore’s small fingers worked tirelessly on the toy cars before him, twisting screws and adjusting tiny gears. The toys were old and broken, relics from a time when they still brought joy. "The art of confusion isn’t a weakness, Hearst," Commodore said quietly. "It teaches you to understand chaos. If you recognize the problem in the mess, then you’ll find the solution."

With a soft clink, he tightened the last screw, the toy springing back to life. He handed it to Hearst without a word.

Unlike Hearst, who always wore bright, neat clothes, Commodore dressed in his grandfather’s old, faded white polo—too big for his small frame, the fabric worn thin with age. He didn’t mind, though. It was all he had, and it made him feel connected to something beyond the four walls of the attic.

"Thanks, brother!" Hearst’s smile was wide and innocent. At just five years old, his world was full of wonder. He was curious about everything—constantly bouncing between ideas, dreams, and questions about life. He always came to Commodore to talk, even when his brother had little to say.

"Commodore, clean your room!" their mother’s shrill voice echoed from downstairs. "And don’t take off that mask!" she warned, her words as sharp as knives.

"Why can’t I visit my brother?" Hearst pouted as their mother grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the room.

"I told you, Hearst. You’re not allowed to disturb Commodore." She gave him a stern look and closed the attic door firmly behind her.

Commodore sighed as the latch clicked shut. He had lived in the attic for as long as he could remember, cut off from the rest of the house, the rest of the world. The mask was his curse, a barrier between him and everyone else. He could only take it off in the solitude of the attic. Mirrors were forbidden, too—looking at his own face was considered a sin.

Therefore, there's a hidden mirror.

"I don’t understand why," he had whispered to his father, Kinsley, during one of the rare moments they shared. "Why is it a sin?"

Kinsley’s expression had been unreadable. "Don’t question it. Just keep the mask on."

Commodore knew Hearst looked a lot like their father. They both had slim faces, small noses, and lips tinged faintly pink. Their black hair was long and smooth, falling past their shoulders.

"Promise me, Commodore," Kinsley had said that night. "Never take off your mask unless you’re eating. Do you understand?"

Commodore had nodded, though the weight of that promise felt like chains tightening around him.

"I wish I could go outside," he had whispered after his father turned to leave. "Just for a moment. To run, to see the sunlight..."

But his father had only shaken his head. "Lock your door when I leave. Stay safe."

Commodore stared at the ceiling of his attic now, wondering how long he could endure this isolation.