Sinister - Larry Stylinson

Part Thirteen

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The sun was sinking behind the roofs, the air a pleasant mixture of morning rain and an early spring wind. The balcony outside hanging over the lower street which was now coming to life with night goers. A low mingling of words floating up from below, the occasional distant beep of a car.

Louis is leaned back in a seat with a placid grin on his face, eyes little crinkles of affection as he sips the pungent wine palmed in his hand. A subtle wrinkle of the nose and a shift in the hard metal seat, propping his feet up on the table. The sun is slicing through low grey clouds hued shades of tangerine and rose, illuminating long lines of color across the air. Louis thinks it might be the most beautiful sunset he's seen in a while.

He finds his gaze wandering though, slowly, from the railing to the chair diagonal of him.

In it, a boy sits, his boy. He takes a breath, finding himself studying his pretty little nose, and the subtle indent of one dimple in his cheek, his curls windswept in an agonizingly artist way painted with the hues of the sunset.

Louis doesn't say anything because he's reveling in this quiet moment, but the boy looks over, his eyes slightly crinkled at the sides, so green they're like two grassy pits, inviting and tantalizing. And Louis feels them bore straight into his soul, and so quickly as their eyes have met, it's engulfed in an oily black smoke. His boy's face is peeled away in flaking ashes of memory and the sun implodes in a black abyss of dread.

-

He jerks awake, a floundering feeling of absolute dread swallowing him whole as he realizes it was a dream. A sweat is clinging to the back of his shirt making him feel clammy and claustrophobic. He has no idea where he is at first, all he knows is that his neck feels stiff and lower back is aching.

The sleep drifts away from his eyes, and he's greeted with white. He reaches out, pressing his hands against something cold and hard, and then he realizes he's in the tub.

The night before is black and distant and he doesn't exactly know why he feels so sick until he looks down at himself. His clothes were stained in a crimson that he never wanted to see again.

Last night came back with frightening fervor, and he stiffened.

His boy, his baby.

Gone.

A stiff, shuddering cry that emanated from the very pit of his heart crawled dryly up his throat.

The blue and red lights that flashed blindingly, forever burning his retinas as they took his boy away in an ambulance. He knew it was unneeded, that he was far from this world now.

The sanitary room, the doctors informing him of things he already knew. He didn't want to hear it, he just wanted to stay with his boy, wanted to hold his hand even if it didn't tentatively grasp back.

He didn't remember much after that, somehow making it home, not wanting the comfort of a bed, he wanted cold and unwelcoming, something to deter him of comfort.

Now his whole body began to ache, and a shaky hand rose to his mouth as it crumpled into a ragged sob. It echoed painfully about the tile, floating out about the silent flat.

He just wants to sleep, he wanted to feel his boy's presence wrap around him, convince him, even if only for a few minutes, that his existence is still here.

He fumbles out of the tub, animalistically ripping his shirt over his head and pants down his legs. He deposits them in the tub before stumbling to the shower, not daring to look at himself in the mirror.

He doesn't feign from turning the faucet all the way to the left, the water hissing with an angry steam. He doesn't even feel it as he desperately scrubs his entire body, watching the red pool at his feet before disappearing down the drain.