Titan: The Dark Path

The Town

He feels heavy and disconnected. He sees the boy. He feels his powerlessness and fear. He understands. His view into the boy's life always ends when the old woman accepts the box from the strangers. She sees what's inside and is overcome. He can't see inside the box and is frustrated by sight without vision. He wasn't sure if he was stopping himself or if the Source was holding back. He slips and slips and he is back.

His head hurt. He felt like his brain was pushing against his skull. The pressure was tight and he squinted to quiet the discomfort. He was adrift and didn't know where he was or how he got there. He stared at the ceiling for a while until his senses returned to him. He was in a bedroom in an old house with out-of-date, peeling wallpaper. There was an old sewing machine in the corner, part of a table and small bench covered in a fine layer of dust. A small table sat beside the bed. There was a pad of paper, a bible, and the last of his cash.

"This isn't where you belong."

Then he remembered. It was a blur. A nightmare. He thought about the prom. The light was gold and warm, the furnishings ornate and stately, and there was a hush. Men held guns. No one spoke except for the grim man beside his parents who could not call out to him.

Then there was Bone. He towered over the next tallest person and bulged with slick bone and sinewy muscle. Everything belonged in the world except for Bone. An abomination of man.

And me.

Eric's eyes burned. The rest came back to him. He picked through the details again and again. Precise. Unforgiving. He gritted his teeth and breathed through them. Long, deep breaths. Then he regained control.

"It'll get easier," Jim said, stepping out of the shadows.

Eric blinked his tears away. His jaw tightened and he sat up. He saw that his hands were clean and his skin washed. It was unimportant. He was looking at a dead man. "I thought I was crazy." His voice sounded foreign. Dry, hoarse, and cold.

"Maybe a little, but I'm still here," Jim said.

"Why?"

"Dying isn't the simple thing people think. It's not always just heaven or hell," Jim said. "I was given an opportunity to make up for what I'd done. I took it."

"What do you have to do?"

Jim smiled. "The punishment fits the crime."

"You're not going to tell me." Not a question.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. You've got other things to worry about."

"Why am I here?"

"You walked here."

"Don't bullshit me. Something's happening here. I can see it in the air. I can feel it in my bones. That humming," Eric said. "If you need to make up for what you've done, help me."

"That's what I'm here to do, but I can't just tell you everything."

"Why the hell not?"

"I can't interfere with free will."

"Jim, it's information. Knowledge. Tell me what's going on and I'll decide what to do."

Jim was silent. He looked at the door and stepped back into the shadows. There were shuffling footsteps outside. The door eased open.

A slight old man with deep oak skin, salt and pepper hair, bushy eyebrows, and a faint limp entered the room. Despite his frail health, the man's smile was deep and his eyes were sharp and blue. He had tended to Eric outside the diner.