The Undoing of Regent House

Chapter 8

Ryan dreamt of a big, red door and wondered just what it meant.

But the closer he got to it, the more he realized, it wasn't a big, red door at all. The paint was peeling to show light brown innards. Whatever colour remained hardened to dark mahogany and maroon.

It didn't mean anything, he thought as he twisted. It meant nothing at all, he thought as he turned. He was too old for nightmares. He was too old for dreams.

"Ryan?"

Dylan was standing at the side of his bed, his face illuminated by the flickering candle in his hand.

"Huh?"

Dylan placed the candelabra on the nightstand and slipped into the covers beside him. His fingers were cold. His feet were icy. Had he always been so skinny? Had he always been so small?

"I hate it when you're not here," whispered Dylan. "Don't go away again. Please."

Ryan put his arm around his brother and held him close. He said nothing. He offered no promise. He offered no apology. He then turned to his side and pulled his covers up to his ears.

"Love you, Dylan."

Dylan edged closer and clutched the back of Ryan's shirt. Ryan could feel his brother's tremble.

"The house is scary when you're not here," he whispered. "There are monsters everywhere."

"You're twelve years old, Dylan," said Ryan. "Monsters shouldn't scare you anymore."

"Bella's a monster," said Dylan quietly.

"Yeah. She is."

Ryan turned to his brother. Dylan had tears in his eyes. Ryan gave him a shove and a smirk.

"Don't be such a baby," said Ryan. He used the sleeve of the duvet to wipe his brother's eyes. "You should learn to stop crying so much. I bet you cry more than Celia."

Dylan tittered and tucked himself back into the duvet so that only his hair and closed eyes were visible. His breaths leveled. He slept. Ryan couldn't. He sat staring at the hollow moon in the pitch-black sky wondering what chains were keeping him grounded and what chains were keeping him caged.

*

Dylan quite liked Celia, but sometimes she was a pain. She was fun when they were outside by the lake or playing make-believe, but most of the time she was too much of a girl for his taste. She wanted to play dress-up, tea parties and dolls more than she wanted to muck around in the gardens. Plus, ever since he was six, she had a habit of putting her hand on his head just because she was taller than him.

"Cute midget," she'd say with a giggle.

"You know I'm going to be taller than you," he'd say as he pushed away her hand.

She only twirled away. "We'll see."

He was twelve now but nowhere near her height. She was at least half a foot taller than him. So, not only was he cursed to be youngest in the entire family, but the shortest as well.

She put a hand on his head and twirled around him. "Cute midget."

He didn't push her hand away. He was well used to her at this point. "I am going to be taller than you."

Celia giggled and pinched his nose. "We'll see."

For some reason, the way she twirled at fourteen was different than the way she twirled at eight. Whatever it was, it made him watch her with a rapid heart.