[ fourty-five ]

[fatespoken]

It starts with a knock, though the sound echoes more like a muffled tap. The hand that rests on the door is hesitant in its delivery, lingering a moment before he lifts it to knock again. He, as in the small boy staring up at the cherry wood door, staring with murky brown eyes that would be hazel in the sunlight. But everything loses its color in the darkness, shifting character and face until they’re written as caricatures. He knew this – the only way they could ever play at being a family was in darkness.

He’s about to knock again.

“You may come in.”

The tone of the man’s voice is the deep and firm, each word receiving equal emphasis. It’s the sort of voice fit for an orator, for someone who could rattle off commands, one by one. It’s a voice intimidating enough for the boy to take a step back. But he doesn't run away, instead opening the door slowly so he can peak through the crack between the frame and the door’s edge. He presses his two front teeth against his bottom lip, small fingers crinkling something behind his back as he finally steps through the door. Sharp nails click beside him as a large dog made of white fluff bounds in next to him.

From the angle of the dream, the Amory of his subconscious is far from the young man of the City. He’s probably at least two feet shorter with smaller hands and lighter hair to match his six years. One of those hands is folded behind his back, hiding something that can’t be seen regardless of the angle from which one watches his dream. There’s uncertainty captured in the tension of his shoulders, indecision caught in the wandering of his eyes as he watches this room too large for the both of them. It’s his father’s office, but it is as much of a museum as it is a personal study. High ceilings and rich wood floors engulf him. The walls are painted a dark green without a window in sight, framed with portraits and bookshelves housing dusty tomes, statutes, and small art pieces ranging from Hellenistic to Modern. William de Pannemaker’s A Mon Seul Desire hangs on the wall beside the door, while Salvator Rosa’s La Fortuna sits on the wall perpendicular to his father’s desk.

“What do you want, Amory?”

The man doesn’t look up from his work, right hand unceasing in its smooth motion as he writes. His hair is a rich auburn, the hue bordering almost a burnished red. He’s man of strong shoulders and even stronger features, though seemingly young enough that he could call the boy before him brother.

Amory waits to respond, and quietly walks behind his father’s desk – the dog tracing the same route. He’s now close enough to peer over his father’s work, one hand still tucked behind his back. But even as close as he is, there’s reluctance in his voice when he finally speaks, as though tugging back on each word that leaves his mouth.

“Papa, after winter vacation ends, there’s… a play at my school.”

A photocopied letter, words set on aquamarine photo paper that’s been crinkled and folded at least ten times, is placed next to his work. Once again there’s teeth pressed against the boy’s bottom lip, fingers brushing patterns into the smooth wood of his father’s desk. He hadn’t come last time.

“Elisa’s in it too, and she’s going to be playing a lead part with me.”

“I’ll see if I can attend.”

“Oh.”

Silence is the only sound passed through the air as the boy continues to watch his father, head titled and eyes suddenly blinking quickly – there’s moisture trapped in feathered eyelashes and he’s bleary-eyed because of it.

“This time it’ll be at night for sure! I asked Mrs. Lindell months ago and she promised it!”

His father finally looks up from his work, studying for a moment the expression on the younger’s face. There’s an imperceptible sigh and soon Amory is pulled to his lap. Whatever was tucked behind his back, he’s now holding it with one hand next to his legs.

“If it is at night, then I will try to come.”

“Okay.”

This quiet voice is a far cry from the City Amory’s usual lamentations. In fact, this entire face might seem like an entirely alien from his expected character, but even Amory as a child is still a child.

“What are you writing?”

“I’m copying a fragment.”

“You can’t copy something that’s broken, Papa.”

And broken it was – torn, yellowed paper printed with Ancient Greek – not Koine - each page only a few hairs-width in its soft plastic casing. If he blew on them, maybe the pieces would all break apart and fly away.

“I’m copying part of it from memory, Amory. It may not be perfect, but it’s better than this severed mess.”

“But you can’t fix something’s that broken. Everyone outside’s broken and there’s no one that can fix them.”

For the first time in this dream, the man sets his pen down – one of those inkwell types that spill black everywhere if you’re not careful. He watches his son as he jumps from his lap, gazing at that plaintive smile that never reached his eyes. Then the room almost seems to darken, swathed in a movement of shadows until a noise signals the return to light.

It’s a disfigured cough, a near guttural choking. And then there’s blood – harsh and bright, flowing onto the desk and soaking the thin, yellow pages in their plastic protection. Soon the pages will melt and the blood will soak into the wood. But the red’s a compliment to his father’s hair, and it’s all stuck in that auburn, his face pressed forward on that messy, wooden desk. Amory’s hands are both free now, not a single hand tucked behind his back. He had unloaded his charge, that metal knife jammed through his father’s back.

“Do you think he’s gone? You’re supposed to use wood, but I couldn’t find one of those.”

With the father dead, the only recipient of that inquiry hand to be the big, white dog sitting beside the desk chair. And he seems to bark in response as Amory drags the body from its leather chair, grabbing hold of his father by the legs. The body hits the floor with a thud and splashes blood across Amory’s cheeks. There’s a crinkling of his nose and he raises an arm to wipe it off, except that hand was also dressed in blood. The blood now traces bright marks against his cheeks.

“We didn’t kill him, Charlie. He’s already been rotting all those years.”

Confidence fills his words, contrary to the reluctance that had clung to them only a few minutes before. He takes his father by the legs again and starts to drag him across that expensive rug and that dark oak floor. A red streak follows the body, forming inch by inch as the small boy struggles to drag him across the large room. Amory has to stop and take a breath half way before he starts up again, but he eventually manages it. He even passes through a marble-floored entryway to reach the dining room where he suddenly stops.

Amory’s always hated the dining room in its sterile perfection. It’s straight out of design magazine furniture, more paintings on the wall, more pointless antiques that steeped the house in its dust. There was already too much dust in this house. They never ate on that table anyway. He’s only here for the bay window as high as the ceiling at the end of the room. It’s the only reason for why the room is lit, moonbeams straining through the white fabric of the curtain. Only in a dream can the moon be this bright.

“Now that Mama can come back, we have to make sure that we clean up the house, Charlie. She didn’t like it when things were messy, you know that! But—“

His sentence breaks off as he studies the body – now corpse in front of him.

“Monsters aren’t so scary without their teeth, are they?”

Almost in cue with his words, the big white dog, now known as Charlie, drops a pair of pliers before him. There’s a three-salute bark and he’s now on his haunches, tongue hanging out and dripping. He only makes Amory’s job easier, as he grabs the pliers – his other hand lifting the lips of the corpse to expose pink gums and teeth. His target is those large incisors, elongated and sharpened to a point at the tip. He had always wanted to touch them, and now he got to do that and more. But it’s far too easy a removal for a young child, taking only three minute fight with each tooth to pop them out.

“I’ve got to clean up, so Mama can come back.”

Amory pitches the teeth somewhere across the floor, not even a cursory glance cast toward where they might’ve fallen. He’s now back to dragging the body, this time toward the bay window. Good thing it isn’t too far – he can feel the muscles in his small arms straining and pulling – he can feel the heart in his chest pounding, waiting to shatter his chest. And as he makes it to the window, there’s a soft sigh, relief passing through his lips as he lifts the curtain to undo the locks.

But the curtain never really opens, falling back to its original position with a sharp, fearful scream from the boy. If you managed to have caught what Amory had saw, you would have seen body pressed up against the window. A burned body – burned black until skin turned to a thick layer of leather and the whites of his eyes seemed to glow. Those were supposed to burn off too, weren’t they? A black hand had been pressed up to the window pane, the body's face locked in a look of terror.

It wasn’t the only one. There were bodies strung up outside on the wires that were used to hold the grape vines in place. There were bodies under those vines, fragments and jigsaw pieces of Amory’s visions that had made its way to this dream. He had dreamed a large fire once. A plane crash. A flood. A murder. A dismemberment. Other things. It may have been dark outside, but like a chiaroscuro painting; the bodies had all been alit in bright contrast against the dark rolling hills that surrounded his home. But that’s only if you look outside, and that one glance had been enough for the child. Enough to make him forget about the dead body in the house, and enough to bury his face into that big white dog.

He was sobbing.

[ooc: sdjfhasl a little late. ALSO THIS WAS FAR TOO LONG AND TOO MUCH CONTENT, I'M SORRY. ;_; sdfhla also apologies for any typos as i wrote this fast. Your character may pop in anytime to interact with little!Amory, anywhere - even outside if you want. D: Adult!Amory is somewhere in that dream world, so he may possibly pop out to surprise your character any time. and if you're curious, the dog is a Kuvasz.

Cut quote also does not belong to me. It belongs to the amazing Albert Camus. ]