Eron didn't know when he fell asleep again, only that he woke up with a fright from a knock at his bedroom door. It was measured and precise. Definitely not his parents and not Kai, as he had already gone home. His heart stalled for a moment, uncertainty blooming like a bruise in his chest.
He didn't answer immediately. He couldn't bring himself to leave the safety of his bed, but the knocking came again. Louder this time and with an unfamiliar voice.
"Mr. Desrosiers? I'm from the District Court. I've been asked to deliver some materials related to your case."
Acheron blinked. He thought the court proceedings were still weeks away.
He hated how quickly panic surfaced, as if it were always just under his skin, waiting to be triggered. He wasn't ready to read files or to see his own name next to his attacker's. To stare at those cold paperwork is to quantify his pain.
He pulled on an oversized sweater with shaking hands and opened the door only halfway. The young man standing outside wore a professional, apologetic expression and held a sealed manila folder.
"These are from your lawyer," the man said gently, handing them over. "Mr. Sauveterre said there's no rush, but he thought you'd want to see the compiled witness list and initial motion filings."
Acheron nodded stiffly, offering no words. He had an idea who had let this man to his bedroom, but didn't feel like a confrontation. He simply shut the door.
The silence returned, but it wasn't comforting anymore.
He dropped the folder onto the bed. It landed with a heavy thud, sounding like something that had been put to rest, or maybe exhumed.
He sat on the edge of his bed, a damp towel still on the floor. He couldn't help but stare at the folder. It represented the beginning of a legal battle and the thing that would define him for the next few years.
He didn't touch it.
Instead, he reached for his sketchpad.
He hadn't touched a pencil or paintbrush since coming home from the hospital, but for reasons he couldn't explain, his body craved it. The familiar weight of the wooden pencil pressing into his fingers, the subtle vibration of it scraping against paper, the delicate smears of graphite. It all grounded him, leaving him to feel more real. Forming into something that still made sense. Even the broken pieces of lead that snapped mid-line had meaning. They had left marks.
Acheron emptied his mind completely. He wouldn't allow thoughts to take shape, not about the past, or the present, or anything at all. He simply let his hand move, dragging lines across the page as if possessed by muscle memory alone.
When he finally blinked out of his trance, the soft gold of late afternoon light was spilling across the floor. The sun had long since risen, and it was now well past noon. He might have continued to refine the sketch, carving out shadow and structure, but a sharp, unmistakable growl erupted from his stomach.
Annoyed, he opened the bedside cabinet in search of snacks he remembered stashing before the hospital. Empty. So was the drawer below.
His stomach twisted again, loud and insistent.
He sighed, pressing his lips together.
His options were clear: stay and suffer, or go downstairs and find whatever was left from lunch.
It wasn't a long debate. Hunger always wins.
He carefully closed the sketchbook and, by instinct, slid it beneath his bed—a habit leftover from childhood. The open tin of graphite pencils remained where he'd left it on the bed, their tips dull and scattered.
When he reached for the door, his arm hesitated, just like it had that morning. For a moment, his hand hovered mid-air, unsure. But he had to force himself forward, fingers curling around the handle. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The corridor stretched on, wide and silent.
He thought he would find comfort in the quiet. Instead, it felt like a trap. The silence wasn't gentle. It was watchful. Like invisible claws were poised just out of sight, waiting for him to let his guard down.
A shiver rolled down his spine.
He moved quickly, bare feet brushing against the polished floors as he approached the grand staircase.
At the landing, he stopped.
He heard a lively conversation and soft bursts of laughter. Somehow, it soothed the frantic pace of his heart. He craved that kind of lightness, longed for the comfort of connection, but lately, it felt nearly impossible to engage. He hated the way these opposing feelings pulled at him: the ache to be part of the world again, and the fear that silenced him.
He couldn't trust himself.
Couldn't make decisions.
Couldn't move without second-guessing every step.
Acheron leaned against the staircase bannister, letting the uplifting atmosphere below settle over him like a warm breeze. It was then that he noticed his third-eldest brother, Ivo, had come home from university. He was sitting with their father, animatedly recounting lectures and projects, his words skipping along, rising and falling in cadence with his easy laughter.
Eron couldn't help but smile.
That was just like Ivo. He was always able to find levity, even in heavy moments. He carried light like it was stitched into his skin. Out of all the Desrosiers siblings, Ivo had the brightest smile, one that often seemed untouched by darkness, but Acheron knew that wasn't entirely true. The only time he'd ever seen Ivo truly break was the night of the attack, when he had cradled Eron in the back of their father's car, trembling with sobs that didn't stop until they reached the hospital.
Acheron slapped his thigh, sharp and sudden, the pain anchored him back in the present and pulled him out of the memory. He took a shallow breath and continued down the stairs.
He found his family in the living room, bathed in warm sunlight pouring through the tall bay windows. The space was alive with green, his mother's beloved plants filling every open surface. She never cared much for knick-knacks or crowded displays. Instead, her décor was always simple, natural, and alive.
Eron's eyes drifted over the room, quietly cataloguing. Family portraits in delicate silver frames. Some paintings were store-bought, others clearly his own. A large television sat in the far corner like a forgotten relic. It had always been more ornamental than useful. His family had long preferred their hobbies to mindless background noise. Evenings here were spent sketching, journaling, knitting, or playing the occasional board game. This room had witnessed so many quiet, ordinary moments, and that's why he had come here.
He didn't feel like talking, but he also didn't want to be alone.
He moved quietly, slipping into the room like a shadow and settling onto an empty corner of the couch. Without thinking, he pulled a nearby blanket over his legs.
Oaklen noticed him immediately. His heart ached at the sight—his youngest, finally joining them without prompting. He hadn't realised until this moment just how much he had missed this. A simple moment, his son was in the room.
He squeezed his wife's hand gently and nodded toward Acheron.
Ivy looked over and smiled softly. She said nothing, didn't reach out. She just let him be. The atmosphere remained light, untouched. It was enough to just sit here and breathe.
A lull fell over the room, and then… ggrrrowl.
Acheron's stomach betrayed him with a loud protest.
Like a fox hearing the rustle of prey, Ivy perked up and laughed lightly.
"There goes my summoning bell," she joked as she rose, slipping out of the room, no doubt heading to the kitchen.
Eron flushed, cheeks burning. He buried his chin beneath the blanket, half embarrassed and half amused.
Ivo whipped around, startled. His back had been to the door, and he hadn't noticed Acheron slip in.
"Jeez—little ninja at it again," he muttered with a teasing smirk, scooting over to sit beside him on the couch. With no fuss or fanfare, just Ivo being Ivo.
He turned back toward their father and picked up the thread of his story without missing a beat, animatedly recounting some outlandish prank his friend had pulled during a film lecture.
Acheron didn't speak. He just sat still, the blanket pulled tight around his legs, the corners of his mouth threatening to twitch.
That small, ordinary gesture-no questions, no pressure, just his presence-meant more than anything anyone had done for him since the hospital.
Ivo leaned back on the couch, his arm now casually draped along the backrest. He glanced at Acheron, who still had the blanket pulled over his legs, and smiled.
"You know," Ivo started, nudging Eron's arm gently, "speaking of chaos, remind me to never trust Lucas with directions again."
Oaklen chuckled, "You're still hanging out with that guy?"
"Unfortunately," Ivo said, dramatically resting a hand over his heart. "Last Friday, we were out for drinks. Nothing fancy, just a dive bar with cheap beer and chairs that look like they survived a war. Anyway, Lucas insists there's a shortcut back to campus through the small botanical gardens."
Ivy returned from the kitchen just in time to hear the start of the story, setting down a small tray of food in front of Eron with a fond shake of her head. "Oh, dear."
Ivo nodded at her, eyes wide. "That's what I should've said. But no. We follow him deep into the gardens. Mind you, it's around 1 AM and we've all had a few too many."
He looked around at his rapt audience. "Then it happens. Lucas, in all his clumsy glory, accidentally kicks a goose. He doesn't see it. Just boot. Full contact."
Eron's mouth twitched upward, eyes still lowered.
Ivo continued, hands animated, "The goose lets out this horrifying noise like a banshee caught in traffic. It then chases us. Like full-on berserker mode. I lose a shoe, Sienna falls into a rose bush, and Lucas, bless him, tries to apologise. Arms up, lying flat on the ground like he's being arrested by a bird."
Oaklen was laughing now, and even Ivy let out a short snort.
"The goose doesn't care. It climbs on his chest and stares him down. I'm telling you, it was like witnessing a trial. Lucas just lies there, mumbling, 'I'm sorry, bro. I didn't mean it."
Eron let out a soft, genuine laugh.
Ivo grinned at him, satisfied. "Eventually, a security guard comes out, broom in hand, like some mythic goose-slayer, shoos it away. Apparently, the goose is notorious, often biting drunken students. We eventually limp back to the dorms, Sienna with twigs in her hair, me missing a shoe, and Lucas swearing he saw his life flash before his eyes."
He turned to Eron with a crooked smile. "Moral of the story? Never trust a shortcut, a goose, or Lucas after midnight."
Acheron chuckled again, covering his mouth with his hand, but the sound was there, light and real.
For the first time in weeks, the weight in his chest didn't feel so suffocating.
Ivy sat up straighter, offering Eron a plate with a neatly halved wrap. Her movements were gentle, careful not to be overly doting, but deliberate enough that he noticed. She'd always been health-conscious, preferring clean foods, mostly grown in her own garden. Oily or fried meals had never been her thing, and by extension, never really theirs.
Eron accepted the plate and took a bite, expecting the usual grilled chicken, greens, maybe hummus, but the flavour hit him in the most unexpected way: warm, greasy, delicious. The chicken had been breaded and deep-fried exactly the way he liked it and exactly the way his mother never made it.
It should've made him happy, but it didn't.
The calm that had been settling around him like a soft blanket suddenly frayed. He could feel the mood inside him unravel, thread by thread.
His mother's gaze lingered, much too warm and too careful. He understood the intention behind the wrap, understood it all too well. She was trying to comfort him, to bring him something he enjoyed. It had, however, an opposite effect; instead of soothing him, it only deepened the pit in his stomach.
'She pities me.'
The thought whispered in his mind, unwelcome and bitter. Every small deviation from her norm screamed louder than her words ever could. She never used to cook like this. She never used to try this hard for him.
Eron forced another bite past the lump in his throat. The taste now turned thick and cloying, like oil coating the back of his throat. He chewed, mechanically, until he reached the halfway mark, then carefully set the plate aside. Maybe this would be enough to avoid raising suspicion, and his mom would just think he was full.
He didn't want to upset her. He didn't want to ruin the rare, peaceful warmth that filled the room like sunlight.
He just wished he could stop feeling like every kind gesture was a quiet apology for a past they couldn't change.
"Acheron," his mother called, pulling him from the haze of his thoughts. "Did you finish reading the documents Mr. Sauveterre sent?"
From somewhere, Eron couldn't fathom, she produced another folder and began leafing through its contents, the pages whispering with a kind of urgency.
"No," he muttered, stomach roiling. The nausea had returned, curling tight in his gut.
"You had the entire morning," Ivy said, her voice edged with reproach.
"Read through them tonight. We need to set a meeting with the lawyer. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can talk to the police—"
"Mom, please—"
She didn't stop.
"Once the police are involved, we can push for a court date. There's still the medical documentation, and the witness statements—"
Acheron tried once more.
"Mom—"
"We also need to prepare for possible cross-examination questions, which leaves us with—"
"Just shut the fuck up!" Eron snapped, his voice cracking like thunder. His chest heaved, panic flooding in too fast for him to rein in. His hands shook. Ivy froze, her eyes wide in disbelief.
"Don't raise your voice," she said calmly. "And you know I don't allow swearing in this house."
"I'm sorry, Mom," Eron bit out, voice trembling, "but can you please just stop talking about lawyers and court and hospital appointments for once? Do you even remember the last normal conversation we had?"
His voice broke on the last word. He looked at her, really looked, and his expression was raw, pleading. But Ivy, with her jaw tight and her fingers clenched around the edge of the folder, seemed to absorb the pain and then push it aside.
"We can't keep hiding and running," she said with soft but steel-like conviction. "We have to face this head-on. The sooner we deal with it, the sooner we can start moving on."
Eron's breath caught, and a sudden wave of heat surged through him.
"There is no we," he shouted, louder than before, his voice scraping with anguish. "I was attacked. I was raped. I'm the one waking up in sweat-soaked sheets, feeling like I'm dying from the inside out. You may have the strength to fight and to look through those files, to sit with those crime scene photos, but I don't. I'm barely hanging on."
His voice collapsed into a whisper. "I don't have anything left."
He couldn't meet her eyes anymore. He didn't want to see pity. Didn't want to see her disappointment. The tears came without warning, hot and fast, slipping down his face and neck like betrayal.
Then he turned and bolted through the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor until the door slammed behind him. The only thing he could hear was the rush of his feet across tile and the desperate groan of his stomach. He barely made it to the toilet before everything came up.
All of it. Gone.
A cruel end to what had been, at least for a moment, his best meal in weeks.
His head felt heavy, memories trying to press into his consciousness, trying to make themselves known. He stumbled his way back to his bed, falling onto his comfortable duvet, and he held onto one of his larger teddy bears, the same one his mother had bought for him. He wrapped his whole body around the stuffed toy, his face stuffed into its chest, allowing himself to fully break down.
It was only after the sky turned dark that Eron was able to pull himself together. Not completely, but enough to wipe his face and to reach underneath his bed, trying to find his sketch book from this morning, but instead he pulled out a much older one.
The book's cover is already starting to fade. He flipped through the pages. Watching his childish drawings slowly improving. Each piece pulls him to the past and fills him with a time that is much simpler than now. The last drawing made him pause.
It was far more detailed than anything else drawn so far. The colours were free and bright. There were telling signs of watercolour paint in the background. A medium he enjoyed using during his early teens. The art piece perfectly depicted the smiling face of Caden.
Eron's heart clenched. He wasn't sure why. Regret? Sorrow?
All he could think was
What if
The past, however, was just pigment now, stained into pages he couldn't live in anymore.