I can't think about the numbers anymore. I already feel depressed.
Tonight, I just need to be here with him.
Everything else can wait until morning.
"It's late now, Tim. I think we should head home for the night."
"Aww well I was having so much fun, but if you say so."
"I promise you, I'll find his body. Mark my words." I ruffle his hair, smiling affectionately.
"It doesn't really matter now, so Des, don't worry anymore. I can see you're trying your hardest. That's all that matters to me."
"But Tim, I won't let this slide. Not for either of us."
He looks down, hiding warm smiles to himself.
"If that's what you want, then I want that too."
"Come here." I lift him onto my shoulders and step out of the room.
Bump.
"Ouch."
"Sorry—mind the ceiling, Tim," I warn belatedly.
"Duly noted." He tugs on my hair, clearly annoyed.
Noticing Sevinstine as we pass by the open space, I call out.
"Hey, Sevinstine! We're heading home now, that alright?"
"Just make sure you come back tomorrow morning, at the same time and fill out all the forms on your desk" she says.
"Oh, well I thought I did."
"You didn't finish the ones added to the pile. That's what Reece said—he kept adding more to your stack."
"Ah, that makes sense," I mutter. "Can we take these clothes home too?"
"No. Make sure you take them off before you leave; the clothing basket is in your change room."
"But I don't have a change room… or really any other clothes."
She glances around, then relents.
"They gave you the change room you used today. Every one of the dedicated personnel has one. As for these clothes, I'll let the sisters know you can take them for tonight—but make sure you return them as soon as possible and don't go showing them off; usually only high-level people are allowed to walk around with the in-house robes outside. Its just the rules, I'll find some others for you in the meantime."
"Thanks."
I walk out of the church, following the rubbled road toward home.
I break the evening mood.
"Say… what kinds of things are you interested in, Tim?"
"I don't know… I never really had time to think about stuff like that."
"So you don't like me, then?"
"Oh no, of course I don't. I mean… someone whose teeth are so white, white as your hair. It's very unusual. Strange even. I've never seen a man look like you before."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"No… it's scary."
"Really? I feel so hurt." I choke dramatically.
"I suppose it makes sense you would feel that way with that long nose and all. Although now I've just gotten used to your face, so don't go making weird faces at me."
"..."
I suppose I have gotten used to you too. To think I thought you were just some annoying kid. How endearing.
"So… you got any crushes at school?" I ask.
He pokes a finger into my right ear.
"Like I'll tell you that."
He wiggles it around.
"Well, I just don't want you to make any bad choices you'll regret, that's all." I keep walking ignoring the itch in my ear.
"Okay, well… there is one person."
"Oh yeah? Who is it?"
"Her name is Olfya."
"What a beautiful name. What do you like about her?"
"None Olfya's business."
"..."
I stop walking for a second.
FUCK
...
"You really are a rascal, you know that?"
"I learned from the best."
"Oh yeah… Jimson was like that, huh?"
"No, I meant you. You're way worse, and your face just makes me want to make fun of you."
I continue walking.
"Say… does this girl Olfya also have such a face too? Is that why you're so infatuated with her?"
"No, no, stop it. There's no one in my class with that name." He denies.
"I bet you bully her too to get her attention. Don't think you can hide the truth from me, boy."
"I would never." his voice rises, higher in pitch.
"Like I would trust that."
We walk in silence for a little while longer, simply taking in the serenity of night.
"Say… what do you want from life, Tim?"
"To stay with you, of course." He responds immediately.
I let out a stagnant sigh.
"There will come a time when you no longer want to spend time with me. Maybe start your own family one day, go see the world. Tell me… how would that all make you feel?" cuz it makes me feel like shit.
He stays quiet for a second, humming to himself quietly.
"I don't really know."
"No regrets or ideas." I inquire.
"But that person is not me yet. Why bother with such useless talk?"
"Just asking."
"I like where I am now. Isn't that good enough?"
"I suppose so." I mumble to myself.
In the distance, the yurt slowly comes into our view.
"Oh, here — a present for you." I stop and pull a folded sketch of Tim's face from my robe, handing it to him.
"Hehehe… it's so bad and ugly, this supposed to be me?!"
"I'm not so sure now. (It so was) I just wanted it to be a surprise for you, so I did it all from memory. If you don't like it, you can just give it back."
"No… I'm keeping this. I'll never let you forget this failure."
He folds it back along the crease carefully, tucking it into his chest pocket. Which I notice is the one closest to his heart. The small dangling whistle above jingles lightly at the action.
Still better. My blood flutters with hearty warmth.
We now come to the doorway, pale light from treated moss sprinkles throughout the room.
I head to bed sitting down for a moment.
Jumping up from out my shadow mute curls up next to me.
I can't resist to meow at her as I pat her midnight coat.
She opens her mouth in my direction.
"Meow" she lets out in a strangely familiar deep voice.
Huh?
My face droops dumbfounded.
Tim's contagious laugh echos from across the room causing her to retreat back into my shadow.
"Did she just copy your voice."
Huh she did what?
"Is that what happened?" I question.
"Yes dumb dumb she sounded just like you." He says through catching breaths.
My stomach rumbles.
Finally a sign I'm not dreaming. I'll think about what just happened later, for now I need to think about safety
"Hey Tim. You hungry?" I ask loudly.
"Nah, they gave us food at school, but if you're offering dinner, I'm too full. Maybe tomorrow."
Good… at least he's fed.
I'll sort the money situation and other stuff tomorrow too, we'll make this all work.
My stomach grumbles.
I step behind the curtain to the toilet—just a hole in the ground with cold water and rough sponge.
No toilet paper. No plumbing. Just... this.
I wash my hands after, watching blue light glow from the mana-stone as water flows.
Strange. They can make water from nothing but can't make proper toilets.
Priorities in this world are all wrong.
I open the curtain to reveal the room.
There's Tim, lying on my bed, holding open my diary, kicking his feet against the wall while leaning against it like a bean.
"What's this part in Chapter 5 about?"
"I don't know… please give back my diary, Tim. That's private." I warnly stern.
"I turned back, pondering. This was no mere battleground. It was a slaughterhouse." He repeats mimicking my words, looking at me with confusion.
"When I have spare time, I write what's on my mind. Now please return it."
I step toward him, but he darts away, continuing to read my writing.
I shake my head sitting down in my bed to listen further.
"After wit-ness-ing the blood-bath firsthand, I could only drink in the scene. Power-less. The living expired, collap-sing onto a blood-soaked earth-en bed, tucked beneath the faint velvet of blood-stained sheets. Above their rest-less-ness, the spectacle raged on—a parade of blood-sports spilled into the dark-en-ed sky."
"No it's pronounced as darken-d not dark-en-ed." I interrupt.
"Right, that's not how it's spelt though." He grumbles resuming as he acts out my words with physical motion.
"Each abuse ripped out a blood-curdling roar." He jumps off his bed and performs a screech.
"No weakness spared, no mer-cy given. They fought des-perate, bound by law and wrath." He kicks the air with undisciplined ferocity.
"As though their entire species' right to exist was being weighed upon the chopping block of nat-ural selection." He plops to the floor, pretending to be fish.
"Why do you say the word 'blood' so much?" He stops, looking up, curious.
"I was trying to keep the metaphor alive y'know… clever word-play, right. Hey, why am I explaining myself to you?"
"Is this what those sen-tist meant by survival of the fittest?" He pauses again.
"What's a sen-tis, and what does this part mean?" He asks, pointing at the page.
"It's pronounced scien-tist but if it helps you think of it like this sci-en-tist, instead. And survival of the fittest is like the parable of the poisoned animals trapped in the vase. Have you heard of it?"
He frowns his brows and crunches his face, shaking at me.
"It goes like this: A man wants to poison another, but he has too many bugs to check which one has the most venom, and only a single vase as his property. He knows most of the animals at his disposal cannot get the job done. So he designs a test to sort them.
This test well - He puts them all into the vase, creating a deadly environment. The last one to survive would be the most dangerous bug—the one best suited to his task. Or so he thought."
"Survive the poison, become the poison." He whispers to himself.
He will get it one day.
"However when he tries the assassination attempt, it ultimately fails, the last bug was surprisingly not toxic enough to kill his intended target."
"Really?" He asks, surprised.
"You see the thing is, the last bug wasn't the most poisonous or the most deadly of the bunch, but what the man didn't find out until later. The thing was that this bug was strangely immune to all the poisons.
"What?"
"YES! His test only really measured; not what would be the most toxic creature, but which one would survive with the most probability in said environment. Turns out being unable to get poisoned, hard shell, plus having a minimal food requirement gave this creature a massive competitive advantage.
It outlasted the other ones in the vase due to these unique traits. Through this the survivor which is fittest passes on its genetic inheritance."
"What about the others?"
"The rest, well... they die."
"..."
"..."
"Maybe that was too dark, continue practicing your reading please."
He turns back to the book and sounds out more words.
"How could such loose, undescrip-tive phrases even attempt to en-capsulate this struggle for life? It's a world about power, dom-in-ance, and unchecked in-dulgence. This idea changes people, and protects the pred-at-ors. Complacency breeds immorality, and the resulting trauma should never be for-gott-en; it should be revered as the ultimate les-son of our society. One that is taken far too lightly. To return to our vicious ways."
He stands up from the floor and sits, leaning on me.
"This is nothing less than a true extinct-ion event for persisting morality and previous meaning, these concepts have no force to protect them here."
He looks at me.
I nod back slowly.
He reads quicker.
"Though it may not claim an entire spe-cies, how could the ex-tinc-tion of the self—or even this single group of beings, be any less bar-bar-ic? Though they were called swamp-rats, it was their sacrifice that allowed me and my comrades to journey onward through this world-ly abyss. For that, they earned my undying respect, and they deepened my untested perspective of this new-world."
"Here… have it back. I'm tired now." He yawns, closing the diary and lays it down.
"Quick. Tell me three things you liked about today, before you conk-out, sleepy-head."
"Fine…
One, I was just so excited to spend time with you. School was such a drag; But two, I found out you're way cooler as a teacher then a complaining person, and three you really suck at drawing."
"Don't think by complimenting me like that I'll feel any less about you reading my diary."
I toss him another empty book.
"Here, have this. If you have anything on your mind, I suggest writing in it."
"That just sounds silly though."
"You can draw in it too if you want. Here's a quill and some ink—use it however you want, I don't care."
I place them on the bedside table.
"Thanks… I guess."
I walk over and cover the cloth over the luminescent moss lamps and make way back over to my bed. Tim joins me.
"Aren't you too old for that, boy?"
"I think not."
"Well… I guess it's fine then." I say, finding a comfortable spot to rest.
His light snore already fills up the room.
Cute.
I wriggle over to give him more space to sleep, then something digs into my side.
I shift, reaching into my pocket.
The file key—I forgot to return it. First the clothes now the key, I am a mess today.
I try taking it out of my pocket but my fingers brush something else. A familiar dryness absorbs at my fingers moisture.
I pull it out slowly.
A note.
My heart tightens, only for a moment though.
When did someone—?
I pat down my other pockets. Everything else is where it should be.
Someone got close enough to slip this in without me noticing.
I unfold the , angling toward the faint moss-light leaking through the woven cloth.
The handwriting is clean, cursive and legible:
My hands go numb.
Tim shifts beside me, still sound asleep.
I read it again. Then again.
This can't be true.
I chew up and swallow the fingersized note and stare into the indented ceiling.
Everything about this feels wrong. Can I trust this?