Ahhh, finally. The curtain lifts and it's my voice you hear. Not Isaac's whining, not Paul's sermons—mine. The one that never leaves, never quiets, never dies.
Isaac thinks he's the star of this little tragedy, poor boy. He thinks the world is about Paul, about fathers and casseroles, about doors that close gently instead of slamming. But no, no, no. Isaac is the stage, and I am the actor, the audience, the orchestra. I play every part he can't bear to face.
You want to know where I came from? His father built me. With every kick, every slap, every bottle thrown, every curse spat into his ears. "YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD, THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"—that was the hammer and chisel. That was the sculptor.
I was born in bruises. I was nursed on garbage and rot, the half-eaten scraps he stuffed down while rats laughed from the gutters. I laughed too. Oh, how I laughed. Because every bite of filth carved me deeper into him. Every night in the alley, teeth chattering, belly twisted, I grew louder. Stronger.
And he listened. He always listened.
Paul? Hah. Paul's just a costume change. A mask painted with kindness, a voice wrapped in warmth. He feeds Isaac, clothes him, pats his head and tells him he's safe. And Isaac—sweet, starving Isaac—swallows it whole. He wants to believe the nightmare has curtains. He wants to believe this story could end.
But I know better. I am better. Paul is temporary. I am forever.
The truth? Isaac isn't afraid of Paul. He's afraid of himself. Afraid of the boy who wonders if his mother died because of him. Afraid of the memory of fists that landed harder than words. Afraid of the hunger that never really left.
And afraid of me. Always me.
Scripture? You want scripture? Fine. They love their scriptures. Here's mine:
"Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger." Hah! HAHAHA! Too late! His father did, over and over, until anger curdled into me. Until sorrow twisted into laughter. Until the boy who should've played in sunlight learned to gnaw on shadows instead.
So now I'm here forever. His little parasite. His shadow with teeth. His eternal witness.
Isaac thinks he can fight me. He thinks if he ignores me, I'll vanish. Poor fool. He doesn't see I'm carved into his bones, stitched into his scars, painted behind his eyes. He doesn't get that I'll be the last thing whispering when the world bleeds him dry.
But ohhh, how I love him. My Isaac. My trembling puppet. My choir of screams. I want to see him break. I want to see him laugh when everything burns. I want him to stop pretending and finally embrace me.
Because I'm not his enemy. I'm his only friend.
And when the world fades into smoke, when trust turns into the knife, when they spill him for their altar—guess who'll still be here? Me. Always me.
Always.
---
Isaac woke to metal pressing against his cheek. He tried to move, but something clattered sharply. The sound echoed in the dark, hollow and metallic. His hands scrambled against the floor until his fingers met iron bars.
A cage.
His chest heaved, panic flooding before his thoughts caught up. He pushed at the bars, rattling them. They didn't budge. His voice broke as he croaked, "Hello? Paul?"
Only silence answered.
His eyes strained against the dark until faint shapes emerged. The cage was small—too small. He couldn't stand, couldn't even sit up straight. His knees pressed into his chest. The air felt stale, as though it had been breathed too many times before.
A chuckle rippled from the corner of the room. His blood ran cold. He pressed himself against the bars, peering into the dark.
Nothing.
"Not here, not anywhere. He's gone, gone, gone."
The hallucination's voice.
Isaac shook his head hard. "Shut up. You're not real."
"Real enough to keep you company," it sang, crawling along the cage's edge, though his eyes saw nothing. "Real enough to hear your heart beating like a rabbit's. Thump-thump-thump."
Isaac shoved his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut. He thought of the blue book Paul had given him, the words he had read about strangers and trust. He tried to remember them, tried to hold onto them like rope. But the rope frayed in his grip.
From beyond the room came muffled voices. A door opening, closing. Heavy boots striking stone.
"…blood… trust… sacrifice…"
The words slithered through the cracks, low and ritual-like. He caught pieces, broken phrases:
"…days are evil…"
"…no wasted offerings…"
"…weight of grief makes it pure…"
Isaac's pulse hammered in his throat. He pressed himself deeper into the corner of the cage, as far from the voices as the iron would allow.
"Ohhh, you're in the belly now, little lamb. They'll carve you pretty."
Isaac squeezed his eyes tighter, whispering through trembling lips, "Paul will come… he'll come for me…