For a single, horrifying moment, I thought that Leo’s face would be the one looking back at me. Thankfully, blissfully, it was the old man once more that looked over his shoulder, his back straightening, adding more height to him as his limbs gradually elongated. With one, bony finger, he beckoned me to follow him, his lungs inhaling another wheezing breath.
The slightest glimpse, I looked to Rowan, his head moving just barely in a nod. He stepped to the side, body inching towards his own exit. Forward it was, then.
The man’s hand trailed behind him, as if expecting me to take it. I didn’t, nor did I move closer. I kept the same distance, moving at the same, mind-numbing speed that he did across the room. All eyes on us, not a hint of kindness in front of us. A simple white door stood in the distance, so small and plain in contrast to the majesty of the room that it almost seemed to blend in.
“An artist,” the man mused in front of me, “Lydia would have never.”
“I’m not Lydia,” I curtly informed him.
“No,” he breathed, disappointment in his words, “you’re not.” There was something more to that, an almost accusation, an air of, ‘Lydia wouldn’t be here but here you are’.
I was glad to disappoint.
The man’s hand wrapped around the doorknob, a simple white spark traveling from skin to metal. In response, a clunk sounded, the noise of metal shifting out of the lock. His hand turned, a sharp jerk to the side, and then he pulled it open, revealing the contents of the smallest room to me.
26
Many Faces in the Closet
My mind went blank, I could not move. No thoughts crossed my mind, I wasn’t capable of it. Not when faced with Leo, not then. Not with the way that he looked.
Black. That’s the first thing I saw, the only thing I could really see. It was all consuming. A thick black trail from his mouth, pooling into the divet at the front of his neck, just below his collarbone, and dripping further and further down his front, soaking soot-colored stains into the fabric of his grey t-shirt. Deep, red bruises painted landscapes across the canvas of his skin, blood still pooling underneath the thinnest portions, spreading further and further like ink hitting the surface of water. His eyes, his gleaming, intelligent eyes were shut, not a flicker of motion upon the sound of the door opening. His chest did not move, his nose did not twitch; the only sign of life was the curl of his fingers, growing tensing and releasing as he drifted further and further away, deeper into whatever land he lay. A soft, hollow breath escaped his body, the sound of all the air leaving at one, followed by another ragged gasp.
They’d propped him up against the corner of a broom closet, his head lulling amongst the shelves, hands spread to either side of him as half of his body leaned against the mundanity of cleaning supplies and the other half propped up against the brick wall. His eyes swollen beyond recognition, cheeks collapsed under the weight of whatever unearthly thing had happened to him; this was not the Leo Hoang I knew, not the one who left the apartment. His charming smile and expressive features were gone, marred by the reality of the cruelty that whatever those beings were were capable of. I’d almost hoped that it wasn’t him, I wanted to believe that it wasn’t him more than anything. But I knew, I could recognize Leo from miles away, I could hear his voice on the shoreline while I drowned; I would always know Leo. I would always be able to recognize him.
But this… I was frozen at first, the pain of tears that threatened to fall burning at my eyes. Leo, I needed him to wake up, to look me in the eyes and tell me he was okay. I couldn’t do it without him, I could even begin to process my situation without Leo at my side. Whether we were meant to know each other or not, Leo was mine. I may have been his North Star, but he was my guiding light. The world didn’t make sense without Leo, and if he didn’t awaken… I shuddered to think of it. There would be no selling my soul, but I supposed there would also be no leaving. Yet, despite needing to know more than anything else in this world, my feet felt heavy as lead, moving was an impossible feat. It was only when his head lulled, just a little to the side, not even of his on volition, that I found myself able to move forward once more.
“There, just as promised,” a voice declared from behind me, beady eyes taking in the way I dropped to my knees, hands at Leo’s shoulders, hopelessly willing him to wake, “Leo.” It was almost mockery, the way that he said his name. It was cruel to vocalize the name of someone so valuable as if they were a joke.
“What did you do to him?” I demanded, hands reaching for his face, delicately grasping his cheeks in between them, careful to mind the bruises. Wake up, I begged, forehead pressing against his, a hollowness beginning to fill my airways. He had to wake up, then we’d figure it out, we’d find a way out. There had to be a solution, a different one. Some sort of answer had to lay near, something beyond this. He couldn’t leave me, not now, not here. Two weeks, he said that he had two weeks. Couldn’t we go back to that? Couldn’t we relish in those weeks while we had them?
“It wasn’t me,” the man said with mock innocence. He watched me move, constantly peering in at every moment, not just these, but the intimate touches and gestures long
