I'm Not From Earth - 22. Twenty Two

Throughout the ride, nothing was relevant to Rover.

Growling from the engine, static voices next to his ear, bumps and booming basses outside; they all slid off him like mercury on ice. He couldn't see anything other than the persistent blanket of darkness in front of his eyes, could taste nothing except the harsh cloth wedged in his mouth, and could feel nothing but the smooth leather underneath his fingertips.

There was no fear, no anger, no disappointment. He was an empty shell, powerless, unsure to where the last reserves of his strength were supposed to be. Would that even matter? Rover's valiant attempt at freedom was torn asunder just like this. His father would make sure there would be no next time.

What was the point?

Soon, the neighbourhood grew quiet, and the limousine rolled to a halt. Doors clicked open, and Rover was pulled out, his arms twisted to his back, immobile except for his legs. He was marched, entering through doors, stumbling over thresholds.

The sudden coolness of the house.

He could feel the steam prints that his feet breathed as he climbed up the stairs, the calloused hands gripping into his shoulders. He could feel the vestiges of floating dust upon his cheeks and he could almost see the network of cables that suspended the platforms of rooms. And suddenly, he could feel the familiar weight of an invisible stone in his gut, tugging and tugging at his innards so that his chest shook with every step up. The clicks of the clock in his room, the gentle peals of the leaking pipe downstairs, the howls of wind outside all reached his ears, stirring memories that would never leave his head.

The ironic familiarity of a home that Rover refused to claim as his.

The million dollar chrome chandelier, the silver plated fireplace, the antiques and priceless sculptures -- all of those luxuriances were meaningless to Rover, because everything else here was wrong. Why couldn't he have figured that out ten years ago? Why couldn't he have figured that out earlier? Why couldn't he have predicted this oppression right after his mother died?

Rover was halted, and his blindfold and gag were pulled away.

The rush of light momentarily dazed him, but his vision focused quickly for the room wasn't that bright.

His father's study was never bright. The only source of light came from the licking flames of the fireplace, washing the white walls with deep reds and oranges. A fire unfit for summer, but fit for the coldness of the house. Here swam the old and worn atmosphere of Rover's childhood memories, once so full of love and life, but now, it was nothing but a mirage of hell. The torrent of conflagrant light carved his father's sitting figure into an imposing silhouette.

It was nothing more than a shadow, coming to haunt Rover.

Spreading his arms like a raptor preparing to slaughter its prey, the shadow stood up, and opened his mouth to speak.

*