Paul
Their main attraction to this world had been its radio programming. It didn’t disappoint. They listened to news and weather, sports broadcasting of live games, comedy shows, all kinds of interesting music with lutes and fiddles and dulcimers and flutes or piano or brass or all the above, and the wonderful world of radio plays.
Paul sat enraptured by a live performance of The Duke and the Dilettante when Cassie walked by without saying anything for the third time that week.
“Hey,” he said. She ignored him, continuing to pass. Mustering his resolve, Paul turned off the radio, “Cassie.” She turned to face him, affecting cluelessness though he knew her ears couldn’t have misheard heard him. “What have you been up to lately?”
“Nothing,” she evaded.
It surprised Paul how much that dismissal irritated him. “We haven’t spoken in weeks, and that’s all you have to say?”
“First of all, it’s none of your business! And second… No. No, this isn’t how I wanted it to go at all.” She sat on the couch next to him, voice strained. “What does it say about me that I can’t last a minute without resorting to a shouting match? I’m sorry, Paul.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. To him, this seemed out of nowhere.
“You know, I’m not sure if I’m built to… to do what Daniel and Rana are attempting. When I Listen to a person and hear how damaged they are inside I… I can’t, I can’t. I have to get away. I have to get out of there.” The genuine distress and turmoil of her defeated posture and pained expression cut at him. “Paul, I promise I love Wendi and Lea as much as anyone, but I can’t be near them when they’re like this. I can’t do it.”
He wanted to tell her he felt the same—completely and totally useless—but couldn’t. His mouth wouldn’t open.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“I’ve been doing a lot of Listening. To the city, to Radio World. I Listen to the people, and it helps me think, and to not think. I come home a couple times a day… and then I’m on the wing pretty much all the time.”
“But why don’t you talk to me? Why don’t we hang out anymore?”
She met his eyes. He saw hers waver, water. In a flash of intuition, Paul knew she wanted to tell him, but something held her back.
“I can’t stay, I don’t know how much longer I can go without shouting,” she said as she left.
Paul sighed but didn’t follow. He couldn’t stop her.
They were falling apart.
Why couldn’t he do something? At first, Lea held them together. Now, with Daniel and Rana distracted, they’d lost their glue. They were unraveling… drifting… crumbling.
Rana spun her wheels in a cycle of unchanging routine. Paul wasn’t sure who Rana was anymore. She was what they needed her to be. An emotional crutch for Cassie. A more competent sibling for him. Part confidante, part damage control for Lea—and now a nurse. A friend for Wendi, before the regression. Someone thick-skinned for Kenta to vent on. A companion for Daniel.
Who was she by herself?
They’d all relied on her. If nothing changed, one day, someone would ask too much of her—and she’d snap. If nobody picked up the pieces when that happened, it’d be the end of their group. Their situation now proved that fact.
Why hadn’t Lea overcome her depression? Was it Rana’s fault, the way Kenta seemed to think? Why hadn’t Lea said anything—not a word—since that day? Not that Paul blamed the girl. Whatever reason she had for trying to escape reality had something to do with whatever the demon had said to her.
Three years ago, It whispered doubts and fears to each of them. Like a parasite, It laid eggs in their brains to eat at them over the years. Ensuring they, despite escaping It then, would be weaker next time. Paul didn’t know how to help Lea fight her inner demons.
How could he save her when he couldn’t save himself? Who was he?
He’d always known who he was. He was the Guide. The Path through the Wilderness. Except he sucked at it. He knew what he needed to be but didn’t know how.
Why couldn’t he unite them? Why couldn’t he fight against the inevitable like Daniel, support everyone like Rana, or bind them together like Lea? Why couldn’t he understand his powers?
Paul thought about it every day, reviewing events, recalling what he’d been taught.
“The number of arms on your candelabra form are not the source of your power,” the distant voice of his uncle repeated. “They are the symbolic representation of your understanding.”