Armel: Prologue

One Year Ago...

"Can you really love such an ugly creature as I am?"

- The Blue Fairy Book by Andrew Lang

Bland. All of it. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Were they out of their minds, feeding him unseasoned garbage? The amount of money he was paying, he expected better. Jaw tense, he swallowed, ridding himself of the steak, but not the truth. The knife and fork's stem bit into his palm, squeezing his grip until he released the tension from the threat of his strength.

Armel's cast his attention to the server. Eyes locked, they faltered in their steps and pivoted from the direction of his table. Fucking coward. Capturing the saltshaker with his entire hand, salt flakes snowed upon his food. Another bite. Barely any better than before. Just as tasteless, somewhat appetizing, but of no consequence. The steak, visually cooked perfectly medium, with the thick band of pink running through the middle, tasted dry. A chalky ash coated his senses, leaving the whisper of the taste he remembered. Only enjoyable enough for a cheap, overcooked steak. He sliced into the middle, using the utensils to angle the meat, double checking the consistency of color. It was. A Sigh. Great. It was getting harder to ignore, but not impossible.

He eyed the whiskey neat on his table. His hand wrapped around the glass; a ghost of the chilled glass pressed into his palm. The first sip, hopeful expectation rose, waiting for the liquid to wash upon his tongue to catch fire, scorching his throat, his chest. Instead, a sickening nothingness of whiskey flowed past his lips, leaving only the light burn of alcohol, then nothing. He stared at the glass, stomach twisting. The light from the candles shifted, reflecting the flickers of shadows cast. He lifted the drink again to his lips, seeking the same sensation. Maybe the next one would work. It had to. What use was it to not be?

Sound swirled, muffled and distorted. It was happening. Not now. Hand masking his eyes. The distant clatter of his fork. The murmurs snuffed out. Breathe. Just breathe.

Caged in stillness, a looming abyss manifested, and imprisoned him in deafening silence. The darkness hummed and heralded an inevitable void unveiling itself before him. There it was. Every inescapable thought and emotion writhing in the pit he could never bury deep enough. Hadn’t he suffered enough? A price paid. Did it mean nothing? Two years. Two fucking years. This. This would never end…would it?

No, he made the right choice. Breathe. He could live with the consequences. Who wouldn’t trade their soul to possess a fragment of what he gained? If he could enjoy a fraction of anything, it had to be worth it. But was it the truth? Jesus. Why doubt himself? Go away. Stay away. Teeth grit, the pressure receded into the horizon. Memories keened, beckoning to be remembered and felt. Breathe. It couldn’t get worse forever. He would be okay. He had to be.

Hand dropping, his eyes opened. Focus on something. Anything. The candlelight shifted, reflecting the flickers of shadows cast, rendering the edges of his sight. A hallowed glow against the blackness of murky, muted tones. Focus. Breathe. The darkness prowled, waiting.

The cellphone’s ringing dissolved through darkened thoughts pooling into his mind. Oh, thank God. The screen’s light eclipsed the shadows from the table and cut into the candle’s quivering dance.

Armel paused his sip, eyes glanced down. Claude Howard’s name lit up on the screen. Shit. Leaning back, away from the illumination radiating, a creak escaped the chair. The name burned into his mine, calling his attention, a beckoning plea to answer.

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Armel’s glass thud against the table, and ice rattled in a fury of musical clinks. Why? Why did he still try?

The unanswered question sank deeper, and the pool welled inside again. Every time his uncle…No, godfather. No, Claude Howard. A sigh escaped him. Why nothing worked for when *he* reached out. He should have just blocked his number a long time ago. The phone ringing grew louder. Why was he afraid? It wasn’t like he was knocking on the door. But he might as well have been. Why could he not bring himself to silence it? Why was he trapped, staring? Then light and ringing stopped. A breath to welcome the silence, a short-lived relief, as a final glow flashed a voicemail notification…a last cry.

Curiosity crept into his mind and temptation nagged for him to listen. What did he want? A sigh. It was better to leave it unanswered and left to die in the graveyard of the messages from the efforts of his sister and Claude Howard. Still…the two of them calling just enough to cause him pause. What could they want? But…it didn’t matter in the end. Whatever it was, he could provide nothing they wished for.

What would he hope to achieve listening? He couldn't go back, not now. Not after everything that had happened. His finger tapped on the glass and a frown pulled at his lips. Could they not just leave him alone?

Lifting the drink, he imagined the clear melodic clicks ice, and then another sip. Damn it. Might as well be water.

Another sign. Maybe this once. When was the last time he listened to his voice? He dug the phone onto his palm, unlocking it, and pressing it to his ear.

The voice alone struck with a force with a simple hello, followed by a pause. Guilt swelled, his breathe paused, tight chest. The feeling that threatened to push through the depths to consume him, broke and crashed against him.

"What-“ his jaw clenched, biting down on the wavering in his voice. A swallow. “….What do you want, Uncle Claude?" The curated tone rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in ages. Like hell he’d be scared like a child…and so tried again.

"...Armel, I know it’s been a while. I miss you. I don’t mean to bother you. But I’d to talk sometime, just to catch up. I- I have a gift for you, for the garden. I was in Portland and there was a new rose variety I think you’ll love. I remember when I took you and Odette and..."

Was the call over? His body tensed, hearing him. He sounded tired? Gone was the same soothing voice he remembered. Still the ghost of his voice elicited a longing for memories of what was. Before things changed after his mother’s death, before he became successful, before he hurt everything and everyone he ever loved. A shuddering sigh emerged, drawing Armel back to the message as his uncle continued.

"…I’ll have it sent to the house. You can do what you want with it. I wanted you to know I love you and I’m always still here for you. That has never changed. Give me a call when you’re ready. I’d like to talk to you again."

True silence continued, and the weight of his godfather's words lingered. Another moment and he pulled back the phone. Eyes examined the device as it could answer the sudden feeling of the air hanging heavy…with something he couldn’t identify. An old memory? No, it was more than that. Something that came from the soul and squeezed, carrying thoughts he had stored away. Thoughts he no longer could hold. He blinked back the stinging tears threatening to roll down his cheek, he swallowed the lump down his tight throat.

After everything that happened. After all the people he hurt. He dared tried to offer an olive branch, and in the form of roses...He was the last person who should be seeking him out with a gift. Armel, grit his teeth. A tight jaw caged the budding guilt taking roots and bursting with growth. The offer, the roses, the message…eyes squeezed shut…capture the sadness, bury it deep inside, banish them. Numbing cold washed over him. Refusing to relent. No. Now to do what he should've done a long. His thumb tapped the screen. Voicemail deleted, just like he did the others. Another stream of taps, and number blocked. Now the shadows returned, washing over. The world just a little darker but numbing pain abated the guilt. An emotion stunted in forged refuge, but was not such emptiness deserving for a beast like him?