[Ewan]

The dead were gone forever, and only the living suffered for them.

He left his presence everywhere—the house of bricks was Ewan’s home because of him, because of his Pa. There were days of tears as there were days of laughter, his Pa marked every second of his life. Ewan lived in bliss, sheltered and protected. His embrace, his warmth, his jokes, his snores, he took them all for granted. Be it ten, twenty, or thirty years down the road, his Pa would still be with him, he believed. He would still wake up in the morning and find his Pa throwing away the burnt omelets in secret, serving the restaurant food as his own. He would still watch tv and find his Pa cracking perverted jokes. He would still have nightmares and find his Pa when he called for him. He would still find his Pa; he would still find him….

But life hit the brakes and shoved reality in his face—he was gone.

He would never see him again; he would never hear his voice. That old man left him all alone.

And the vultures came knocking on the door.

Ewan turned eleven this year. Some said he was already half an adult, others replied he was still a little kid—wet behind the ears. They didn’t even bother to hide it from him and argued who would inherit his father’s wealth. But none of it mattered, he cared naught for what these mongrels thought or wanted. It had only been a day since his Pa died. They were still in the funeral hall, his father’s urn still sat warm on the head table, and the bastards already sang a different tune.

The big-bearded Uncle Jon who gave him shoulder rides, the sweet-perfumed Aunt Zelda who often brought him and Nana chocolates, the older cousin Juston—the earring cousin—who covered for him when his Pa fumed; they now wanted his blood. They weren’t alone, the others waited their turn.

They said it was for his Pa’s legacy, that they would secure it for him until he came of age, and they needed his blood for it.

Ewan didn’t bother with the narrative they played, be it for his Pa’s legacy or whatnot, he only wanted his father back. But they could never fulfill his wish…not that they cared for it either. So, he let them do whatever they wanted.

And the inconspicuous corner of the funeral hall gathered a crowd. One after another, they drew his blood and left him pale, bruised, and hurting. His bloodshot eyes had puffed; tears rolled down his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped his snot with his sleeves, the cuts they made stung and purpled as seconds passed. Some offered him a glass of water when he choked but treated him as foul air when they got what they wanted.

He wanted to sleep, but they didn’t let him. Once he slept, it wouldn’t hurt anymore, the suffocation was smothering him. His chest hurt, his head ached, his face was feverish, and he gasped for air. Yet, no one gave him the room to breathe.

Finally, only three people remained around him.

“Kid, what’s the problem? Just mark these,” The middle-aged man said, pacifying his irritated wife. Ewan would rather they took his blood, but instead they wanted him to sign some papers.

He curled up and buried his head in his knees. The house they lived in, a small account, and another separate account for his school fees, his Pa repeatedly admonished him to not give away anything related to these three. They were the crutches for his future, he often said, a future Ewan didn’t wish to live for, but the promise forced him to, no matter how much it hurt.

“We’re talking to you.” His wife slapped him across the face. His ear rang and his temple ached as he fell to his side, thudding his head on the floor, and he curled tighter. He didn’t budge no matter how much they yelled at him or hit him.

“HEY!!!” A woman yelled from afar. That was Aunt Ella’s voice, Ewan peeked from between his arms and saw her hurrying towards them with Uncle Keith and Nana. Were they here for Pa’s inheritance too? He didn’t want any of it anymore, they should just take it away, he sniffed and hid his new tears behind his arms as they drenched his sleeves.

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Aunt Ella dove for him, kneeling on the cemented floor as her knees scraped, while Uncle Keith pushed the fuming couple away from Ewan, Nana standing on the side with her bear-shaped schoolbag, sobbing away with her hiccups.

“I’m sorry, we’re late,” Aunt Ella said, squeezing Ewan into a hug, stroking his head. “Cry, let it all out.”

Her words broke the dam, and Ewan bawled in her arms, clutching her clothes, his semi-dried blood staining her.

…….

[Keith]

“How is he?” Keith asked as Ella exited Ewan’s room, closing the door as quietly as she could, avoiding the creak of the hinge. The dimness of the evening seeped into the house with only the dull bisque light from the wall bulb struggling against it. The lasting cries of the dogs on the street were the only source of sound today, even the returning birds stayed silent as if in mourning—the whole neighborhood had gone eerily mute.

“He cried himself to sleep,” she said, slumping beside Keith on the sofa in the hall, the ivory fur crumpling under her with a muffled squeak. “He was pale white; those bastards took so much of his blood.”

“Shh, you’ll wake him up,” he said.

“It’s pissing me off, he’s just a kid and they all ganged up on him. What was Thea doing? How could she let them treat her own son like this?”

“Authen’s death might’ve hit her too hard, she’s probably not in any condition to think about anything else,” Keith said.

“Still, he’s her son,” Ella said then buried her face in her palms and grunted. “Authen trusted us with him, and we couldn’t even stay beside him when his father died, when he needed us the most.”

“No one can foresee these things to the tee, even Authen predicted his time of death wrong.”

Ella sighed. “He should’ve just given up his hub access, why did he have to be so stubborn.”

“It’s not so easy, that’s his life’s work… and it was probably a lesson for Ewan,” Keith said.

“What lesson, he just saw one of the ugliest natures of human today, it probably scarred him for life. Will he ever trust anyone like this?”

“Because of that, he’ll live much longer. And I think Authen even gave us a wrong prediction of his death, so we couldn’t shelter Ewan.”

Ella shook her head. “You guys are too cruel…. To his own son, how could he…”

“Don’t hate him too much. He was just a desperate man who had to choose his son’s survivability over protecting his innocence.”

“Why did it have to be this way…” Ella muttered and leaned back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “Keith, are we really leaving?” she asked. “He shouldn’t be alone right now; we need to stay with him.”

“We can delay for a few months at best, but we must leave. We can't avoid the conclave,” Keith said, taking out an ashen-gray mask from his tear-shaped pendant, stroking its contours. “We promised Authen to keep him safe, this is the best way to do so. Nana is already a target, if we stay with Ewan for long, he’ll become one too.”

“We also promised to take care of him,” Ella said. “He’s just a child.”

“His staying alive is more important, Ella,” Keith said. “When push comes to shove, we’ll have to fight back. Ewan or Nana, I’m only capable of protecting one of them. Must you force me to make that choice.”

“…I just feel helpless,” Ella said, leaning on Keith, resting her head on his shoulder.

“We are helpless.” Keith sighed. And the darkness of the night engulfed the house.

……

[Ewan]

Ewan spent his days in a haze. Most of the time, he stayed curled up in his bed and slept. Aunt Ella and Uncle Keith took care of him, but he remained broken. Nana tried to cheer him up, bring some light to his eyes, but he couldn’t gather his pieces. His shattered self and his dead eyes only sent them away in dejection, day after day.

And after two months, or was it three, they stopped coming. The stray wind brought the news that they moved away in a hurry, and it worsened his condition.

The once lively house was now a haunted mansion. The lights never came on anymore, the grass in the yards grew untended, the white blossom tree in the backyard bloomed and withered then bloomed again.

If only he could stay in bed forever, never to wake up again. His thoughts often wandered in that direction. He had nothing to live for, no one to call family. No one cared whether he lived or died. Staying awake only hurt him.

Yet, he couldn’t die….

His Pa told him to live, he couldn’t disappoint him. And so, he struggled to survive. He learned how to cook, feeding on enough just to live. He opened the shop attached to the house and earned his living by bathing and grooming the Astylinds. He went back to school, covered the syllabus he missed, and threw himself into the books. Day after day, he trudged through life. No aims, no dreams, he waited for the day he would die.

Seven years….

Maturity came not with age but with responsibility, even the weight of his own survival was an apt trigger—the seasons changed, he changed, but he still had much to grow.

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