Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (33 page)

The
faint light inside the clouds creates a shimmer from his shoulders
where the sea still hugs his skin. Damp drips down his erect nipples
and glistens in the hollow crease between. The deluge collects in a
pool inside his belly button and his slender abdomen is coarse with
goose pimples.

The
strong aroma of salt hovers over his top lip, as well as the rancid
stench from the lumpy coils wrapping around his feet. The salt stings
the open cuts, making them pulsate in agony. As he withdraws, kicking
free of its clutches, it pops beneath his soggy toes and causes him
to grimace.

“
What
the—?” The touch of his fingertips against the wounds
force a quiet yelp to escape him. The sound travels further than
expected, which he knows cannot be a good thing.

“
Did
I go swimming?” It's a silly question, seeing as he has no
recollection of where this place is.

Why
else would I be damp on an empty beach?

He
grits his teeth against the squelching as he manoeuvres his limbs.
They create a sound close to what one would hear in their ears when
chewing cotton wool. He can feel the distant ache as though he has
been doing strenuous activity, yet he remembers nothing.

As
he spins his head each way, he spots a light gliding down from above.
It breaks the clouds apart and cascades down, illuminating the
darkness in a strip. The yellow light creates a circular shape across
the white shore where a familiar sight comes to life.

Rising
to his feet, he tries to squint to see better, but it does no good.

He
clutches at his shrivelled body and tries to contain his trembling.
The pool from his navel drips to the tip of his groin and spills in a
droplet between his feet. His actions are weak, but all he can manage
as he stumbles forward in a sliding motion, leaving scars over the
land.

Snot
runs over his top lip and mingles with remnants from the sea. He
wipes at the fluid with his palm, only to cause intense stinging from
the cuts again.

As
he closes in on the scene before him, he understands what he is
seeing and remembers it with perfect clarity.

Bobby
watches his smaller frame with rolls of sun burnt skin wobble with
excitement. Giggles escape his mouth like the cackle of a tram on a
creaky track as he bends to shovel sand into a green, castle shaped
bucket with a yellow handle.

Bobby
shields his eyes the sun's glare shining on the blonde curls he had
until he was four. A black strap stretches across his cheek, covering
one hazel eye and pulling his skin taut.

A
larger figure stands inside the circular moat, surrounded by all the
castles they have built. Unlike Bobby's curly locks, the older boy
has a well-kept mop of brown hair. Damp strands falls across his
forehead and into his mouth, but he is to enthralled to notice the
intrusion.

The
other has more weight on him, but it's spread out better than the
chunky boy he used to be. As he bends, modest skin curls between
chest and swimming trunks, but the similarities are obvious. He sees
his big brother every time he looks in the mirror.

A
grin sits wide across Benji's face as his eyelashes blink towards his
younger sibling. The golden sheen from the sand stings his eyes as
the sun casts warm rays along the land. The particles stick to his
sun-kissed skin and trunks like glitter.

Pearly
whites sit between curved rosy red lips—a sight that makes his
chest ache. An ominous shaped hole forms inside his chest and
replaces the warmth.

In
his damp nappy, Bobby attempts to throw the contents of the plastic
within his hands at his sibling. He misses, but creates a sand storm
across the crumbling castles. It looks like a miniature version of
the wind Moses brought over Egypt before the swarms of locusts came
to consume every crop, tree and plant. At the time though, neither
boy gave it any thought and Bobby can see why. Benji is too busy
jogging through the thick sand as Bobby runs away laughing.

Benji
almost falls over as he hits the instep of his bare foot on a damp
mound of sand as he tries to catch the other. He is acting because
all baby Bobby can do is waddle and chuckle to himself. If he wanted,
he could grab him, but that wouldn't make Bobby laugh.

A
moment later, they both fade away into the void behind the light. In
the distance, Bobby can still hear his younger self and his hero
giggling, but soon that fades too.

Before
the illumination breaks apart, Bobby catches the orange markings
along the shell on the highest castle.

“
He
went back to get that. He said it was a keepsake from the best day,”
he whispers.

I
wish I told him every day was the best while he was here.

When
he spins around to face the gloom, loneliness resumes. Glimpsing the
past is like searching through the deep regions of space and
beyond—he can spot things with the naked eye that are no longer
in reality, but their light hasn't yet faded from our sky. There is
nothing to prevent it, or alter it, or bring them back to a better
time.

It
is what it is.

More
stars and planets form in their place like an eternal resumption of
possibilities, love and pain that may never be witnessed in our
lifetime.

Is
Benji out there somewhere, born with another name and face? Is he on
another planet in a distant galaxy, or separate dimension?

He
hopes he is.

He
cannot hear the waves this time because silence clings to everything.
In the furthest region of his brain, he can still hear his laughter
echoing.

I
haven't laughed like that since Benji died.

As
he contemplates the path he will take, he travels across where the
image from his past came from.

The
harsh grains grind between his toes as he drags himself through the
sand until his feet come to a pile. He bends to feel the crumpled
structure they built that day, or at least the modest ruins left
behind. Doing so makes tears slip down his cheeks, where they mix
with salt and raw gashes.

“
Why
did you have to die?”

Placing
his hand against a caving tower, he grasps the golden treasure. When
he lets the structure spill, glimmering trails stick to his palm.

“
I
had to, Bobby.”

Bobby
rises and spins around so fast he almost loses his footing as he
tries to locate where the voice is coming from.

“
I'm
sorry I had to leave you and mum.”

“
So
why did you?” Bobby sobs and snivels, aware the accident wasn't
his brother's fault.

The
anger of that day still bubbles and oozes as it fights for release,
but he represses it every time until the pits of his being hurt. But
it comes rushing back like an unstoppable force as he stands here
finally having a conversation with his brother. Although he knows
this is only a dream, he needs to scream until his ears bleed and his
lungs give out—anything to make the aching stop.

“
I
guess it was written.”

“
What?”

What
the hell does he mean by that?

“
You
weren't meant to leave. If anyone, it should've—”

“
No.”

The
word halts him, or more so, the stern tone Benji uses.

His
brother was light-hearted and Bobby could always read his emotions
like a book.

He
never got mad, even when he should have.

“
This
is your journey, Bobby.”

“
Are
you talking about fate—is that what all this is?”

If
it is, Bobby finds he has a new found hatred for fate. Without it
perhaps Benji would still be with him instead of stuck here within
his dreams.

As
he turns his head toward the sky to view the effortless crashing of
light with no rumbling, he hears no more. Although he can feel his
brother's presence like a dead weight around his neck, he is gone
when Bobby turns back.

The
surrounding darkness departs. His body lifts from the ground like a
spirit leaving an empty shell behind and he drifts into a white
light.

Through
the darkness, the light shall guide the way and forever bind us.

The
grit on his heels dissolves. His rubber skin and raised hair drop
away in an instant. The wet dripping down ceases and, for a moment,
he divides and breaks away from the confines of his human form.

He
waves his numb hands before his face, yet he cannot see them, nor
feel his eyelids when he attempts to blink against the light. The
surreal sensation is what he envisions a spirit heading to heaven to
be like.

The
white air around him neither screams, nor weeps because it appears to
embody no grief, or sadness. Instead, it douses him with a firm
clarity and contentment he has not experienced in years. Blue shades
creep in, but it's so minor his eyes—if eyes are what he is
viewing this through—barely registers the change.

“
You
are more than you believe.”

He
hears no sound and no voice, but the words engulf his conscious the
way dew settles upon autumn leaves and relishes the sun's kiss.

As
Bobby observes the landscape, he catches a figure coming toward him
in a fluid motion—not walking, but drifting.

The
figure comes close enough so Bobby could touch her if he had use of
his hands. The pale girl's hair is a light shade of blue like the sky
on a cloudless spring morning, spilling down onto her bare flesh. Her
eyes are the colour of frozen bluebells. Her lips are a shining peach
shade which bow into a frown. He recognises her in an instant from
Reggie's photos.

“
I
believe you already know Regina,” a voice startles him.

Her
features contort into different lines and angles until they form a
new face. This time, a dark-haired male Bobby believes he has seen
somewhere before stares back at him. Fire twists behind him and over
his hands without so much as blistering his flesh. His eyes are the
colour of emeralds, shimmering inside the fierce flames. Then, they
slip into duller tones like paint mixing on a palette.

“
Fire
boy,” the whisper comes past his ear like a feverish breath.

He
realises this man has had a heated path as his mouth opens in a
silent scream, but the events elude him.

The
colours mix again and mingle to form shades of hazel and the
brightest yellow he has ever seen. Although the light surrounds
everything within seconds, he views it through a light mist.

The
sun.

Pink
scars and darker scratches sit upon his cheeks, jaw and across the
bridge of his nose. He looks like a victim of a cruel attack, but
Bobby gets a strong sense he has inflicted the wounds himself. He can
feel the despair pouring from him and, despite being nameless, Bobby
understands he is looking into the face of the mysterious artist. The
feeling is too strong to ignore, so is the sense the guy with the
emerald eyes is a relation. Yet, that doesn't quite sit right with
him.