Thirty-Two #2
Julian slid it onto his own wrist and clasped it with great difficulty. He tasted the salt air in his mouth. Then he leaned
over his brother’s body and signed I love you one last time, as the ambulance lights patterned the sand and the side of the house red and blue and the siren rang out over
the sound of his mother’s sobbing.
The funeral was a quiet affair. His grandparents refused to attend on principle, because suicide was a sin and Aurelian had
not been given last rites. They sent a terse note of condolences instead, with a rosary enclosed. Only his mother, father,
and sister stood over the coffin. The priest gave a short service but his father did not allow any eulogies.
So there was no one to say that Aurelian had watched all the recordings of Julian’s lacrosse games, no one to say that he’d loved building elaborate sandcastles and that he’d been the best at pushing Olivia on the swings, no one to say that Aurelian had been a person, too, with as much capacity for joy and hope as anyone.
Those were the words Julian would have spoken, if he had been permitted. Instead, they burned in the base of his throat.
His mother clung to him for the entirety of the ceremony, crying so hard that her tears soaked the sleeve of his suit jacket.
“Don’t leave me,” his mother gasped, every time he tried to adjust his position or pull away. “Please, please, don’t ever
leave me.”
In the weeks and months that followed, Julian felt oddly numb. Food had no taste. The world seemed to slow and blur around
him. His mother drank; his father shut himself inside his office for hours. He drove Olivia to her ballet classes when his
mother couldn’t be roused from her Chardonnay-and-Xanax-induced slumbers. Every photo of Aurelian was taken down from the
walls.
As time wore on, Julian wanted to feel something again. Anything. Even Landon’s stash of pills didn’t give him the fix he
needed. He wanted the rush of adrenaline, of risk. And maybe a part of him wanted to punish his father, too—to anger him,
to shame him.
It wasn’t enough to foul out of lacrosse games or tank his grades. He needed to do something bigger. His hands had shaken
as he dialed the number for Jim Cafferty, DC’s top political consultant, but then he’d seen the flash of Aurelian’s watch
on his wrist and it filled him with a sick sort of resolve. The first time Julian heard Cafferty’s rough rasp on the other
end of the line, he’d smiled. Fikret became Julian’s body man during his mayoral campaign, carrying his speech cards and fetching
aspirin for his hangovers. Once he had even disinfected and bandaged a scrape on Julian’s knee after he’d fallen down drunk.
Now Julian lay awake in this strange place, in this half-real reality, and looked at the watch again.
The face gleamed in the soft, cold moonlight.
His ears throbbed with the memory of his brother’s screams. He wondered when Aurelian’s ghost would release him.
He wondered if he even wanted that. Freedom would mean forgetting.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook him and his eyelids fluttered shut. He gave himself over to the oblivion of sleep.
Julian woke to someone gently jostling his arm. He shot into a sitting position, heart racing. But it was only Crispin standing
above him, daylight pouring in through the window. He was annoyed with himself for the momentary panic, annoyed that the shadowy
memories of black-clad men kept creeping to the corners of his vision.
Blinking, he asked, “What time is it?”
“Nine sixteen,” Crispin replied.
He’d overslept. He could just imagine the look of dismay on Klaudia’s face. Julian threw off the covers and got to his feet.
Upon standing, he was suddenly waylaid by a powerful sense of dizziness.
Out of instinct, he reached for some way to steady himself, and found it on Crispin’s shoulder. Before he could even understand
what was happening, Crispin had his other arm braced against Julian’s lower back, keeping him upright.
Julian flinched. He jerked away from Crispin, and then immediately felt a rush of guilt. For all his misgivings, Crispin had
never done anything thus far except try to help.
“Sorry,” Julian muttered. “And, uh . . . thanks.”
Crispin nodded and took a small step back.
Julian looked at him—really looked at him, as intently as he could without his glasses. Once again he had the sense of him
being fragile, delicate, but in a compelling way that made Julian’s stomach flutter. The bruises around his throat had deepened
to a lush purple.
He wanted to ask how, exactly, Crispin had come into Deckard’s employ, how he had become a clandestine officer at not even twenty years old.
Crispin had already turned on the record player, familiar, cheery synth-pop notes filling the air—welcome to your life; there’s no turning back—but even with the music muffling their voices, Julian didn’t expect these were the sorts of questions Crispin would be permitted
to answer.
So instead he said, “However much Deckard is paying you, it isn’t enough.”
Crispin looked disarmed. Frowning, he said, “I’m doing this for my country.”
“Nice recitation of the party line.” Julian reached for his glasses and put them on, blinking again as the room came into
focus. “I hope you at least get to let loose on the weekends.”
Crispin looked more bewildered. “Today is Saturday.”
Trapped in this illusory hellscape, Julian had evidently lost track of time. “Then we should celebrate. Too bad all the liquor
went to waste.”
If Crispin recognized the sarcasm in his voice, he didn’t acknowledge it. The confused frown on his face remained.
“I’ve never had anything to drink,” he said. He tipped his head. “What does it taste like?”
“It’s not about the taste,” Julian said. The whole conversation had taken on a bizarre, dreamlike quality. “Deckard has clearly
neglected your education.”
“I would try it,” Crispin ventured, his voice growing quiet, “if I had the chance.”
Julian regarded him again, this time with the benefit of his glasses. He looked timid, innocent. It was hard to reconcile
that with what they had done in the other room, not even twenty-four hours ago.
“Well, if I survive this, and if Deckard ever loosens his leash, we can meet up in the real world and I’ll be sure to thoroughly corrupt you.” Julian reached for the clothes on his dresser. “For now, I’ll settle for the thrill of solving more inane riddles.”
With that, he retreated to the bathroom to change. He could sense Crispin’s gaze burning him through the door. His skin prickled,
but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. In fact, he felt an idle tug of something that inexplicably approached fondness.
Or maybe it was just survival instinct kicking in. His brief experience in politics had taught him not to spurn a valuable
ally.