6

Surrender

“Nemuri... Nemuri Ubaitoru…”

It was the familiar voice in the darkness, beckoning to him. While everyone else slept, he lie awake and listened to the voice, wondering. Was it in his mind—was he really going crazy? Or was the voice real—was someone really calling out to him? He didn’t know the answer, but he did know that he was afraid. So very frightened.

He pulled the dark blue coverlet over his head, wishing he could sleep. But no—he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in over a week, ever since he had first heard the voice. Initially, he had ignored it; he was merely stressed and that was it. The voice would go away as soon as he got some time off from school for Christmas break. Or at least, that was what he had told himself.

He got up at seven the next morning, not because he was rested, but because it drove him mad to lie in bed for so long. Standing in front of his mirror, he frowned at his appearance. He didn’t think himself all that attractive, and by no means was he overly concerned about his appearance, but his reflection irked him to the extreme.

His normally bright jade eyes were dulled, probably because of the dark bags hanging under them. His auburn hair was hopelessly tangled and he was beginning to seriously regret giving into current fashions and letting it grow long. Topping off the already lousy package was a dark red blemish forming on his cheek. If there was anything he hated, it was pimples. He rubbed at it angrily, cursing his luck.

He sighed, resolving to make himself feel better. Quickly changing out of his pajamas, he went outside for a walk. He noted that no one else was awake yet, and his father, who worked the night shift at a factory in the city, hadn’t returned yet. The boy glanced at his watch; his father probably wouldn’t be home for another hour, and his mother and sister certainly wouldn’t be awake then. After all, it was Saturday. Normal, not-crazy people slept late on weekends.

The boy grumbled to himself as he walked down the street. “Any sane person would still be in bed right now…” He strolled down the street, complaining to himself about cold weather, insomnia, acne, and just the world in general. Apparently, serious sleep deprivation didn’t make the teenager very happy. The boy paid no attention to where he was going; he often walked through the streets in his neighborhood and nothing had happened to him while doing so. He stared at the sky; it was still very dark, since it was winter and the sun rarely shone before nine or ten.

A man walking his dog was strolling leisurely down the sidewalk, coming toward the boy. He recognized the man; he saw him every morning on his way to school, although he didn’t know the man’s name. The boy continued down the street, fighting back a yawn. His heart soared; maybe this walk was really helping and as soon as he got home, he would be able to sleep! Yes. His mind drifted; his body switched to auto-pilot.

He felt himself trip, although he barely realized it. The expected introduction to Mr. Concrete never came; instead, he felt something against his shoulder, pushing him back to his feet. “Thanks,” he muttered sheepishly, scratching his head in embarrassment.

“You look mighty tired,” the old man said. “You should go home and take a rest.”

“All right,” the boy mumbled, “I will.”

He watched as the old man and his dog continued down the street. “Oh, wait!” the boy called; the old man turned slowly, looking at him. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” the man asked, his lips twisted into a smirk. “Fiachna,” came the whisper.

The boy’s eyes widened. “You,” he breathed; it was the voice that kept him up at night, the voice that plagued the nightmares he had when he actually got to sleep. He watched as the guise of the old man disappeared; standing in his place was what could only be called a creature. The thing was humanoid, but it would still seem out of place on a crowded street. It had long, straight jet-black hair, icy blue eyes, and a haunting smile. On its back were black, feathered wings—raven’s wings.

“Yes, me. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Fiachna observed, nonchalantly studying his fingernails. “I’ve missed you, Nemuri.”

The boy growled angrily, turning on his heel and walking in the direction of his house. The raven appeared in front of him, a hurt look on his face. “What’s the rush, Nemuri? You’ve all the time in the world, and no one will notice if you’re gone for a few minutes…” He took a step toward the boy, who backed up a little. “…Hours…” The raven made another advance; Nemuri backed into a holly bush. “…Days…”

By now, the boy was pressed against the holly, feeling the leaves as they scratched into his back; he shook violently, not bothering to wonder why he was so afraid of this thing. It leaned down to his eye-level, poking his chin. “…Years,” came the silk whisper. The boy squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to block out everything.

“Now sleep,” the raven commanded. He couldn’t have protested even if he had wished to, and so his brain slid into a welcome sleep.

He didn’t know how long he slept, but he awoke in his own bed. Afternoon sun streamed through his windows and he stretched leisurely, glancing at the clock. It was four P.M., and his stomach ached dully from lack of sustenance. He slowly crawled out of bed, stumbling to the door. He shot a glance across the room at his dresser. There was something on his mirror. Curiously, he walked over to the vanity. Written in red on the glass was ‘I’ll be back for you’. The boy rubbed a finger across the red substance; it was bright and shiny on his fingers.

“Lipstick,” he observed, and then the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. The glass rained down and his hands instinctively rushed up to cover his face, but his reflexes were too slow and a few shards fell against his cheek. He lowered his arms when he sensed that the glass no longer rained down, glancing around the room.

Fiachna was sitting on his bed, smiling brightly at him. “I see you’ve woken.”

“Umm… yeah,” Nemuri muttered, fingering the glass stuck in his cheek.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fiachna said apologetically, standing. He reached out, presumably to remove the glass from the boy’s cheek.

Nemuri jerked away, glaring. “Why?” he asked angrily.

“Hm? Why what?” Fiachna looked innocently perplexed. He seemed an entirely different person from before; the patronizing air had gone, replaced now by innocent concern and friendliness.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you here? Why are you bothering me?”

“Why? Call it obsession… call it hate… call it friendliness… call it jealousy…”

It was happening again; Fiachna was walking toward him, Nemuri was stumbling backward. He was powerless to stop the advance and trembled against the vanity, fumbling along its width for something to use to defend himself.

“Call it trouble… call it hope…” Fiachna placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder just as Nemuri’s frantically moving hands touched upon a smooth, blunt object. “Call it bliss… call it l—” Nemuri took hold of the vase, smashing it against the man’s temple as hard as he could. A look of pain crossed the raven’s face before he crumpled.

The vase dropped from Nemuri’s nerveless grasp; a stabbing pain entered his heart and he collapsed. He lie on the floor, staring sideways at Fiachna. He feebly stretched a hand to the man’s wrist, but he couldn’t find a pulse. He sighed weakly as the darkness took him in with welcoming arms. All the while he wondered why he had collapsed; what had happened? He concluded that it must be from blood loss—the cuts on his face from the glass must have bled too much.

When Mr. and Mrs. Ubaitoru returned home from shopping that evening, they found a dead bird next to their son’s corpse. Rumors spread through the town of double lives, involvement with the CIA, and Greek love, although these suggestions were quickly dismissed as being ludicrous. The police were never able to determine the cause of death or why a raven had been next to the boy, although there were many of the black-winged birds at Nemuri’s solemn funeral.

2/27/05