Not the Hero (3/4)

OKAY I know I keep adding more parts but that's because this, as usual, has gotten out of hand! I really love Finn and keep going back to add little bits of his past and thoughts. FOR SURE there's only going to be four parts though. 

Still,  thank you all for your wonderful comments! Your interest in this character has made it so fun to explore him and what's going to happen next :)

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“Right,” Genevieve says in a very calm voice. She’s been too calm this whole time, asking deliberately worded questions and breathing deeply. She had to do a lot of deep breathing when Cam told her about Mitch using his necklace on you. “Obviously the organization is out for now. If his actions are sanctioned, that’s bad, but if they’re unsanctioned, that’s worse. Let’s just...let’s just focus on what we can do.”

You’re drained. You didn’t expect all of her questions into how being killed felt or what exactly the talking ground said to you. Even though she says it gifted you understanding, you still don’t feel like you understand. 

“So,” Genevieve continues, “the Abyssal Realm. It was a normal world a few hundred years ago. Similar to mine, actually.” She holds out her palm and watches dispassionately as fire springs into being there. “Limited elemental magics and a few rituals to increase the fertility of the land. But then something happened. We’re not sure what, but they gained a forbidden magic. The magic to consume power and convert it into something they can use.”

“So the Abyssal Realm is after our world’s magic,” you say.

Genevieve nods. “Once a world loses its magic, it dies.” She closes her hand over the flames and watches the smoke curl towards the ceiling. “Every world has a defense mechanism--something or someone who’s able to use its magic to repel invasive worlds. Worlds collide naturally all the time--I don’t know if you know what liminal spaces are--but those collisions are fleeting. Very few worlds are developed enough to fight off a sustained attack. Mitch’s organization is dedicated to organizing mechanisms to repel the Abyssal Realm. He tries to make sure the people with power are protected long enough to learn how to use it.” She smiles without humor. “He’s...mostly successful. If a world is too tough to chew, the realm moves on.”

You can sense a story behind her explanation, and it’s not a happy one. You want to ask, but aren’t sure how. You uncross and recross your legs uncomfortably.

“I awakened without Mitch’s help,” Cam finally says. His face twists. “And if his help includes killing people, I don’t want it.”

Genevieve runs a hand through her hair. “Normally I’d say that you need him--the organization has ways of finding out where the abyssal tears are going to appear. You still might, down the road. But if you know where the first attack is going to be…” She trails off, eyes fixed on some distant point. She refocuses on Cam. “We’ll do what we can do,” she repeats. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

“What do we do now?” you ask when Cam just nods. You haul yourself up to your knees, ignoring the way your neck throbs as it fights to keep your heavy head upright. As soon as you get a chance, you’re going to get rid of these antlers. “Should we evacuate the school somehow?”

“Pardon,” Genevieve says, “I should have been more clear. There’s no we. Cam is coming with me to train for a week. When it’s time, we’ll come back to fight off the Abyssal Realm. You are going to do nothing.”

Your mouth drops open. “But I-I can help!”

Genevieve snorts. “What are you going to do? Try and gore the magic away from Earth?”

You reach up and touch your antlers self-consciously. “I can help,” you say.

“No,” Cam says, “you can’t.” He’s got his chin thrust forward, mouth set mulishly. “I’m the mechanism, Finn. You need to stay here and focus on making those antlers disappear. This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

Nothing to do with you? Nothing to do with you? You’re supposed to die next week and he’s saying that this doesn’t have anything to do with you? Your hands drop into fists.“That’s not fair--”

“No,” Cam says. He walks over to Genevieve and grabs hold of her offered hand. “It isn’t.”

“Cam--” you start to say. There’s a blinding flash of purple and, when the spots clear from your vision, they’re gone. “Dude.”

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Getting rid of the antlers is surprisingly easy once you stop feeling so absolutely helpless and angry. Cam and Genevive are right. You don’t have any reason to be mad that Cam didn’t want you to come with them. You should be grateful that you aren’t dead and that Cam is going to do his best to save the whole world. You shouldn’t be feeling so-- so irritated that he doesn’t want your help at all.

You gingerly uncurl your legs and stand. Your whole world feels off without the added weight of the antlers. Somehow, you got used to them in the few hours you had them. You stumble out of Cam’s house like a newborn fawn and start walking home.

It’s not like you’re particularly good at helping. You couldn’t help your mom when she fell and you definitely didn’t help your brother even though you really, really tried. There are things you don’t know how to fix in the world and you used to be resigned to that. But now, after having almost died and now facing your death again, you want to try.

Your dad’s truck is in the driveway when you get home. There’s an empty can lying next to the driver’s side and something sour twists in your gut. You pick it up on your way to the door, tossing it into the empty flower pot wedged into the brick corner formed by the garage and the porch rail. There used to be African violets in there, but they died a few months after your mom did.

Your dad is asleep on the couch, like you expected. Days he starts drinking as soon as he leaves the office go like this-- he’ll sleep until about six, wake up to eat, drink until ten and then disappear into his bedroom. You can handle him when he’s asleep. It’s when he’s awake that there’s a problem.

You pause in the hall to stare at him. It strikes you all at once that this is your dad, the man who raised you. You remember him wrapping your ankle when you sprained it during an elementary soccer match. You remember him lifting your brother over one shoulder and sprinting away when you were “it” in tag. You remember the way he wrapped his arms around your mom in the kitchen, smiling at the tomato sauce on her cheek.

The man on the couch looks sick to you. His skin hangs off of his cheeks and his hair--blond like yours--is limp against his forehead. You have his square jaw with the cleft in it and you have the same hands. You used to want to be like him when you grew up. Now you pray you can avoid it.

What would he do if he knew you almost died today? What would he do if you did die like Mitch wanted you to? You can’t imagine it. You only know what he wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t cry for you. He barely cried for his wife and he was cold-eyed when he sent Daryl away. He wouldn’t tell Daryl what happened to you. He wouldn’t pick Daryl up next year when he finally gets out of the hospital either.

You shove your hands in your jean pockets to hide the way they curl into fists. You want to scream. You want to shake him awake and yell at him, tell him to get up, to give a shit, to pull it together for your little brother. You could be dead next week and then there wouldn’t be anyone else in the world to care about him.

Why not? You stop breathing for a second. You can hear your heartbeat in your head. Why can’t you wake him up? Why not? You could be dead next week and he wouldn’t even notice.

Your feet feel glued to the floor when you try to take a step forward. “I’m going to die,” you tell your dad’s sleeping form. You thought you’d be yelling, but you’re not. Your voice is very quiet. “And you--” Your voice breaks and dies.

I’m going to die. The shock of the words makes you feel queasy. You turn away from your dad and stagger down the hall towards you’re room. You’re not going to die. You’re not. You told Cam. He awakened. You know what abyssal magic looks like now so you can avoid it if you have to. You’re going to be okay and you’re going to be there for Daryl next year. You are.

Or you’ll die just like how the ground showed you.

You nearly fall to the floor when your antlers reappear on top of your head. You duck as low as you can, squeezing your eyes shut as your neck screams at the returned weight. You have to be calm, you have to will them away. You’re going to be okay. There’s no reason to be so afraid.

Slowly, your antlers retract back into your skull enough that you can stumble through your door. You close it tightly behind you and, for good measure, lock it. Your dad shouldn’t be up for a few more hours, but you don’t know when you’ll be okay enough to get the antlers to go all the way away again.

You collapse onto your bed and pull your pillows to your chest. You used to hold your brother like this after he saw the ghost in your house. You did before he got too big to let you hug him and Dad found out about the night terrors.

Sometimes you wish that you could time travel back to before Daryl got sent away. The thought makes you feel guilty. You should wish to go back to before the hiking trip, back when your mom was still alive. But, truth is, you can barely remember what it was like back then. You’re afraid it wasn’t as great as you think and you--you need to remember it as great.

Why? That little voice in your head never shuts up. Why? How come?

Sometimes, even though you want to understand, you don’t want to know.

You bury your face in your pillows and try to go to sleep.

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It’s a stressful week. You spend a lot of it taking deep, calming breaths so that your antlers don’t come out. Some of your friends notice, but take you at your word when you tell them you’re fine. You find yourself watching them as they walk between classes, take notes, eat lunch. They have no idea that the future is uncertain. Either Cam comes back strong enough to save everyone, or he doesn’t. Either they’re all dead, or they’re not.

Finally, two days before you may or may not die, you get to call Daryl.

You have special permission from Coach Lemaster to use his office on Wednesdays. Coach is the only one on the team who knows about Daryl and where he went after junior high. Nobody else really remembers him, which is fine by you. It’s none of their business where your brother is or why you have to use Coach’s office to call him during Wednesday practice.

“Southeast Psychiatric,” the woman who answers the phone says. “This is Susan, how can I help you?”

“Ms. Beaty,” you say. You’ve talked with her for nearly two years now, but this part always feels awkward. “It’s Ward Finn. How’s Daryl?”

“Ward! You’re like clockwork, I should have known.” A keyboard clacks in the background. “The doctors say he’s okay to talk today, but he might be a little out of it. They adjusted his dose on Monday.”

You nod and then remember she can’t see you. You should know what your brother’s being given, but you don’t. They’ll only tell your dad. “Okay.”

“I’ll patch you through,” Ms. Beaty says cheerfully. 

Your leg bounces as the phone starts to ring again. Sometimes Daryl is awake and out in the common area where he can get to the phone right away. Sometimes he’s not.

Today it takes seventeen rings before he picks up.

“Hullo?”

Your heart sinks and you duck your head into your hand in case someone’s looking into Coach’s office. You don’t want them to see your face. You wanted to tell Daryl about everything that’s happened, but you can’t bring yourself to do it when he sounds so tired.  “Daryl, bud, how are you?”

There’s a long pause from the other hand and if it weren’t for the faint voices in the background, you’d think the call dropped. Then Daryl asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your shoulders hunch and you try to put more energy in your voice. “J-just a hard week.” You take a deep breath. You’re such a shit older brother. You always make Daryl worry. “I heard they changed your meds. Sleepin’ better?”

“No,” Daryl says shortly. “Hold on.” The voices in the background grow fainter. “I can tell something’s wrong. Is it Dad? He hit you again?”

“He’s fine,” you say. Dad’s never hit you, just pushed you once or twice. You settle back into Coach’s chair and smile without humor. If Daryl doesn’t believe you when you tell him Dad didn’t hurt you, he definitely won’t believe you when you tell him-- “I grew antlers on Friday.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then a long stream of curses that can’t possibly be coming out of your brother’s mouth flows down the line.

You hold the phone away from your ear to look at it incredulously. “Dude, I don’t know some of those. Was that Russian? They teaching you Russian over there?”

“Italian,” Daryl says. “It’s a new part of the curriculum. I’m coming home.” His voice is filled with determination and, for a moment, you can see the way his brown eyes are narrowed like Mom’s used to get.

Then his words sink in and you bolt upright. “What? No! The doctors say you can come home next year--”

“--that’s what they said last year,” Daryl interrupts. There’s an angry growl hidden in the words. “And when I got here they said a couple months, max, and I’m sure next year they’ll say the year after that or the year after that-- No, I’m coming home now.”

Now? Adrenaline crashes through you. No, no, Daryl can’t come here now. Not when the Abyssal Realm is coming in two days.

“I was joking,” you blurt out. “I--I didn’t grow antlers, I was just messing with you--”

“You did,” Daryl snaps. You hear plastic creak like his grip is tightening on the phone. “I know you did because the Ghost told me when it happened.”

That makes your mouth go dry. “The Ghost is still there? I thought he went away--”

“I lied,” Daryl says. Like it’s no big deal. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Heat flares in your chest. “You lied? You don’t--I told you I believed you about Ghost, why would you lie?” You jump to your feet. “Are you okay? He’s dangerous!”

“I might have been wrong about that,” Daryl says. He breathes out through his nose. “I thought the antlers things was another trick from him, but if you’re telling me it really happened...I can’t lose you, Ward.”

Your blood runs cold. “What did Ghost tell you, Daryl?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Daryl says. There’s the sound of his footsteps on linoleum. “I won’t let it happen.”

“Wait, you can’t come here, it’s not safe--” The dial tone rings sharply in your ear. “Damnit!” You ring the hospital back, but, for some reason, the call never connects. All you can hear is static over the line.

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You’ve got to do something about the attack. You haven’t heard anything from Cam and you don’t know how to contact Mitch’s organization without trying to find Mitch. Even if you knew how to do that, you don’t think it’d help to involve your attempted murderer. You have to figure out a plan so that Dylan doesn’t do something stupid and get killed in your place.

You don’t question for a second whether or not Dylan can get out of the hospital. He’s not like you-- he’s smart. If he thinks he has to come home, he will.

You scope out the school on Thursday, trying to remember everything you can from the vision the ground gave you. You remember there being a lot of smoke, so you make sure you know all the locations of the fire extinguishers. Maybe you can pull the alarm whenever the attack starts? But what about all the rubble you remember seeing around your broken body? Where did that come from?

Your head throbs and you desperately hope that that’s not a sign of your antlers coming back. You’re not smart enough for this. Shouldn’t Cam be back by now?

“Mr. Ten,” you ask during lunch, “have you seen Cam around?”

Mr. Ten doesn’t look happy to see you. “He’s out sick. Do you have some business with him, Mr. Finn?”

He doesn’t sound happy to see you either. In fact, he sounds pretty hostile.

“You know,” you say before you know that you’re going to say it. “You know, I don’t think it’s fair how everyone treats Cam either. You’re always so mad at me and--” it’s not my fault the adults favor me (not quite right) “-- I didn’t know I was part of the unfair treatment. Maybe it doesn’t matter that I didn’t know, but I’m trying to help him now. So if you see him, can you please just let him know that I’ll be here tomorrow whether he shows up or not.”

And then, before Mr. Ten can respond, you slam back out into the hall and storm home.