Chapter Text
The week passed in a haze. Ryan had grown accustomed to Sandra's constant visits, though he still ignored them every time. He turned on the music Octavia had added to his playlist - she always knew what her grandson would like. Ryan lay on the couch, face turned toward the ceiling. His fingers absently tapped the rhythm against his own ribs. The doorbell buzzed annoyingly - Sandra had come again. Ryan pulled a pillow over his head, pressing it to his ears, but the piercing chime cut through the fabric, the music, his skull. The woman came every day, as if checking - was he still alive?
– "Her again. Again. Like a damn fly! How much longer?!" Ryan thought, hearing a chuckle. At first faint, as if through a dream. Then deeper, thicker, until it enveloped him like tar.
– "Oh look. Our blind prince is hiding again." – Voice hissed, each word burning like alcohol on an open wound. It didn't sound in his ears, no. It grew from within, like mold on walls, coating every thought. – "How sweet. How pathetic. You can't even open the door, can you?"
Ryan curled up, hugging his knees. His fingers dug deeper into the pillow.
– Shut up...
– "Oh, I'd shut up. If you did anything. But you don't." – Voice paused, as if considering. – "You know what she's thinking? 'God, he's so weak. Octavia would be disappointed. Who needs such a parasite, unable to take care of himself?'"
The boy flinched but stayed silent. Voice purred, pleased with the effect.
– "Don't like that? What do you like then? Lying here, stinking of sweat and self-pity?" – Voice broke into fake laughter. – "You can't even die properly. Cutting shallow like some amateur. Octavia would laugh at that."
The blow hit his chest. Ryan stopped breathing.
– You're lying.
– "Truth hurts?" – Voice enveloped him like tar, Ryan getting lost in it. – "She abandoned you. Died and left you. And now this bitch comes, pretending she cares..."
The doorbell rang again. This time it felt like a church bell, painfully loud in his ears. He hated churches - though he wasn't sure who did. Voice or Ryan himself.
– Shut up!
Ryan hurled the pillow at the wall and sprang up, momentarily disoriented. His head spun, but the voice wouldn't stop:
– "Run to the door! Let her see what you've already done. Let her see those pathetic little lines on your arms. Let her know what's waiting for her."
– No... – Ryan hissed, staggering. He fell to his knees, clutching his head.
– "Yes!" – Voice roared, and in Ryan's familiar darkness, needles seemed to glitter as pain shot through his skull. – "You're already dead. Just not buried yet."
The doorbell stopped. Ryan listened to the pulse in his temples. Footsteps outside - Sandra had left. Voice laughed.
***
Sandra, realizing no one would open the door, turned on her heels and walked back to her car. Her loose hair brushed against her shoulders and blew into her eyes from the strong wind. She had nearly reached the vehicle when someone called out to her.
– Dear.
The raspy voice made Sandra slow her pace. Behind the low fence stood a woman in her sixties. Her gray hair was styled simply, her face unusually smooth for her age, but her warm eyes betrayed the years she'd lived.
– I've noticed you've been coming here often since Octavia passed.
– Good afternoon. I'm Sandra Wilson, Ryan's new guardian. – Sandra approached the fence, automatically adjusting her coat collar.
– Paula Brahms. – The woman smiled, though her eyes remained sad. – Octavia's friend.
– Would you like to come in? – Paula gestured toward her house. – I could tell you about Ryan...
Sandra agreed and followed the elderly woman inside. The air carried scents of wax and cardamom. Removing her coat and shoes, Sandra walked down the hallway, glancing around. One wall displayed a family tree with several photographs - a young Paula with her husband, below them two boys, and further down five more: two girls and three boys. From one of the boys branched a single frame containing a baby.
Mrs. Brahms stood in the kitchen pouring tea. She noticed her guest's attention on the photographs.
– My boys, grandchildren, and great-grandson.
– Ryan changed completely after Octavia died. In just a matter of hours. – Paula carried the teacups into the living room. – He was screaming. That morning... around 10 o'clock. My grandsons were visiting and ran over first when they heard the commotion. Octavia just... went to sleep and never woke up. She was only 65. And Ryan... He screamed like someone was skinning him alive.
Sandra listened silently, holding her untouched teacup. Her fingers gripped the porcelain until they turned white. It pained her to imagine Ryan - blind, realizing through touch alone that the only person who ever loved him wasn't breathing anymore.
She slowly set the cup back on the saucer, the porcelain clinking sharply in the silent living room. Her fingers involuntarily clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.
– He... he still hasn't accepted her death? – Sandra asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.
Mrs. Brahms sighed, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes grew cloudy with memory.
– You see, dear, it was... horrible. He wasn't just screaming. He was begging her to wake up. On his knees. Holding her already cold hands and saying he couldn't live without her. – The old woman closed her eyes briefly. – My boys barely pulled him away when the ambulance came. He was thrashing hysterically, like...
– Like a child? – Wilson finished quietly.
– No. – Paula corrected, twisting a candy wrapper in her fingers. – Like a man who'd had his soul torn out. After that day, Ryan shut down completely. Stopped going out. Neighbors brought food, but he barely ate. Only recently started cooking for himself, though we still bring groceries.
Sandra finally took a sip from her cup. The tea tasted cloyingly sweet after what she'd heard.
– And his parents? Where were they during all this?
Paula frowned, and for the first time, her eyes lost their kindness. She set the candy aside.
– Selfish creatures! Came after the funeral. – Her lips pressed into a thin line. – Not to see their son, but to divide the inheritance! When they learned the house and savings went to Ryan... God, the scenes they made! Their daughter just stood by the car texting, chewing gum. Didn't want to "traumatize the child." What child? A spoiled... young woman wrapped up in herself.
When Paula repeated their words, her voice held unconcealed bitterness at the injustice.
– How is he now? – Her voice betrayed her with a tremor. – When the neighbors aren't watching?
Paula sighed and pushed the candy dish away.
– A shadow. Just wanders the house like a shadow. – The old woman traced the rim of her cup. – Sometimes I hear him breaking dishes. Or talking to himself... loudly. Angrily.
– What was Ryan like with Octavia? – Sandra bit her lip.
Mrs. Brahms brightened, her eyes glimmering with nostalgia.
– Oh, completely different! With Octavia, he joked, laughed. Sometimes even sang... though he'd blush without realizing when caught. The boy often brought treats to neighbors when he first learned to navigate the streets alone. – Paula paused. – Truth be told, at first we'd all keep an eye out to make sure he didn't stray and reached the right doors. Everyone worried, especially in the beginning.
– You know, Mrs. Brahms... – Sandra finally looked up. – I don't know how to reach Ryan. Every time I try to help...
– He pushes you away. – The old woman finished for her. – Because he's afraid. Afraid of losing whoever stays by his side.
She smiled unexpectedly.
– Octavia often spoke of you. "If anything happens - only Sandra," she'd say.
– Mrs. Brahms, – Sandra met Paula's gaze directly. – I need to ask... If anything happens to Ryan, if he calls out or you hear commotion - phone me. Any time. Even at night.
– Give me your number, dear. I'll write it down.
Leaving the house, Sandra walked to her car. The difficult conversation left her feeling unsettled, yet somehow lighter. Now she'd know if something happened when she wasn't there.
***
Ryan decided to wash the dishes. Not out of cleanliness - he simply had nothing left to eat from. Every plate was dirty. He stood over the sink, hands submerged in water that had soaked through his bandages. The hot water burned fresh cuts, turning his skin red - he'd lost control during that argument with Sandra.
– "What's the point? You'll still eat like a pig. Octavia would've vomited seeing this." – Voice hissed right in his ear, phantom breath scalding his neck.
– Shut up! - Ryan gritted his teeth, scrubbing the plate harder.
– "Oh, touched a nerve? Or am I wrong? You think Octavia would be proud now? Seeing her grandson wallowing in dirty dishes because he can't even eat properly?"
The plate slipped from Ryan's hands, clattering loudly in the sink. Soapy water splashed into his face, some getting in his mouth. The bitter taste of detergent and grease spread across his tongue. He spat, but it barely helped.
– "There. All you deserve, filthy boy. Dirt. Waste. Can't even wash dishes right, you freak."
Ryan gripped the sink's edge. His fingers slid across wet metal.
– I'm not...
– "Not what? Not a freak? Look at yourself! Oh wait - YOU CAN'T!" – Voice dissolved into hysterical laughter, splitting his skull apart.
Ryan staggered and collapsed to his knees. Wet hands clawed at his hair. His head throbbed with noise.
– Enough... Please...
Voice apparently took pity and fell silent. Ryan stood up and resumed washing. The dishes wouldn't clean themselves. His fingers trembled - another plate fell, hitting the sink's bottom but not breaking. He braced for more taunting, but none came. This unnerved him.
Suddenly, overwhelming fatigue hit. His eyelids grew heavy - not that it mattered for someone who couldn't see. Right then, Ryan wanted to hear Sandra. Not see her. He understood he'd never have that chance. An inexplicable, sharp longing.
– "Tsk-tsk! Who does that? You can't even see where you're stepping. Maybe time to end this pathetic parody of life? Think Sandra will save you? She's already given up. Everyone gives up. Just like you're doing now."
– I... Don't...
– "Giving up? Finally. Go on, get the knife. Easier than washing dishes. Easier than living." – Voice creaked, losing any semblance of humanity.
Ryan groped blindly for the knife in the sink. The water had gone cold, yet its biting chill still burned his skin. Voice kept whispering, but now sounded mechanical, as if losing interest in its own game.
– "Come on, fool, it's right before you. Take it. One quick slash - and it all ends. Wouldn't that be beautiful?"
His fingers brushed against something hard - not the knife, but a cup. That cup. Octavia's favorite. The porcelain felt smooth and warm from water, its handle adorned with raised patterns. Suddenly, something shifted in his chest - a forgotten spring he'd thought long broken.
– "Drop it!" – Voice shrieked, losing patience. – "Have you gone completely mad? The knife, I said take the knife!"
But instead of continuing his search, Ryan clutched the cup tighter. His blind eyes couldn't cry - they'd dried out long ago - yet his whole body began trembling with some strange emotion. Not rage, not despair... something else entirely.
– "You..." – Voice began, but didn't finish.
Ryan yanked the cup from the water and hurled it violently to the floor. Porcelain shattered with a pure, ringing tone that momentarily drowned out everything else. Silence followed. Not the oppressive void living in his head, but something different - light, almost resonant. Voice vanished as if it never existed. Ryan stood still, listening to his own breathing. His hands shook, but no longer from fear. Shards lay near his feet - he heard their faint tinkling as he stepped back.
He turned on the tap, yet a dull roar persisted in his ears - like someone screaming through layers of cotton. The bathroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, the air too thick. Leaning against the sink, he gasped for air, fingers digging into cold porcelain. He staggered to the bathroom, clutching the doorframe to avoid collapsing. His hands trembled against the sink. His head throbbed as if nails were being hammered into his temples.
– "AHAHA! Like that, blind bastard?!" – Voice returned, wailing like a siren, tearing his consciousness apart. – "Thought you'd escape? Break me with your pathetic cup?! You can't even wash dishes right, you worm!"
Ryan abruptly bent down and splashed water in his face. Pain hammered his temples. His body convulsed - muscles straining to their limit, bones nearly creaking. Something inside seemed to snap.
– "Get a grip. Just wash up. It'll pass." – Ryan tried calming himself, clenching his hands tighter. – Shut up.
– "SHUT UP?! ME?!" – Voice roared. Suddenly, the sink cracked under Ryan's grip. – "Someone should've told Octavia her grandson's a helpless lump of meat! She'd have strangled you herself had she known what you'd become!"
The blow struck his chest. Ryan doubled over, gasping. His heart pounded against his ribs like a caged animal. His sides ached from spasms, wet hair falling into his eyes.
– No... Sh-she...
– "SHE HATED YOU! You worthless piece of consciousness!" – Voice howled, matching the volume of Ryan's speakers. – "You can't even see your own damned face! Know why your damn grandma died? Couldn't stand looking at such ugliness! If only you'd finally..."
Ryan smashed the mirror. Shards rained into the sink, mixing with water and blood. Some embedded in his hand. A drop of blood rolled down his split lip. He bit it with his canine.
Voice cut off. Not gradually - abruptly, like a plug yanked from its socket. Bird slumped, bloody hands braced against the floor. From downstairs came noise and rapid footsteps.
***
Mrs. Brahms stood by the window, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the windowsill. Muffled shouts came from across the street - Ryan was talking to himself again. Or rather, screaming. She turned away, hurrying to the hallway table where her phone lay. Aged fingers trembled scrolling through contacts, but she found Sandra's number quickly - saved immediately after their last conversation.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
– Hello? – Sandra's voice came sharp, as if she'd been expecting this call while already running to her car.
– Dear, it's Paula Brahms. – The old woman clutched the phone tighter, afraid it might slip. – He's... I can hear him screaming and breaking things. I'm afraid Ryan might hurt himself.
Silence on the line.
– I'm on my way. – Sandra said. – Don't approach the house.
– But Ryan... He's shouting at someone... There's nobody there.
– Ten minutes. – The call ended. Paula lowered the phone, her gaze drifting back toward the Birds' house.