Work Text:
“Happy birthday to me,” I sing, “happy birthday to me.” Gasoline pools at my feet, running cold down my cheeks.
“Happy birthday, dear Ray…” I smile as I feel the rough surface of the matchbook on my fingers. I remove a match.
“Happy birthday to me.” The flame is sparked. I drop the match. Something echoes in the distance. Something desperate. Something that gets louder and louder. Something….
“Ray!”
I awake with a jolt, panting. My clothes are drenched in sweat and my heart hammers painfully behind my ribcage. That stupid dream again… I curse, examining my sheets to see how bad the perspiration was. There’s a Ray-shaped puddle soaking through to the mattress.
I murmur swear words, allowing my mouth to wander through the entirety of my vocabulary. I drown out my own sounds with my thoughts. Determining why I have these nightmares and night sweat episodes is far more pressing than seeing how many horrible words I can say.
After a minute, my lips stop flapping and I can focus all of my attention on fixing my bed. I ball up the soaked sheets and blanket—pillowcase, too—and toss them into a hamper for the time being. I can’t be bothered to work on that now.
Throughout the day, that ghastly scream haunts my mind. Whoever it was had been terrified for my life—or perhaps for her own—or something of the sort. Every night that I have this nightmare, the screech rings out clearer than all else. It shakes me to the bones.
Every time I have this dream, I keep a log of it. January 2nd was the first night this year, and since then, it’s happened three times. The frequency has gone up since last year, I contemplate, a sinking feeling plaguing my stomach, making me queasy. If only….
I kill the thought before it can form. What is done can’t be undone. They’re gone, and that’s it. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t tamp down that little voice in my head: Let’s go to them. Let’s be with them again.
I growl, my face shoved into my bare pillow. If a way to change the past existed, I would’ve already done it. For me now, however, only the future remains.
The day passes and night falls in silence. I fill my brain with and waste my time on useless things to keep myself occupied. Falling asleep is a task I can’t handle. Night and day, wasted away; there’s more to life, isn’t there?
Then again, some interesting things happen only to those who watch at night.
Awake again, too petrified to sleep, I find myself admiring the starry sky above. One of those stars is her, another is him, and a third… I sigh. There’s no use thinking of it now. None at all. Outside my window, nature continues to thrive: owls hoot their calming coos; coyotes howl a song of reminiscence; foxes cry their ghastly, human-like shrieks. Of all the nocturnal creatures in this area, the fox has always alarmed me the most—especially after the incident. Their screams are just too… too…
As I shiver at the thought, another of the beautiful terrors calls out. Just as I recall, it’s frighteningly comparable to the screams of a child. All too comparable, I would dare to venture, but where my weak mind fails me, my eyes earnestly search. The voice was so meek, so small, and not quite like the animals’. At least, that’s what my sleep deprivation would have me think.
Something dark moves, previously indistinguishable from the shaded grasses. Should the furry creatures wander this close to my property at a more convenient time, I would be tempted to study them. For now, the upper window will have to do, I decide, watching the thing’s every move intently. I glare into the void-like darkness to catch a glimpse of ears, a tail, paws, anything.
Sleep deprivation, however, proves itself right just this once.
While peering at the creature far below, I realize in an instant that this is no animal, but a human child, just as the voice would betray. Within me, my morals battle with my decisions I’d been calling final as I contemplate what to do. Of course, it would be morally correct to save the child’s life, but I’m just the loner who never talks to his neighbors. I’m just me, the man who lost everything as a child and refuses to even try to gain it back. Me, the person responsible for his own seclusion and the shutting out of all life from his home. Me, the foolish man born from heartbreak and for strife. Do I really believe I can do anything to help?
Even while I question this, I wander down the stairs with haste. The child won’t die due to my ignorance—not tonight, not ever. I can still hear the groaning of the little one; my heart aches. I pull on a jacket and grab a blanket for my new guest. This will be my most pampered guest of all time… ignoring, of course, the fact that I’ve never had a personal guest in this house.
I dart out the back door, not sparing time to shut it behind me. The child whimpers in fright as I draw near. “It’s all right,” I murmur, lifting the small body off the ground. “I’m going to take care of you. I promise that I will not hurt you.”
Somehow, I can’t help but feel like I’m doing something wrong, even as I lay the child on my couch and begin to examine her injuries. I haven’t done a noticeable wrong; I haven’t kidnapped, abused, or killed her. The sensation sickens me.
She lies limp while I scurry away to grab a medical kit. She’s quite maimed, but definitely able to survive. When I return, her eyes widen. The skin surrounding them appears weathered and dark, as if many sleepless nights in the wilderness fester in her memories. I put my warm hand on her face, and she flinches away from the touch until she registers how comfortable it is. Her cheeks are cold as ice and just as scarred as the rest of her body. My heart lurches at her pitiable state.
Poor kid… she must’ve been out there for days. It’s a miracle she survived. An uncomfortable ache grows in my chest while I clean and wrap her wounds.
She grabs my wrist when I try to patch up a particularly nasty cut on her leg. “Does that hurt? I promise it’ll feel better afterwards,” I soothe, gently uncurling her fingers. She shakes her head and holds on tighter. “What is it?” I sigh, starting to get frustrated.
“It… hurts.”
“Well, that’s what I just said,” I grumble, trying to push forward with the application of the disinfectant. She continues to resist. “It’ll hurt less once we kill the germs. Don’t you want that?”
Her eyes start to get all teary. She nods. “But it burns!”
I roll my eyes, but they fill with sympathy, too. “Oh, c’mere,” I whisper, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Somebody hurt you, didn’t they?” I wait for her little head to nod. “Yeah, looks like it. But I’m gonna protect you with my life, all right?”
“… Okay.”
Four days later, the girl finally lets me clean and bandage all her wounds, some of which have already become infected and must be cared for painfully to avoid the hospital. I chastise her for not surrendering the information sooner, but since nothing can be done for now, I shut my mouth while scraping clean her old scars.
“What will you do,” she starts, her foot beginning to fidget, “if the one who hurt me comes back for me?”
“The… one? A human did this to you?” I try to convince her to spill the beans with my apprehensive eyes.
She doesn’t hesitate to nod. “If he comes, I will let you know. Don’t let anyone else in, please.”
I snort. “Wasn’t planning on it.” I finish up the last bandage and help her to the couch. “Anyway, if you’re going to be staying here, I’m gonna need more info about you. If you’re a little spy, I’d be completely unaware and vulnerable right now. So, how about your name and age to start?”
She nods, curling up into a ball, which is apparently more comfortable for her. “Jemima, age 14.”
I raise my eyebrows. Fourteen?! She’s tiny! “You’re… quite small for fourteen.”
“I am?” She gazes up at me with her big eyes.
I nod, but say nothing. She must’ve been the subject of abuse for far longer than I’d originally thought. Malnourishment doesn’t happen overnight.
“How old are you? What is your name?” She rocks back and forth subtly.
“I’m Ray, age 22. Nice to officially meet you, kiddo.”
“I like you, Mr. Ray. You’re nice.”
I chuckle. “You’ve been a good kid so far. Glad you like it here.”
It was a morning like any other. The afternoon, however, is far too hot for a January day.
The date is January 16, 2057—the day after we introduced ourselves formally. The room fills with a dry heat as we finish a little birthday song for me. Just the simple, classic “Happy Birthday” that everyone knows. Yes, the same one in my nightmare.
The temperature is odd. The heating system can’t produce this sort of smoky gust. I can only assume safely that something is horribly wrong.
Something is going according to a plan I’ve despised since August of last year. My nightmare is coming true.
Everything I’ve held close begins to fall through my fingers as the source of the troubling heat barrels through. To my shock, it’s not just fire and fuel—there’s a foolishly confident man behind it, wearing a gas mask and flinging the flames as far as his weapon can reach. I grab Jemima and leave the cake behind just before the fiery tendrils lick the table.
The smoke burns my lungs and eyes, causing my head to throb while I tear up. I steal a glance out the front window to discover that the door is already guarded heavily by fire. The whole scene feels surreal, crashing upstairs while a crazed man with a flamethrower chases me and the small girl I’m caring for. And speaking of crashing, memories flood my brian once again. Memories I’d hoped would never resurface.
Roses, fire, blood. I feel my sanity unraveling. Screaming, thumping of feet in shoes, a mother’s voice. My breathing grows desperate. A child vomits, heavy breathing, a… promise.
Never let go of this promise.
But what is it? What was the promise?
I tighten my grip on Jemima’s hand. I will change the nightmare. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes!” she screams, adjusting her hold on my sweaty hand.
“Okay, then listen up. We have to jump out the window.”
“What?!”
“I said, we have to–”
“But why?! ”
I grab her shoulders, tears pouring down my face. “Do you wanna live or not, Jemima?!”
The moment is oddly quiet, save for the footsteps of impending doom and the crackling of my own home gone up in flames.
“I wanna live—with you, forever.” She hugs me tightly. I hug her back, mostly to pick her up.
“Then let’s go!” I don’t even bother to open the window first. I gather as much momentum as I can and crash right through, landing on my back in the yard outside. My breath escapes me, preventing me from moving even as the roof threatens to collapse on us both.
Jemima screams my name, and I realize that no matter what, my nightmare will come true. The feel of the matchbook and the gasoline may be absent, but I will die. I will catch fire to the sound of the screams of a child.
This time, it’s not Emma’s voice in my head. It’s not Norman’s hurried footsteps. It’s not Conny’s crying in the distance. It’s the very real presence of Jemima, the little girl I worked hard to save. And now, Jemima, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save myself. I’m sorry I couldn’t finish helping you. All you have to do now is leave and never look back.
She tugs me towards the neighbors’ properties but is too weak to continue. My ears ring while my head and back ache and I try to comprehend what she’s saying to me. In the end, it’s all in vain. Above me, the man in the gas mask lets his fire rage in my home, still searching for our corpses. Inside of me, pain roars and gnaws at my spine. Around me, smoke pillars blow away into the night and dew drops evaporate from the heat. But far away, I know there is peace. Somewhere in the world, there is peace. I shut my eyes and smile at the thought of such peace.
“Happy birthday to me,” I sing, “happy birthday to me.” I can almost feel the gasoline trickling down my face, pooling at my feet. I grin, placing my forearm over my eyes. “Happy birthday, dear Ray,” I cackle, “happy birthday to me!” It doesn’t take long for my laughter to turn bitter. Tears soak through my sleeve and cool my skin. “I wish things could've been different, Jemima, I really do. I would’ve loved to enjoy your company more.”
“You still can,” a voice informs me, but it’s not Jemima’s.
I uncover my eyes. “Who…?”
I’ve never heard so many people sing “Happy birthday, dear Ray” in my life. I can’t help but grin from ear to ear in spite of the horrible memories I carry from this day years ago. All the smiling faces around me, though, give me no reason not to smile back.
Jemima hands me a gift. “It’s from me. Open it, open it!”
I chuckle. “Settle down, kiddo. I’m opening it.”
“You’re so slow~,” she jokes, sticking her fingers in the taped creases of the messily wrapped gift. I shoo her hands away and open it myself.
It’s an awfully light box, and it’s colored atrociously bright to contrast my dark past. I flip it open and find inside… a slip of paper. Confused, I take it out. “Read it out loud,” Jemima prompts.
I roll my eyes, smirking. “All right, all right. ‘Happy birthday, Ray! I hope it’s the happiest one yet. Now, you know I’m not rich or, frankly, anything other than broke, but I got you something I hope you’ll enjoy. It may not look like much, but to me, it looks like us. It’s just one word…’” I pause, beginning to be choked up as the word echoes in my brain before I’ve even read it.
She smiles and hugs me. I hug her back. She says she doesn’t need me to finish because she knows the answer, but I laugh and blurt it out anyway.
“Family.”