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Sometimes the pain gets to me. I find myself floating to the top, dragged from that place in my brain. It’s warm and bright, but not glaring, and everything seems to have a soft golden hue. Like it’s been buttered. It’s my childhood, or a version of it. We’re all there-- the whole Umbrella Academy. Except we’re not the Academy, we’re just a family. Somehow being “just” a family is so much more than we ever really were. In my mind, Father is there, sitting in an armchair and reading quietly. I’ve never managed to construct something softer for him; apparently, the closest my father ever came to kindness was neutrality. This time, though, he’s in the living room with us and sitting facing us, not hiding in his study and watching from afar. Mom is there, too, helping Diego with his homework. We’re going to a regular school. It’s funny how public school was a privilege we never got. Ben and Allison are the most popular kids in school and we think they’re going to be co-class presidents next year. Klaus is the class clown, of course, but his grades show how smart he really is. Viktor is showing me his violin before a recital tomorrow. It’s his prized possession, and he won’t let any of the other siblings near it, but me. Luther is a jock, of course. Barely into middle school, but we can all tell his going to be the high school’s football captain. And me? I’m just there. Just enjoying being able to be a child.
I’m rising closer to the surface, the butter-toned fantasy melting away. I can taste blood in my mouth. Salty, metallic, almost savory. I nearly start laughing because I can’t tell if it’s mine, or if I bit someone and it’s theirs.
Another strike lands against my nose, fracturing what was already broken. A steady stream of blood flows over my lip. So that was definitely my blood I was tasting.
There’s a brute standing in front of me, so overly muscled that his bowling ball of a head seems to connect directly to his shoulders without a neck to negotiate between the two. His arms seem too long, almost hanging past his knees, like a primate. Given my job occupancy, I wouldn’t be too surprised if he was part gorilla or something. People do weird shit like that. (No offense to Luther. Or Pogo. Hell, I worked for a fish for a very brief time; who am I to judge?)
The brute is grunting something at me, and I figure if he’s going to work all five of his braincells at full capacity in order to form the semblance of a speech pattern, I could at least try to listen.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I lean forward, testing the give of the leather straps at my wrists and ankles keeping me attached to this crude-- no we’ll call it rustic-- chair they’ve got me bound in, and give him my most polite smile, “Could you bother repeating that?”
Apparently he didn’t like my smile, landing a blow just below my ribcage and into my diaphragm, “I said, WHERE ARE THE UMBRELLAS?”
This time I really do laugh, in the wheezing sort of way I can manage with the wind knocked out of me, “And why the hell would I tell you that?”
He grins like he’s been waiting for me to ask that, “Because if you don’t talk to me, you’ll get to talk to Valdemar.”
I crane my neck to see the direction he’s smirking towards. Sure as hell, there’s a man who looks exactly like you’d expect someone named Valdemar to look. He’s tall and would seem thin if he weren’t covered with sinewy muscle. His dark hair is cropped close, revealing a deep scar traveling through one eye and down the length of his face. There’s rack beside him filled with the usual assortment of gleaming metal and sharp points. He’s got one in his hand, sharping it menacingly.
They’ve always got a Valdemar. I think it’s a torture crew requirement.
“I don’t have time for this. Did you know the world is ending? Again? And I’m not going to spend my last days betraying my family,” This time as I lean forward, I try to blink out, but it’s no use.
This room, or something in it, is dampening my power. That indicates a certain level of intelligence, even elegance, that these two simply don’t possess. That’s who I need to talk to; the brains behind these brutes.
“Hello, Vlademar,” I flashed him one of my award-winning smiles too, “Are we going to chat or can I speak with the grown up in charge now?”
“Nah, nah,” Vlad starts strolling towards me with his own prize-worthy grin, his drawl surprisingly Southern in comparison to most of the Vlads I meet in my line of work, “I think we need to have a little talk first.”
“Ugh, ok, let’s talk.”
The first pain that hits me is sharp, blinding and wickedly so. It’s piercing into the crest of my shoulder, almost like Vlademar was trying to give a friendly pat on the shoulder, but happened to forget he had a jagged blade in his hand.
He pulls the knife out of the muscle and it’s far worse than the initial hit, the points of the double-serrated edges catching on and ripping through muscle. It manages to pull a wince from me, which burns through my broken nose. I can feel the bruises forming from the brute’s earlier hits, blood blooming beneath my eyes and across my cheek. My lower ribs and sides feel like Henchman No.1 might have been taken to them with a metal pipe. It’s making me wonder how long I managed to stay under this time, how much pain I hid from by pretending to be a child; stuck in my head, imagining what something as a alien as a childhood could be like.
This time the knife sinks into my side, avoiding anything too important but still managing to hurt like hell, “Tell us where your siblings are.”
“Tell me where your boss is. Or go ahead and waste your time, I really don’t care,” I lean forward into Vlademar’s face, not caring that the knife digs further into me, “My family is stupid and careless and every time I manage to stop the apocalypse, they mange to cause another. But I will never put them in harm’s way. So you can stab me and punch me and pull out my teeth and cut off my fingers or whatever the fuck else you want to do to me, but you’re not going to get any answers. I’m done here.”
“You don’t get to decide when you’re done,” The growling voices are starting to fade out again, becoming fuzzy and distant.
Even as the blade is ripped from my side, I mange to laugh. It comes out in a sputter, barely more than a cough, as the blood from my nose and mouth got caught in the back of my throat. Choking on my own blood; that’s one for the books.
My side is warm, burning in pain and washed with a stream of blood from the wound that strengthens with every cough. But the other warmth is joining it-- the buttery soft warmth of the fire crackling behind Father’s armchair as he turns the page of his book.
I think the brute is laughing, somewhere far away, and I smile back. I could weather this, I could weather anything to make sure my family is safe.
I smile. Viktor is showing me his violin. I can almost feel the strings beneath my fingertips. My family is safe and, until I rise out of this dream again, so am I.