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Run. Run, you two, run! Run far away! Get away from here! Please, go and-
“-run! Chayanne, take Tallulah and run! Go, get out of here! Go!”
Phil could only watch. Helplessly, he shouted as Chayanne and Tallulah scrambled for safety. Blood ran down his body, bone-chilling warmth forming rivulets of red. His wings, broken and beaten into sickening shapes, dragged limply behind him. Black spots dotted his vision as he heaved himself across the sand dunes. When he blinked, bright white eyes burned on the back of his eyelids.
That creature. That terrifying, monstrous, murderous creature. It knocked Chayanne senseless, it threw Phil to the ground. It howled through the night, bringing terrors and nightmares where it stepped.
It killed Phil’s kids. And all he could do was watch.
He groaned in pain as he tried to stand up. His wings, once glorious and godly, bled on the ground and twisted his back. Through the red and black that tainted his eyes, he gasped as Chayanne was thrown to the water. A loud crack echoed through the night, followed by a pained wail. Tallulah screamed, the creature screeching in turn.
No. No, stop-
“Tallulah! Go!”
The girl’s head snapped to Phil. Tears streamed down her face, fear holding her expression in a tight mask. In her hand, she held her flute tighter. She opened her mouth to scream again-
The creature’s arm knocked the sound out of her lungs. She flew towards Phil, rolling on the ground by his stomach. She whimpered as she turned, tears becoming soundless. Blood followed where her body rolled. A trail of blood wet the sand.
Phil sobbed. He put an arm around his grandchild, pulling her close. She hiccuped as he did, nestling her cut-up forehead into his arm. Although she could barely move, she tried to wrap her shaky arm around his.
“I’ve got you, Tallulah. I’ve got you. Stay awake, okay? I’ll help you, I’ll get help, I promise.”
Tallulah cried in return. Phil saw her injuries–the left side of her face all red, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. A small pointed lump in her chest told him that a rib had broken. Terror filled her darting eyes as she pressed herself closer.
“I’ve got you,” Phil sobbed again. “I’ve got you.”
Shallow breathing became louder as Chayanne struggled towards them. He heaved himself up the dunes, a strained cry ripping from his throat. His leg was twisted in a horrifying way, his entire right arm crimson. Suppressed tears pooled in his eyes as he reached a weak arm to his father. Phil took his hand, grasping onto it tightly.
“No… no. Get up. Come on, get up guys. We can get out of here. We can make it.”
Nobody got up.
Tallulah cried again in his arms. Chayanne coughed blood, crying out when he moved the slightest inch. As Phil tried to move his shoulders, he felt like every bone in his body was on fire.
No. No, they couldn’t die here. They couldn’t. Not after all they’ve been through, not after all they’ve felt together. The kids–not the kids. They were too young. They hadn’t even seen the world yet. They can’t go.
Chayanne would be gone forever. Tallulah would have one life.
Phil felt his heart sink at the realization. An empty pit formed in his stomach, his mouth filling with bile. Silent tears dripped down his face, his mouth moving in shock.
His kid. He would lose his kid forever. Chayanne, his little warrior. His bloodthirsty boy who could fight everyone on the Island and come out alive. His son who reminded him so much of an old friend.
Chayanne was his lifeforce, his love. If he wasn’t, why wouldn’t he be taking care of him every single day?
Without Chayanne, he’d be empty. An old husk, a sad has-been. Another man driven to madness from the loss of a child. Would he lose himself after his death? Would he go on a rampage, swearing to kill every single child on the Island until nobody stood? Was he desperate enough to make everyone feel the same tearing, destroying pain he felt when he lost his child, so desperate to rip himself into two?
He couldn’t fall to that legacy. The legacy of a madman, one filled with hate and vengeance and a flickering spark belonging to a hopeful, young soul. He wouldn’t be that.
But without Chayanne, what would he be?
Tallulah… oh, Tallulah. She had just been found. She had just gained a loving family, a place among the children and a home to sleep in. Mere days ago was she living in an attic, living off dirt and playing mourning songs on her flute. She finally found love in a world where she was abandoned. What would happen if this sunshine child died?
Wilbur would feel devastated. His kid had a guillotine of death hanging over her head. A doomsday. A fate. And if she died…
Phil would lose one son today. He wouldn’t lose another.
Sobbing, he raised his wings. He weeped as they moved, his throat hoarse from screaming. Agonizing pain shot up and down his back, blood dripping even faster.
He wanted to rip off his wings. His glory, his sign of power, he wanted to rip them off. Cut them with his sword, cry in relief when they finally fell from his burdened back.
No, the kids need protection. Comfort in their final moments. Even if it was torture.
The more the wings budged, the more Phil screamed. It started as a weep, turning into a cry, until he was so loud he wanted to rip his throat out. Chayanne looked up in alarm and gestured for him to stop. He tugged on his father’s arm weakly, a pleading look in his eyes.
Phil ignored him. Instead, he placed his broken wings over the children, torn feathers scraping against armor and bodies. They breathed shallow breaths, cries for help dying on their tongues.
Minutes passed. It was Tallulah who died first.
They both felt it. Phil noticed when her body went cold against his arm. When her whimpers went silent. When his wing, rising and following with her gasps, fell limp. When her flute rolled in the sand, the wood knocking against his armor.
Chayanne cried out, hand reaching one last time for her. Grief and loss flooded his eyes, mixing with the excruciating pain until Phil couldn’t tell what emotion was what.
A few more minutes. Chayanne died next.
His eyes fluttered weakly. The grasp he had on his father’s arm loosened, fingers twitching with their last ounce of life. The cries of torture and grief he had died away, leaving Phil to bask in the sound of death.
Phil gasped, pulling his son closer. He pressed his forehead against his, their blood mixing as it dripped away. His sobs became louder as his son’s became quieter.
“I’m sorry, Chayanne. I’m so sorry. They just don’t want us to live.” He laughed bitterly, a hoarse and saddened sound. “I’m so sorry, Chayanne. I thought it was safe. I thought it was safe.”
As he looked his son in the eyes, he saw the last fires of life die out. Bright, adventurous eyes turned matte, and his grasp finally gave out.
But as Chayanne took his last breath, Phil saw the unsaid words in his eyes.
I forgive you.
And he stilled.
Phil lay there for minutes. Blood drained out of him, his skin going pale in the moonlight. His eyes remained fixated on his son, roaming nowhere else.
He was numb. His thoughts halted, his breathing silent. The tears stopped flowing, and the desperate pleas for survival vanished long before.
His physical pains could not compare to the pain he felt now. No broken bone, no spurting gash, no yellowing bruise could even come close. It was a hollow pain–empty, unexplainable. It was his heart in his stomach, riling up bile and vomit and blood. It made it hurt to move, but it hurt to stay still.
His son was dead. He was gone forever, both lives lost to the ground.
Phil was a father, but he drove his kid right into danger. He might’ve killed him himself. Just like the rest of the corrupt, attached people around him.
What was he to do? What would judgment day, when that stupid duck would come back, do to him? He lost his son, now he and Missa have to pay the price.
He’d pay the price. He’d pay any price if he could have his son back. Because this was his fault. Even if it wasn’t real and even if it could be reversed, it was his fault.
He weakly raised his head. The hellish eyes had vanished, leaving Phil alone in the dunes of the sand village. Blood pooled around him and the bodies, staining the ground and turning it crimson.
The bodies. His son and his granddaughter. Dead, on the ground, because of him.
As he felt the last of him slip away, he saw the sign a few feet in front of him.
Abuel
And, as he took one last shaky breath, the last of his heart broke.
✦
Phil shot up from the bed. His hair, a mess from the cold sweat, stuck up in multiple directions. His robes were a mess, and his sheets tangled and twisted around his legs. His wings beat furiously, shaking shock from unruly feathers-
His wings?
He spun around, feeling his wings on his back. As he moved them, they twisted and turned with ease. The searing torment he felt on his back moments before was gone. As he felt the rest of him, he realized his injuries had vanished too. His body seemed barren of blood. Any pain that shocked him motionless before was nonexistent. Every sign of a struggle, of a loss, of a death was erased from his skin.
Relief flooded his senses. He sighed as his head hit the headboard of his bed. The wood thumped quietly as he ran his hand over his face.
It felt so real. Getting thrown by the monster, feeling every bit of torture his body shot through his nerves. The sand grains, the armor, the blood–it all felt so real that it petrified him. And Chayanne and Tallulah, their horror seemed so genuine. So raw and pain-filled, it was almost like-
“Chayanne,” Phil muttered. “Oh, my god, Chayanne. Chayanne!”
Suddenly, a scream made him shoot up from his pillows. His eyes darted around the small house, the panic and fear returning full swing. After a few moments, his eyes finally settled on a small duck floatie at the foot of his bed.
And there, heaving and sobbing in his sheets, was Chayanne.
Phil threw the sheets off his legs and leaped off his bed. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he pulled Chayanne towards him, his arms wrapping him in a tight embrace. He nearly sobbed when his son’s arms did the same.
“Chayanne!” he cried, tears falling down his face. His heart, once still and sunken in his stomach, began beating with love and fear. “Shit, Chayanne, you’re alive! Fucking hell, you’re alive, oh my god…”
Chayanne nodded as he pulled out a sign from his pocket. He began scribbling on it, tears streaming down his own face. It read:
I had a nightmare again, Dad. You and me and Tallulah died.
“Me too, kid,” Phil replied, his voice shaky. “Me too.”
Chayanne erased the sign and began writing again.
I’m scared, Dad.
“I know. I know, mate, that was really scary. But I promise, I fuckin’ swear, you’ll never have to experience that in real life. Okay?”
Before Chayanne could nod, a sound of rapping came from the door. Phil shot up from his crouched position, opening it to the night.
To the night, and to a clearly terrified Tallulah. Furious tears ran rivulets down her cheeks, her entire body shaking in fear.
“Tallulah. Hey, sweetie. Bad dream?”
The young girl nodded, pulling out a sign.
I want papa Abuelito
Phil huffed, picking Tallulah up into his arms. He sat against the wall beside Chayanne, placing an arm over his son’s shoulders.
“I know, honey. Papa’s not here right now, but I am. And I promise, whatever that nightmare was, wasn’t real.”
Tallulah nodded into his shoulder. Her frame slowly quivered less, her erratic breathing becoming steady. Beside them, Chayanne pressed his face into Phil’s side, skull mask biting into his ribs. Phil held them close, their hearts calming in unison.
“I’ll protect you. I’ve got you, I promise. Never again.”
Phil wished that was the last time those nightmares happened. He wished that during the day, he wouldn’t get spasms and phantom pains of his wings tearing his back apart. He wished that when he blinked, he wouldn’t see the corpses of his son and granddaughter lying helpless in front of him. He wished that he wouldn’t have to run, finding those kids whenever they had a nightmare of their own. Sometimes blood stained his body, sometimes the kids’ eyes looked dead. Sometimes white pearls would show up in the night and he’d lock himself inside with a sword and a prayer.
And he’d never forget the grief. The way his heart sank when he realized it was his son’s doomsday. The cries that ripped his throat to shreds when they got thrown around. He tears that clouded his vision when he saw their bodies become lifeless. An emptiness, a grief like no other. A grief strong enough to turn a man murderous. The pain of losing a child, the terrors that would haunt you after. Blaming, taunting, tantalizing–voices in your head, telling you that it was your fault.
He said it was a nightmare. Every time since then, it was. Each night, that same night would replay, and they’d end up crying together.
It was a nightmare hundreds of times. It was a reality once.
But, as he held them close again, he felt the ambition in his heart. The goal to protect them with his life.
He wouldn’t lose them. Even if it would haunt him.