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“I can carve out a little slice of life for you. Let’s try something else. One more scene before you make up your mind, Arty. Just one more.” Kayne hums in consideration. “You’re too cynical to believe in the magic of Christmas and you wouldn’t like my previous production on this stage. A little too much for your tastes. Can’t ever let the Englishman show his bloodlust.” He falsely shudders. “Oh no!”
“Kayne!”
“A moment Arty. I’m doing all of this to break from a script, and yet!” A break for mad laughter. “And yet I am following my own part, written by yours truly. Doesn’t really make sense now, does it?”
“Can you just get to the point?”
“It’s a New Year,” a half whispered almost, “And a New me! So, I’m going to forgive you for that little interruption. Try something a little different.”
He pauses a moment and snaps.
______________________________
Arthur is lying on something soft. There’s a sheet wrapped around his legs, tangled from sleep. He’s pleasantly warm. The kind that of warmth that would be uncomfortable at any other time of day, if he had been any more awake. The bed is welcoming. Softer than the one he shared with Bella. He wants to lie there. He wants to succumb to the aching tiredness that he can’t remember not having. He was tired at birth.
He manages a croak instead.
“John?”
“Arthur? We’re in some kind of room. I don’t recognize it.”
Arthur sluggishly sits upright, not wanting to have to be awake. “Do you see Kayne?”
“No. The room is empty. It looks like it’s a room in the house we just saw. Sunlight streams in softly through the window, dawn just broken. There’s a faint dusting of snow coming down, a blank state on the bustle of yesterday. Footprints disappear. It looks peaceful.”
The sheets won’t move.
“The room is decorated for Christmas. Candles flickering softly. There’s a small tree decorated with ornaments, various shades of gold glinting as the sun rises. We’re dressed in a robe, such a faint yellow you could mistake it for candlelight.”
Arthur fumbles at the sheets, concern starting to shake the sleep from him. “Could you help me get these blankets off?”
A door quickly opens.
“Arty, no!” Some kind of breakfast smell fills the room. “You’re supposed to be resting. After that big day you had yesterday, preparing Christmas dinner for you and your family, you need a break.”
Arthur freezes.
“Kayne holds some kind of breakfast tray laden with all sorts of breakfast foods. There are eggs and sausages and waffles and pancakes and muffins and fruits and a small bowl of -it hurts to look at. It’s some kind of-of”
“Whoops! That’ll be something for me.”
“Kayne sticks a forkful of whatever it was in his mouth? There’s a bedpost blocking his face from view. I should be able to see him. It’s only a few inches wide.”
“I assumed you could eat that. My bad! Or maybe it’s just you. Arthur always managed to be the stronger of you two. Gets both his femurs broken and walks it off and you can’t handle having your own body. Really.”
“What are you doing Kayne?”
“Breakfast. The apron didn’t clue you in? Lemon tart, set the scene.”
“Kayne bows dramatically gesturing for me to speak. Steam from the tray he’s holding obscures his face. He wears a bloody apron over his suit with the “kiss the cook” – “If you insist”- “An arrow points up to where his face should be. He sits at the end of our bed, leaning against one of the posts. Blood stains the sheets, an appropriately festive plaid. Kayne balances the tray in one hand while continuing to eat from that horrible dish. Blood drips from his hands onto the serving tray and down to us.”
“You didn’t want it, did you?” Kayne stabs at it. “Here Arthur, you’ll like it.”
“He holds out a fork at you for a moment, one hand cupped under the fork to catch any drips. He leans forward, setting the tray to the side. Don’t eat it, Arthur!”
“Thank you Not-So-Sunny-Side-Up, I think Arthur gets the idea. You don’t want his breakfast to get cold, do you? I know he’s been skipping meals. Shame on you. What kind of example are you setting for us malevolent beings with behavior like that. Look at John, he’s getting excited over a simple meal.”
“He finishes the last forkful and sits next to us.”
“And Johnny, you won’t even let him have a bite!”
He leans on Arthur’s side.
“Arty, just say the word and I could get this Yellow Fellow out of your head and back where he belongs.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.” He sighs and leans heavier on Arthur.
“Kayne has switched to a bathrobe similar to yours, only black. It’s clear he’s glaring at me even through the steam. He looks over the plate with a fork, deciding.”
“Have any favorites?” The fork clatters down. “Never mind, here.”
“He hands us a lightly bloody apple slice.”
“You wanted this so bad in Addison. Take it.” Kayne tucks it into Arthur’s hand. “Can’t do much about the blood, I’m afraid, but you do have a taste for that, don’t you?”
“What are you doing Kayne?”
“Breakfast. Eat your apple.” Kayne sets the tray on Arthur’s lap.
Arthur thrashes at the blankets.
“Arthur! You’re going to spill your breakfast. And after all that time I spent making it.” Kayne leans over to steady the tray. “It’s like you don’t even care. I broke so many eggs making that omelet for you.”
He sets the tray on the nightstand beside them.
“I would’ve made your favorite, but you’ve never regularly eaten breakfast. Imagine it. A world where you don’t starve yourself because you’ve found an excuse to. Don’t you want that?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I though a more immersive experience would help you get the point. You're not much of an actor and it takes so many of you just to act out a simple script. It really isn't that hard. So I'm setting the scene. It's Christmas. Well, the day after. I'm serving you breakfast because you worked so hard carving up that turkey last night. And after breakfast, we can visit Faroe and see what Santa brought her, beside back to life. I heard she’s started liking trains. Isn't that exciting?”
“If this illusion is meant to convince me of your plan, why are you here?”
“Well, someone had to tell you what you what's going on. And you wouldn't believe it if I wasn't here.” He pokes at Arthur. “Eat.”
Arthur shoves him away, a small bite slipping in. “Stop.”
He spits it out.
“Do you really think this is appealing? Trapped in a room with you, my daughter vaguely somewhere else, somewhere I’ll never see, as you attempt to feed me bloody, overcooked eggs?”
“Kayne pauses for a moment, clearly upset. Parts of his face are revealed. His face-his face- it’s horrifying. Blood drips from the corners of a smile distended far past the reaches of his face. Kayne’s grin is one of madness. An insanity gripping him, distorting him. His eyes have turned a violent shade of black. Blood leaks from them like tears showing an almost pleading pain. He looks-”
“I overcooked the eggs?” Kayne says in a small voice.
“-wretched.” John finishes.
“His eyes threaten to spill over with tears.”
“I decide to do one nice thing. I went off script for you Arty. If I’m defying fate, why not defy it a little more. Have a nice moment, take a break. Give a proper send off to this awful, godforsaken place. Try one more time to get you to even hear what my plan is. And you still won't listen! Can't accept that I might know more than you! That humanity isn't what you crack it up to be and that things can be better than this misery. You just won't.”
“I make it nice. I make it flawed. I give you a break that you so desperately want and it isn’t enough for you. And neither is my wager for some fucking reason because you just can’t be happy.”
He lays across Arthur.
“For someone who talks about hope so much, you won’t lift a finger to help me create a better reality. No! You have to stand in my way and deny every chance you have at something nice. I am dragging you kicking and screaming towards joy. Joy Arthur! Joy. And you won’t even go along with it when you have it.”
“You have to burn it down like you burn everything down.”
Kayne clutches Arthur for a moment, chest heaving, tears running down his face.
“You know what, back to script.”
And he snaps.