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Elias Bouchard had now been at the Magnus Institute for as long as he could remember. Not that he had been here for very long, just that all other memories had been obscured. Faded fragments lost to the clutches of time…and of course lost to the clutches of the blunt he had been smoking. He wasn’t a bad person. He was misunderstood. He swore that to himself, because if he didn’t he would fall apart. I could stop anytime I want to, he had once told himself. Now he knew that was a lie. He always knew that a was a lie, deep, deep down. Now he knew for sure. He was in too deep.
He was smoking again, high off his mind he presumed, but he couldn’t distinguish anymore. He had been high off his mind a lot. He must have been, right? None of this could be real. It was all the drugs. Those eyes didn’t know him. He was high. That room wasn’t real. He was high. The blood wasn’t there. He was high. Michael isn’t a monster. He was high…he knew he was lying. He didn’t care. He dropped the blunt and fell to the ground. Ear-splitting high pitched ringing as his head hit the floor. Black.
Elias woke up expectantly. That is an odd word to use for someone waking up, but it would not be unusual for somebody like Elias. He woke up with an expectation. An expectation to either be in a hospital emergency room, or in Gertrude’s spare room in the back of the Archives. This time it was completely and entirely dark though. At least it seemed to be. Light. Eyes. Dark.
Those were the last things Elias Bouchard would ever remember. Those were the last things he would ever know. An echo of his last screams, whimpers and muffled confusedness was all that was left. The body of the man who called himself ‘James Wright,’ the eyes of ‘Elias Bouchard,’ a soul ceased to exist.
The man that called himself ‘Elias Bouchard’ was not Elias Bouchard. He looked like him, yes, he walked in his body…but those eyes. Those eyes knew. Old silver eyes that store into your soul. Old silver eyes that know everything. The man looks relatively normal, not the unusual kind that would instil fear into one. It was not his appearance that did it though, it was his eyes. Those were not his eyes. They were silver, that looked through you. Those eyes knew everything, and they stare at Jonathan over an old mahogany desk, sat in the face of a man who said his name was ‘Elias Bouchard.’ His interviewer smiles with his mouth, but the eyes are the same.
“So tell me, Jonathan. What are you afraid of?”