Broken Promises

According to Marcel, someone died in this cabin forty years ago, so naturally they simply must check it out on a dreary Thursday night.

I slapped my fading flashlight, with no hope as it sputtered us into reliance on the setting sun. A sigh spills from my throat. "When did you last check these batteries?" I question.

Marcel gives a carefree laugh, "Couldn't tell ya," he runs up ahead seemingly unperturbed by their sudden darkness. He seemed to know where he was going, though whether this was because he actually knew the layout or because he was just being typical brash marcel would remain to be seen.

I follow as always.

At what point does a cabin become a house? The quaint like appearance on the outside contrasted with modern decor furnishing the place. I pause when I make it to the kitchen and see a jacuzzi where an island should be.

"So, we've watching House Hunters," I state, and it sounds as accusing as I want it to.

Marcel pops back in from wherever he traveled in the short period of time. "Daily."

I open a kitchen drawer, finding rows of luxury cars. And clearly throwbacks of Pimp My Ride. I close the drawer, turning to Marcel. "Alright, let's hunt this dead man down and go."

Marcel winces, " We're not hunting the dead, we're researching the truth."

All the breath I save by not actively sighing around Marcel could revive a 17th century child and fuel their bloodline until present time.

"Right," I drawl. "Then let's research the truth before the cops get called on us."

Which has actually happened before, to my shock. Getting arrested in a place like this; I could have strangled Marcel. Though I suppose it was bound to happen with all the episodes of Cops Marcel's sister liked to watch.

Marcel grins, "That's the spirit," he shouts and goes to take off again. I quickly yanked his arm towards me, stopping his tracks.

"Together," I say. And maybe my desperation leaks through because Marcel actually stops. A look crosses his face and for a second I wonder if he remembers finding me in a room crying and whispering his name. Rembers forgetting me.

The look passes, but he throws an arm around my shoulders. We're nearly the same height now. It is moments like these that I am reminded that Marcel is growing, changing. Becoming something of a real person and not the five year I first met.

"It's you and me always," Marcel says. He drags me out the kitchen. "I think he died in the bedroom."

We traverse into a hall and take a turn. The living pans out before us. Two living rooms? Marcel marches on. Another a hall, then a room that looks like a study. How big was this cabin?

Finally, they reach the bedroom. It's furnished, but noticeably lacking any bodies.

I raise a brow, "Now what?"

Marcel looks around, as if he didn't think he'd get this far. "Look for clues?"

I save another breath for that 17th century child.

"Alright," I say. "You take the left."

The next ten minutes is spent going through a corner desk, a dresser filled with musty clothing and a set of bags that weirdly contains fresh flowers.

I look over at Marcel, who is just as empty handed as me.

"Can we go now?" I ask.

Marcel looks around the room. "There's gotta be something here," he mutters.

"There isn't," I snap. "Our flashlight is broken, this cabin makes no sense, and -

The word flickers.

Already? It was too soon. A treble in my hands starts. They just got here. I just got here. It's not fair.

"The dresser," Marcel says suddenly.

I still my hand, "I checked the dresser."

"Yeah, but not behind the dresser," he says. He bounces across the room grabbing a corner of the dresser. "Come on, help me."

I stare at his hopeful face, I take in the dresser, I silently acknowledge my dread. And then I follow.

I grab the end of the dresser and we maneuver it away from the wall. A safe embedded in the wall greets us.

"Boom," Marcel shouts.

The world f l i c k e r s.

I focus on the safe. A four-digit number code is required.

"So what do you think-"

Before I can finish Marcel types in 1,2,3,4 and the safe clicks open.

That easy. Of course it was that easy. I swing the door open and before me lies a single sheet of paper. I gingerly take it out. Marcel rocks on his heels beside me.

"What's it say?" he asks.

I send a silent apology to the 17th century child and sigh. "Perhaps allow me to read it first."

I flip open the journal and begin reading aloud.

My name is John, and I exist? At least I think I do. If you're reading this, then surely that's proof in and of itself. That my thoughts can reach beyond myself. I don't know how long I've been here. A couple weeks? Years? It all blurs together. But not like the beautiful blend of pastels on an easel. It blurs like the world on a rollercoaster.

Everywhere I go, there is boy. A child with wild blond curls and a grin ever present. At first, he questions my skin, dark compared to his light. Then my hair, locked, compared to free curls. A deliberating long time on my age. Because I don't know it. I don't know where I come from. I don't know who I am.

But this child, he gives me a birthday. He gives me a name. John. I think I like being John.

"John?" Marcel asks. "What is this?"

My voice cracks over the sentence and I stop. Tears flow down my face. Marcel hesitantly wipes them from my face.

"John?" he questions again. He sounds frightened. He sounds frightened.

I shake and the w o r l d f l i c k e r s.

"I don't know," I say. I wave the paper in his face. "You put this here."

"What?"

"You put this here," I shout. "You had this floating around your head and then placed it to read."

The worst part is, I don't even remember writing it. It's been too long. How long? I sink to my knees. It's the same every night. I remember and Marcel forgets. But I'm starting to forget too.

"Oh God," Marcel says. "I did it again."

I could rejoice, but Marcel only gains clarity when-

F l i c k e r

"I'm so sorry," he says. " I don't- I can't-"

I give up my dream of helping that 17th century child and sigh. "It's alright." It isn't. "None of this is your fault." But then whose is it? "I'm sure next time will be better." It won't. Last time proved Marcel was already reaching a point of forgetting me altogether. It was to be expected. Most people like me couldn't wish to live so long.

This was Marcel's world, and I was just a dream.

A hug slams into me. I cling back. "I'll get you out, I promise."

The same promise every night.

"I know you will," I say.

The same lie parroted back.

Darkness overtakes the room, and I fade into Marcel's consciousness.