The Clockmaker's Shadow | ONC 2021 | LGBT

12. Jaxon

(Author's Note: this chapter is dedicated to Let_Alpha_Write who is not only writing his own paranormal African story, All Our Dark Tomorrows, but is compiling another book, The ONC Chapbook, supporting other writers)

Months passed.

The posters showing Rik's face under "Missing. Have you seen this man?" grew worn and tattered, pasted over with newer images of other missing sons and daughters, wives and husbands. Rik's disappearance had become old news for everyone except his family.

Months turned into years.

Eventually, even Jaxon gave up hoping for Rik's return. His feelings toward his brother swung from one extreme to the other. Sometimes he grieved, certain that Rik had died long ago in some strange world, but at other times he felt angry, imagining Rik having so much fun exploring that he couldn't be bothered to come home. Didn't he realise what his absence was doing to his family?

His Mum had grown sad and grey, obsessively anxious whenever Jaxon was out of her sight. Dad had turned inward, becoming stern and inflexible, setting strict boundaries for Jaxon so that sometimes he felt more like a prisoner than their son. Home was no longer a happy place. Jaxon could hardly wait until he was old enough to leave.

And the big question, which gnawed at him constantly despite every effort to put the thought aside, was whether he, Jaxon, would develop the same abilities as Rik as he grew older.

His Mum had refused to let anyone alter a thing in Rik's room. It was kept exactly as he had left it, and occasionally Jaxon would sneak inside and close his eyes, wondering if there had been anything specific to do with the room, whether it might be some sort of nexus or portal. He never felt anything special when he was there, but that didn't stop him trying.

Jaxon turned thirteen... fourteen... fifteen... and then sixteen, but although he was developing in the usual ways, there was no sign of any doors to other worlds opening in his mind. No flashes of green, or any other colour for that matter. And the less it seemed as if he was going to develop the same powers as Rik, the more desperately he wanted them.

Then he turned seventeen.

He'd been getting odd headaches recently, unusual for him, and part of him couldn't help wondering if they were a sign. Maybe, finally... After his parents had retired for the night, Jaxon crept upstairs to Rik's room. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. The room was dark, only the moon showing faintly behind the curtain, but that was the way he wanted it. He knew precisely where all the furniture was positioned, there was no need for light.

He walked over to the exact spot Rik had been standing in when he vanished and closed his eyes. Admittedly, he had done this dozens of times before with no success, but this time...

There! Was that a flash of something? Jaxon concentrated harder, his jaw clenching and brow creasing with the effort. Eyes tightly shut.

Rik had spoken of seeing pages, like a book flicking open, but suddenly, Jaxon saw mirrors. A long corridor of mirrors reflecting off each other until they vanished into the distance...

Startled, he opened his eyes, and stared around the room. But there were no mirrors present, apart from the small one on top of the tallboy. Everything was just the same as usual.

Was this it? Was he finally getting his powers, after all this time? Half fearful, half excited, he closed his eyes again. The mirrors were still there, inside his head. But he didn't think they were as bright as before. They were beginning to fade.

No! It wasn't fair! It was too soon, he hadn't had a chance to try anything yet. Without stopping to think, Jaxon flung himself forward into the vision.

Everything went black.

For a moment he floated freely through space, but then he began to feel squeezed from both sides. Hard. It felt as if something was trying to pull him between two giant granite boulders. He tried to struggle, to pull back, but he was drawn inexorably forward, into a space far too small for his human body. He screamed, screamed until his throat was raw, but the pressure didn't stop. His bones cracked like cooked chicken wings in a press, blood and flesh spurted forth in a parody of squashed tomatoes.

The pain was excruciating, unlike anything he could have imagined, but he didn't die. Or perhaps he did, because when eventually he squirted out the other side, he was no longer human.