Wiccan Act One: Occult

32 | Hollow Dreams and Broken Promises

Cyrus

XXXII

Cyrus couldn't breathe.

It was impossible to focus on the road on the drive home; his hands were too shaky to keep the vehicle in a straight line. He could still feel Max's fingers pressed against his retinas, threatening to blind him a second time. It all happened so quickly. Cyrus didn't mean to hurt anyone. Now, because of him, a man can never use his hands again.

But he deserved it.

The thought kept running through his mind. 

Somewhere deep down, buried under the fear and adrenaline, Cyrus searched for remorse, a shred of guilt for what he did, but there was none. Max had killed Aiden's family. He was a murderer. A psychopath. Why should he feel bad for hurting someone that clearly deserved it?

He peeked at himself in the rare view mirror, able to see clearly with both eyes. Telekinesis, healing, teleporting; it made him ponder what else he could do. What other terrifying ability brewed beneath the surface, waiting for the chance to burst out? What if he hurt someone else? The next time might be an innocent bystander or someone he cared about. The idea chewed at his chest, rotting him from the inside out. He still had no idea where these abilities came from and he couldn't waste time trying to figure that out when there was still a killer out there.

...

While pulling into the driveway, Cyrus noticed the lights of the house were already on. The sun had begun to set, casting the neighborhood into a bleak cold hue. All together the streetlights came on as if signaling Cyrus's arrival. He had hoped that Aunt Rose and Michael would have still been out so he would have time to change. With any hope, he could still sneak past them and run up into his room.

His shirt smelled awful, stained with sweat and large blood splatters around the neckline. Getting out of the car, a wave of nausea almost sent him toppling over. He held onto the side of the car for support. The sky sunk into the earth and the ground spun until it took the sky's place. Unable to keep it in any longer, Cyrus doubled over, clearing the contents of his stomach on the pavement. His body groaned in dispute, muscles aching and head throbbing in response.

Cyrus was never one to get sick. In fact, he couldn't remember a single time he had been sick other than the night he used his power's in Christian's room. It felt exactly the same. He thought it had been a one-off thing or mere coincidence but apparently not. 

He waited for the feeling to subside, slowly getting a grasp on his surroundings, before making his way up the stairs and into the house.

Aunt Rose was fast asleep on the couch with her heels thrown off to the side half hazardously. Her hair hung in front of her snoring face as it awkwardly used the armrest as a pillow. She was still dressed in the clothes she left the house in this morning, giving Cyrus the impression that she passed out as soon as they got back. 

Michael immediately stuck his head out from the kitchen to hear who had entered the house, his expression lighting up once he saw that it was Cyrus. 

"Oh Cyrus you're back!" he grinned.

Cyrus immediately darted for the stairs, not wanting anyone to see him in this state. 

"Yeah, I'm just going to change really quick!" he yelled down.

It took him quite a while to get himself changed. He scrubbed most of the blood and grime off in the tub then put on whatever oversized clothes he could find. When he came back downstairs, he threw a blanket over Aunt Rose and walked into the kitchen with a mix of emotions.