Inkling

8.7 Scotty

His legs were two pieces of straw in the wind. They could not possibly hold him up when every step was taken with uncertainty. He was sure there was magic holding him up, something he found himself saying as he walked. It was an old rhyme Ira had taught him, something magical parents sang to babies to help them learn to walk. Ironic.

He was almost home. The lamps on his street never worked right, Ira always joked that they could sense magic because they flickered whenever they passed. Max tried to get himself to think about Ira, about the lamps, the street, his shoes - anything but Scotty. Anything to keep himself from accepting the fact that for nearly two days he had completely forgotten about his baby brother.

"Would've swore the front door was blue." He whispered to himself, upon reaching the dull gray door of what he had once called home. A thick key weighed heavy in his pocket, something he had swiped off the desk of the graveyard office when he and Lincoln had fled. His mother would be furious if he knocked on the door of his 'home'. She had never understood that nowhere felt like home to Max, and he was fairly certain nothing ever would. Doomed to long for a place that he had never been, or perhaps did not exist.

Something that did exist, however, was his mother, standing just inside the doorway as if she had been waiting for him. Which was not, exactly, possible since she had not known he was coming. It was unsettling nonetheless.

"Max." Was all she said. They had once been close, now it felt as though he could stick out his hand and it would go straight through her. Which was only possible through the use of magic, which was strictly forbidden in the Wayde household. Devil's touch, his mother called it.

"Mamá." He whispered, trying to pack an entire apology into one word. She did not seem interested, only tired. She walked past him without saying anything else and quietly enough Max truly considered if she was a ghost for a moment. Instead of dwelling he walked through the open doorway. The main door led to a hallway crammed with other doors which lead to individual homes and stairs were situated at the very end of the hall, leading to the higher levels. The one he was certain was not a ghost was sitting on the floor just outside their door.

"I hate you." The tiny voice hissed and Max dropped to his knees in front of the small boy. His voice was more heavily accented than Max's, having spent more time speaking Spanish with their mother than Max did. In fact, he repeated himself in Spanish, for emphasis. "Te odio."

"Scott," Max murmured, "Scotty, te amo, te amo más qué todo. Más qué todo, ¿entiendes?"

"No, no entiendo." Scotty screwed up his face with rage. "Vete."

I do not understand. Go away.

Max did not understand either, he did not understand why everything was happening this way.

"Scotty I am sorry. I'm sorry I forgot to walk you to school." Max whispered, leaning close and looking in his beautiful blue eyes which stood out so brightly against his brown skin.

"I missed you." He squeaked. Scotty was only eight, after all. He was too precious, too small and malleable. Max was terrified of someone coming along and finding a way to change him the way people had changed Max. He never wanted Scotty to stop being kind and loving and happy.

"Lo siento." He whispered over and over, scooping up the little boy and holding him close to his chest. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.