Their night had been far from easy, but the rocks weighing his stomach down suggested the cracks in the ground under his feet would only get deeper. And while he knew there was no turning back from the path he was on, every nerve in his body itched for him to return to the car and drive. Across the country, until he met the ocean.
But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and he would finish what he started.
Careful not to slide off the roofing, he lowered himself from the branch and tested the gutter before settling some of his weight on it and shifting to rest his shoulder against the arched window. He could only stay like that for so long, and he trusted Gabriel not to fall. Pulling out his unicorn tool pouch, he reached for the glass cutter. His leg was already one big cramp from supporting most of his weight in the awkward position, but he remained focused and first attached a suction cup to the glass before carefully working the cutting tool around it.
He opens the window and looks out into a sky sprinkled with stars. The backpack is heavy but there’s no other way. He needs some basics if he is to survive on his own. The branch bends under his weight when he climbs out, holding on for dear life.
The wood snaps.
He dives down with a yelp and only his backpack saves him from falling. But he’s stuck. Stuck in the tree, hanging on by his bag, and he can already hear someone calling out, and a light comes on in the corridor of the house.
Mother is approaching.
With his heart in his throat, he slides out of the backpack containing all his belongings and leaves it hanging.
Drops to the ground.
Runs.
Runs.
Abaddon pushed his hand through the hole in the window, turned the handle, and rolled inside with a buzz in his head. The air was thick with incense, choking him as he sprawled on the wooden floor, trying to even out his breathing while dark shadows encroached on him, ready to pick at their victim.
Tar-black memories flooded his mind at the familiar scent, but he needed to stay focused, because Gabriel was already climbing his way, careful like a baby racoon out on its first venture.
“Damnit,” Abaddon muttered as he spun around to see the boy dangle one of his feet over the edge of the roofing while the rest of his body remained wrapped around the branch.
Abaddon put one of his feet outside the window, anchored himself to the wall with the other, and reached out for Gabriel. “Grab my hand.”
The hesitation in Gabriel’s eyes cut deep. As if the boy thought Abaddon had razors for hands. Eventually though, he let out a tiny grunt and wrapped his fingers around Abaddon’s wrist. Only once Abaddon was sure he’d be able to hold Gabriel if he slipped, did he nod at him. For a chilling moment, Gabriel seemed to lose balance, but Abaddon pulled him into the room with ease.
The sudden closeness of Gabriel pressing to his chest made Abaddon long for a kiss, but the boy flinched away on unsteady legs and left him cold.
Devoid of Abaddon’s own hesitation, he switched on the flashlight, and his loud breathing mounted up to a gasp.
“Fucking messed up, all of this!”
Abaddon kept his eyes closed as his temples pulsed in an uneven yet frantic rhythm. He knew what this was about, of course—he couldn’t deny reality forever—but feeling unable to face it, he chose to delay.
Gabriel nudged him before hastily pulling away as if Abaddon’s madness was contagious. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Did you choose this room to freak me out?”
Shudders passed through Abaddon’s body as the wooden floor shook under him, about to crack and take him straight to Hell. But he pried his eyes open and met the gaze of a demonic figure with black wings, sitting on a throne made of limbs, guts, and other mangled body parts. But instead of a goat head or anything more generic, the beast had his own face.
Overcome with nausea, he massaged his throat and turned his face away from the horrendous image on the wall, to a dry fish tank filled with small animal bones.
There wasn't enough air in this room.
The fact that Gabriel was looking at all this, assessing and judging, made bile rise in Abaddon’s throat.
“Right…” Gabriel whispered, approaching a photograph framed in gold and set out among candles and dried herbs, like the one in Father John’s office had been. “You were there for the previous cycle too,” he deduced because in this image, Abaddon was still a child, wide-eyed and drowning in the rich black robe. The horns, likely the same as in the picture taken ten years ago, weighed down his small head.