The House of Grey- Volume 1 (10 page)

Then again, he or she did leave it. In which case, it couldn't be that important, especially in a place that appeared to be more for convenience than hiding. 

Monson fingered the lid of the box. There couldn't be any harm in just looking, could there? Monson decided not, and slowly wedged the lid off of the container.

Paper and envelopes of every shape, size, and color came spilling out, along with accumulated filth. How long had this thing been in here to have this much dust? A sweet scent permeated the air as remains of a perfume washed over him. A girl wrote these. The handwriting, or what could be seen of it, was small and full of loops too feminine to be a boy's. Monson grabbed one of the pages and opened it. He read the title, written in the same embellished handwriting.

The Queen's Chronicle - Conquering the Ridge by M.P.

She followed a path of her own choosing. 

One that scaled the height of her own mountain.

A journey started with a voice, which said:

Come, find your other self.

Long was the quest along the winding trail

Deep were the rivers she traversed

Dark were the woods she explored.

Difficult were the keepers who confounded her. 

She withstood with the allure of the natural man

She calmed the core of the enlightened soul

She found the secret of the translated other self

Only to lose herself to the worlds.

The path, the war, still wages on.

Red for passion and anger's heat

Blue for docile souls that are ever upbeat

Yellow for freedom; the expressive self

Green for the solid being; the foundation for all else.

A woman followed a path of her own choosing

One that scaled the height of her own mountain

She started her journey with a single step

And found the other's gate enigma at its peak.

Monson stopped reading, attempting to understand.
What in the world is this?
He picked up some more of the papers; it went on for at least two more pages. If this was a love letter, it didn't seem like a very good one. What happened to "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways"? 

As Monson replaced the poem and properly stacked the mismatched groups of paper, a picture caught his eye. He pulled it out of the stack. It was a painting—an amazing one.

Vibrant colors of a sunset highlighted a castle like no other. Large, with an airy, open architecture, the fortress sat on a pair of cumulus clouds suspended hundreds, maybe thousands of feet in the air. In the distance, four peaks encircled a lush, green valley. The colors were bold and beautiful. Monson couldn't take his eyes off of it.  He smiled as he pictured in great detail a place like this castle on a cloud. Monson flipped the picture over to see if there was a signature. He found the same insignia as on the poem,
M.P.
He made a mental note: Figure out who M.P. was.

Monson grabbed the container and lid and replaced the papers, including the poem, but kept the picture out. He returned the tin to under his bed. He lay down, looking at the picture and recounting the events of the day. Day . . . bah! It wasn't even three o’clock yet! He sighed, feeling the tiredness creep through him. Between almost being clubbed by Artorius, knocking the crap out of one of the prettiest girls Monson had ever seen, the weird gray
stone hanging around his neck, oh, and let's not forgot the weird out-of-body experience or whatever that was when Dean Dayton called his name, he felt that he had experienced enough for one day. He hoped this wasn't going to be a daily thing.

Images played at the edge of his consciousness, creating a webbed but disjointed slide show. Scenes seemed connected but confused, like a storyboard that had been tipped and jumbled, disjointing the order and twisting the timeline. Suddenly, the screeches of women, some in pain and others in panic, permeated the air as gobs of liquid fire enveloped them, searing their bodies and finally silencing them. Screams in a forgotten language left his mouth, joining the throngs of agonized moans as an eerie silence and pain overtook him.  As quickly as it started, it stopped. Blackness threatened to overcome, but then the scene changed, or maybe it just became clear, because the vision of a man wearing a cloak came into focus. He was bathed in red flame and his step crushed the concrete beneath him while tempestuous winds swished and swirled around him.  He walked forward, holding something in his hand that seemed solid but at the same time wavered with pulsing energy. Hatred so intense it almost took a physical form radiated from the cloaked man as he moved closer to where a second man lay panting. The second seemed defeated; he lay battered, bloody, and bruised. The cloaked man grinned, while purpose shone in his movements, and an aura of evil, pure evil, surrounded him. He moved on, but it seemed to take a long time for him to get close to where the second man lay. It was as if he were fighting an invisible force that impeded his progress. As the second man lay there, repulsion seeped in, emboldening him to move. He did so, but being too weak, merely stumbled back to the ground. The man with the cloak approached calmly, getting closer and closer. His cruel eyes shone under the dark cloak as finally the shadow of a face could be seen.  The embodiment of fear peered out from the darkness of the cloak as a countenance was both lit up and thrown into relief by the light of the object positioned aggressively in his hand. A smile played across cruel lips as he raised his hand to strike — 

Monson awoke with a start, breathing heavily and feeling slightly feverish. The curtains darkened his room, making it impossible to tell the time of day. Monson reached up, placing his hand on his forehead, and felt cold beads of sweat on his brow. How long had he been asleep? It couldn't have been long, but there was no way of telling because of the curtains, and he didn't have a watch with him. Monson noticed a pitcher of water sitting on the bedside cabinet to his left. He stood up, retrieved the pitcher, and poured water into a glass, downing the contents in two great gulps.

And people always wonder why I look so tired,
Monson thought wryly. He climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling.  Strange images flashed across his vision as realization hit him. A dream, yet another, that he could barely remember. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp and decipher what he saw. 

Pain. Screaming. Distinct. Familiar—damned familiar.
Everything is damned familiar!
Monson opened his eyes, punching his bed in frustration. He had dreamt of something important, but now he couldn't remember the dream or why it was important. Was it a repressed memory, or a piece of the past?
Why? Why couldn't he remember?

Monson felt like tearing his hair out, if only to give him something else to ponder. This vision or nightmare was different—a new dream from a new avenue of the mind. He felt that, but he didn't know how to latch onto these dreams. He probably never would.  

This line of thought made Monson wonder about his past self. A single moment had wiped out the person known as Monson Grey, and now lying on this bed was a shadow of that person, that seemingly fictional being, who wrestled with his own fears and the realities of his life. When he looked in the mirror he didn't recognize the face looking back at him.

Monson rolled onto his stomach.

What am I left with? Where do I go to from here? Will these dreams ever make sense?

Monson paused.
His dreams.

Monson wondered what his dreams were like before the attack took everything from him. Were there dreams he could remember? Were they full of happy thoughts and silly desires? Did they reflect his heart, his wishes, his humanity?

Humanity?

Monson scowled to himself.

What humanity? What is humanity, even? Does having dreams and ambitions make up your humanity? Or is it something else? Something like . . .

Fear.

What was there to fear? Monson wasn’t sure. But he did know that he had fears: fear of the known, the unknown, the probable, and the possible. He feared death. The idea scared him. But more than death, he had a fear of life — living when he did not know himself. He just had fear.

Monson let out a long yawn, exhaling the air and with it those difficult subjects.

What was with these depressing thoughts?  Be thankful you're alive. A lot of people aren't. You were spared. You were lucky.

"That's right," Monson said out loud. He looked for something else to occupy the time.

Maybe I’ll do some reading.

After a moment or two of looking, Monson found his backpack right inside the door to his room. He assumed that Brian put it there, as he couldn't remember doing it himself.

In his current state of memory loss, the only thing Monson could depend on was Molly. She had been there for him, rarely leaving his side in those first difficult days.  Those had been some of his most trying, the ones right after he awoke from his comatose state. He awoke knowing so little, and seeing only strangers, in a strange place. Yet Molly was there for him.  That was truly a time he would never forget. He remembered the touch of Molly's hand as she asked how he was doing. He remembered the look on her face when he asked, "Who are you?" He remembered her scanning his frame and the rich detail of her tear-filled eyes as she took in his scarred and torn body.

Monson felt the rims of his eyes water.

Tears?

He dabbed at the corners.

Hope for understanding and recovery did come, however. Molly made sure of that. They spoke long into the night, and slowly, painfully, as if he was trying to pull pieces of himself through a mesh net, Monson began to remember; memories flooded back to him. They weren't much, but they were his. He knew it would be a long time until he was back to normal, assuming that he got there at all. 

Monson paused at this.
Normal
.
What is normal?
  Monson possessed no concept of the word; the idea remained beyond his reach.

He chuckled as he thought about the whole ordeal. Coren. Baroty Bridge. His grandfather. All of those people. Monson stopped laughing, ashamed of his actions. These were not laughing matters. Monson tended to use humor to deal with stress, which probably wasn't always the best idea, but “go with what works” was his philosophy. Monson adjusted his body, trying to find a more comfortable position. He felt drained, weak, and tired . . . always tired. He was so uncomfortable.

He stood up and again headed to the window seat. The cushion was nice and soft, made of an odd, water-smooth material. Monson moved the blackout shade to reveal soft, gloomy gray light, courtesy of storm clouds congregating above Coren Valley. The rain appeared to be gone for the time. It was all the same to him.  He leaned against the window, hoping his unpleasant thoughts would drain from him just like the water drops draining from the side of the building.

Suddenly Monson sat bolt upright, disgust threatening to overcome him. How could he forget something that important? No wonder he was having nightmares! He jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors, throwing them open with gusto. He searched for his luggage, scanning the room.  He found the suitcases propped carefully against the opposite wall. Running over to them, he started tearing at them in a frenzy, opening bags and sealed packages alike, taking little notice of the contents. With a sigh of relief, he found it. A dark rag covered a small old wooden frame. It had been wrapped with such care that although it was obvious the frame was old, the dark wood gleamed brilliantly, displaying neither scratch nor blemish.

Sorrow assaulted Monson as he held up a photograph of a smiling man. Gray hair, messy and unkempt, fell into soft, kind eyes that spoke of dignity and experience. Monson smiled, cradling the picture, and feelings of contentment welled up inside. He walked purposefully to his nightstand and placed the framed photograph on the bedside table with tender affection. He took one last look at it before crawling back into bed. So much had happened to him in the last few months, and now he once again found himself in a strange place with strange people.  He felt overwhelmed and alone.

I am so sorry,
Monson thought as he lay in his bed.
I won't forget again.
As sleep enveloped him, he muffled a simple goodnight to the man in the picture. He knew that he would sleep better this time because his grandpa was watching over him.

***

Boom . . . Boom . . . Boom!

What is that?
Monson groaned sleepily, still under a copious amount of covers. He heard it again.

Boom!

Was it getting louder? 

BOOM! 

The sound . . . it felt like . . . something was here.  Right on top of him.

Ahh, crap
,
Monson thought. He thought he knew what the "boom" was. Monson pushed the comforter off his head and caught a fleeting glimpse of Artorius leaning on the big oak doors. He appeared greatly amused. Before Monson could say anything, he felt a sharp pain in his chest as Casey's highflying form crumpled into him.