Page 21 of The Last Feast

SEARCHING

AUGUSTE

One week, and I’ve lost my mind. One week of searching for a woman no one remembers while being questioned by the police for Odette’s death. I don’t even remember their questions as I leave the police station—all I have are my own, all about Hana.

Felix is already waiting for me, but I search the faces of everyone I pass for her as he falls in step with me. He waits until we’re in his car to ask, “What happened between you two?”

“Nothing. We were friends.”

Where the fuck is Hana?

I continue searching the faces of every person we drive past, hoping one of them will have her eyes, her freckles, anything to say she’s real, that she’s still here.

Felix, however, has a different plan as he hesitantly says, “My dad mentioned something about a video on Odette’s phone. They think it’s proof you killed her.”

I don’t care about a video of me telling her to stop undressing me. The police showed it to me, yet all I could think was that it’s not me. I don’t recognize who that was, not since Hana altered my DNA.

“You’ll need a lawyer,” he says, like I’m not aware of the situation. “You should tell your parents. They’ll be able to get you good representation, and it will look good if you have the Aigner name attached to you fully.”

He hasn’t asked me if I killed her, so I look at him. “Why haven’t you asked me if I did it?”

“I know you, Auguste. You couldn’t even tell her to stop holding your hand. You definitely didn’t kill her. It was some sick bastard. They said there were other prints, blood too, so you’ll be fine.”

Hana.

She is real. She left her fingerprints behind.

During my anatomy lessons, I learnt everyone is born with a hole in their heart, one of the designs to allow life to form in the constrictions of the womb.

But in three out four people, it closes shortly after birth.

The remaining one has a congenital heart defect.

Science and medicine call something everyone is born with defective because it doesn’t go through the correct functions, yet they’ve never given a name to those born soulless.

It’s ironic that we—society, medicine, philosophy, religion, any and all institutions—will keep searching for a way to “fix” people physically, as if the biggest danger isn’t those with defective desires.

Hana isn’t like them. She’s violent, brutal, terrifying, but she still has humanity because she simply ended Odette’s life.

She didn’t abuse her, lie to her, or make her live in fear of her own body.

She plainly told her she was going to die, explained the process, then followed through with integrity.

There was no false pretense of the pain being something Odette deserved.

Hana was curious about killing her, and as fucked up as that is, she wanted her to die for her own enjoyment. So, she killed her.

She’s broken like me, but there’s no predefined path for our lives.

Hana is aware she’s fucked, accepting of her life, but I’m terrified of it.

Yet, we’re still the same—our scars don’t have to be identical to recognize one another, which is why she ran.

Because when everything inside you is broken, love isn’t a comfort.

It’s another wound, ready to damage the parts of your soul that you kept free from harm.

Still, I look for her as we drive, checking the cars we pass, the people walking through the cold as the streets slowly merge into trees. Then, I search the trees, waiting to see her face.

With her, the world isn’t so terrifying, and I’m not drained by being in her presence.

I don’t even know where we’re going until we pull up outside my childhood home. Felix keeps the car running as he points at the snow-covered gate. “You can’t avoid them now. They’ll know you were questioned.”

The chief of police receives the biggest donations from my parents. It’s why I wasn’t charged, only questioned, as if that makes a difference when there were two officers full of judgment sitting across from me.

I don’t feel guilty about Odette’s death, but the snowy path glaring back at me does.

My parents are older now; they could slip, hurt themselves.

It used to be my chore to clean the path leading to the gate while my father did the other to the garage so my mother didn’t fall getting in and out of the car.

The driveway is also covered in snow, and the car must be in the garage, because it’s not parked in the usual spot.

So, I get out and delay going inside as I go to the shed.

Felix’s tires roll over the gritted road as I take the plastic shovel.

The distraction doesn’t stop me thinking about Hana though.

Where she is, how she is, did she eat—question after question arises as I drag the red plastic through the crisp blanket of white snow to unveil the grey paving blocks.

When I reach the front steps, I catch my reflection in the window beside the door. My cheeks are red, the air fogging in front of my lips, but there’s no movement inside the house. It’s all still until the next door neighbor pokes her head out of the door, pulling her cardigan tighter around her.

“Are you moving in?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

“It’s Auguste, Mrs. Bohm.” I turn, pulling my hood down so she can see my face.

Her eyes widen in surprise as she steps down from the porch to meet me at the fence between the two houses. “You’ve grown into a fine young man. I am sorry to hear about your friend. I remember how you’d always play together on your bikes. Is that why you’re staying here?”

No, I’m here because Felix has forced me to be. But the people pleaser raised to protect the family name answers, “I thought I’d visit my parents since I’m on a break from med school.”

A deep crease forms between her brows as she slowly looks at the house then back to me. “You’re visiting them here? I thought they’d moved to the lake?”

My parents moved and I didn’t even know. I suppose it’s to be expected, since we only exchange one message a year, but I thought they’d tell me significant details about their lives. Rather than embarrass anyone by admitting the truth, I lie, “Yeah, I just felt like the nostalgia of home.”

The path to the large cabin has a cleaned path, and I can see my father sitting in the armchair by the window as I walk down it. He turns at the sound of my steps, almost disappointed when he notices it’s his son at the door, despite me calling him earlier.

It took me longer to get here, since I kept looking for Hana, and I look at the man who gave me his DNA as he slowly walks to the door. He’s aged considerably since I last saw him, his cheeks rough from the years of shaving, but when he opens the door, he still sounds the same.

“Welcome home, son.”

He hugs me, patting me on the back to add more masculinity to the embrace.

Then, he pulls me inside. The warmth hits me first, followed by the smell of lemons.

My mother always said lemons were a welcoming scent that made everyone feel at home.

They’ve redecorated too, with large rugs covering the deep mahogany wood flooring.

But there’s no dull spots to show where people have walked—that’s too homely.

Everything has its place, and everything is shiny, as always.

Perfect, untouched, while this family rots from the inside out.

If they put a fraction of the care that they show inanimate objects into the living, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m being choked in the presence of my own father.

I look around the living room as I ask, “Are you alone?”

He laughs lightly as he returns to his seat. “Your mother went to the store to get all the fixings for a meal fit for the prodigal son’s return after you called.”

I nod as I take my seat in the other armchair, leaving the large sofa free for guests, as I was told to as a child.

There’s a strangeness to being here as an adult.

The last time I sat in this armchair, my parents and grandparents were arguing about what I told them of the priest. They weren’t arguing to protect me, just to protect themselves.

What would people think, Erik? my loving mother’s voice echoes through time.

The ghosts of that conversation are all I can focus on, as if I’m back to being that boy.

I watch my father, noting the grey hairs and how he blankly stares at the fire.

There’s no television, since the cabin was always a place to get away from the world, so the lack of background noise makes my thoughts even louder until they spill out.

“Why didn’t you help me?” I ask, partly curious, partly accusatory.

“We gave you your trusts,” he says flippantly. “What more help did you need?”

“No—why didn’t you help me when I told you what happened in the church?”

“Don’t cry over spilt milk,” he scoffs, pushing out of his armchair. His steps drag as he walks into the kitchen, ignoring me once again.

But I’m not a child at the mercy of what he wants to give, so I follow him. “I’m not crying, and that wasn’t spilt milk.”

Rather than talk to me, he pulls open the back door and walks out towards the frozen lake.

Is it so fucking hard for him to admit he was wrong?

He could put me at ease by saying it. All he has to do is say, “Sorry, son. I should have done things differently,” and I’d feel the weight lifted off my shoulders.

I revert to that dismissed child and go down to the basement, where my toys were kept for me to be out of the way when my parents entertained their friends.

Children are to be seen, not heard. Don’t make noise, don’t ask questions, don’t make a mess.

I was just a fucking prop to them, like all the shitty ornaments and furniture that show their wealth.

The bulb buzzes, glowing a harsh yellow that makes the cream walls appear dirty.

A new room has been added to the basement, splitting the section from where I used to play to whatever new prop my parents have found.

I laugh to myself soundlessly. It’s not the same as the wine cellar in my childhood home.

That had tempered glass to show off their vintage bottles and rare collection, whereas this is more like a bank vault.

But there’s no pin required as I spin the wheel, daring to spoil the temperature-controlled environment as a fuck you for their neglect.

I could have a million years to prepare for the sight when it opens, but it wouldn’t be enough. The inside is covered in metal sheets stained with blood and clawed dents from where someone has attempted to escape the cell.

It’s not someone, though. It’s Hana who crouches in the corner, blood staining her mouth and chin as she pushes her hand into my mother’s dead body.

I stare, unsure of what I’m seeing, because my woman can’t be in this metal room with my mother.

My mother’s shopping. She’s going to come back, and Hana is…

“You,” she says weakly. “You found me.”

I hold my hand out to her, needing to feel her touch to know if I’m imagining this. Blood, my mother’s blood, coats her fingers slipping against my palm. Pulling her closer, I whisper, “How are you here?”

She wraps her arms around me, repeating, “You found me. Hana’s a good girl. You found me.”

And like a key fitting into a lock, it all falls into place.

I expected monsters to empathize with me.

My father didn’t give a fuck because he’s a cruel bastard.

There’s no other reason why Hana would be locked in this purpose-built box with only my mother’s dead body, and she’s clearly used what was within reach to survive.

They were never loving, but I look at my mother’s bloated body, and a chill works up my spine at how easily my father lied about where she was.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Kissing the top of her head, I close the door on my dead mother.

She tightens her arms around me as she whispers, “My uncle will come back.”

“Who’s your uncle?”

“Erik. I killed Martha, and he locked me away again.”

Why does she think my dad is her uncle? My parents don’t have any siblings.

Worse—why do my feelings not change, even if it was true?

“No, they’re not.” I rub her back to warm her. “They don’t have any siblings.”

I pick her up and take her into the bathroom in case my father decides to look for me. She doesn’t relax when I lock the door, instead looking up with so much fear in her eyes. It may as well be a punch to the gut as she asks, “You belong to them?”

“No. I belong to you. What happened?”

She shakes her head as I sit her on the sink and run the water to clean the blood from her face. It’s not splattered on her cheeks like it was with Odette. The deep stains look old, and they’re centered around her mouth. It even coats her teeth, and she shyly whispers, “I was hungry.”

“Okay. It’s okay.”

It’s not. She ate human flesh. She could get sick or die from it, depending on its stage of decay. I try to counteract it as I cup water in my hand for her to drink.

But she pushes me away, glaring. “How do you know them?”

“They’re my parents,” I admit, as if it’s a crime.

She looks at me with pure hate. It’s not the same murderous glare she had while we were killing Odette—that was more exploratory excitement. This is rage. Wrapping her hands around my neck, she grits, “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been here for years, so I’d know if you were here.”

“I went to boarding school. I’m not lying to you, Hana.”

They chose to ignore my existence so they could keep a young girl as what? Their slave?

She doesn’t trust me, but she doesn’t stop me from helping her get cleaned up. I don’t even attempt to touch any more of her body than necessary. She has a right to hate me when I hate myself by association too.