He takes a breath, gathering his words. “I haven’t told you how I came into existence—in this body, out of apprehension that the previous host would be triggered into taking back control. You see, this memory is one that fueled many of the decisions I’ve made in his life and one that always sent him into a deep depression. I don’t think it will trigger him now. I believe he needed to hear your story first.”
Why mine? What could my story possibly mean to him? He guides me to sit next to him in front of the ambiance of the fire.
“When the previous host was quite young, his family was targeted for a great act of violence. He had a mother. I believe you asked me her name once. Sophia was exponentially intelligent and fiercely compassionate, much like you. She always put her children first. Even when she was trapped with an abusive husband, she protected her children from ever knowing… But even she couldn’t stop what was to come.”
Dessin allows me to intertwine my hand into his. “He also had a little brother. His name was Arthur.” Saying that name that drips with innocence, Dessin winces, tilting his chin upward as he watches the rippling water. This name carries weight. It’s been cloaked and cradled by the previous host, but even saying it out loud causes him pain. “Arthur wanted to be like his big brother, following him around when he’d play outside. He was his shadow… And only wanted to be included.”
In my mind’s eye, I watch a little boy with glasses and dimples follow Dessin through the trees, wielding a branch as if it were made of razor-edged steel. I see the admiration in his brown doe eyes as he watches his big brother climb a tree, wanting to be just like him when he grew up.
“Arthur—he was just like their mother. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was kind in the way that when his big brother did something wrong, he would take the blame for him, take the punishment. And afterward, he would get to play with his big brother in the woods, where they’d pretend to fight monsters, build forts, and climb trees. And that was life. It was heaven for them.”
His voice trails as he flips through the best memories this body has. It’s the calm before the storm, and my heart prepares to break again, as I’ve only just begun to fall in love with the sweet idea of this little brother, Arthur.
“The previous host was six years old when they came into his home. He was six years old when six men took everything from him. He came in from playing outside where his mother, Sophia, was tied down on the kitchen table, her clothes had been torn off, and there was blood, not enough that would mean she was close to death, but enough that it had sunk deep in his stomach and lingered there to this day.”
He releases a quick breath. Dessin himself is detached from this story in a way that a friend would share another friend’s tragedy. He wasn’t there and didn’t see it, but he saw how it affected his friend. That’s what bleeds through his expression.
“Two men bound the boy’s hands behind his back and tied him to a wooden chair. For approximately three and a half hours—he watched those six men barbarically defile Sophia. They raped her, taking turns as she was helpless to fight them off. And he was forced to watch them, forced to accept those actions into his mind where they would burn into his brain like poison. He screamed and thrashed and tried to break free of his restraints. He begged for them to stop. But the violence only got worse.” He looks down at me from the bottom left corner of his eye, catching my eyes pooling with tears.”
I sniffle, blinking the tears away furiously. “I can handle it,” I say with new strength. I won’t let him bear this alone. And so he continues.
“They sodomized her with common kitchen utensils. They pried her mouth open so that they could push themselves down her throat until she would choke on her own vomit. The young boy sat in his own excretions as the scream of his mother burned his ears. She didn’t care about what they did to her. No, when she screamed, she begged for them to remove him from the room so he wouldn’t have to watch. The men were creative, though. They included him in decisions like which entrance of his mother’s body they should force themselves into next. But she fought so hard, in fact, that when there was no energy left, saliva hung in strings from her mouth as she dissociated herself from the moment. The boy tried to do the same, but all he could see was the blood and fluids spilling from her open areas. And when he’d try to close his eyes or look away, they’d do something to make her scream in pain, forcing him to focus back on the scene in shock.
“When the last man finally finished, they zipped up their pants, and when he heard his mother sigh in relief, he felt he could breathe again. It was over. He could help her get to a doctor, and they would have survived. But the six men came with a purpose. This was not a random crime. Two of them left the kitchen and came back with his little brother, Arthur. Arthur had been hiding in a closet, and—he was clutching his favorite stuffed rabbit. The rabbit that their selfish father had given to him on his third birthday. Arthur held on to that rabbit like it might save their lives, like holding it tightly would summon their father to protect them. But it did no such thing.”
“Oh God.” The words flee my lips in a broken sob. I make no effort anymore to hold the tears with the strong dam of my will to stay strong for Dessin. They stream heavily down my face.
“The men held Arthur next to Sophia in a chair parallel to the boy. This brought Sophia out of the relief-stricken coma she was resting in. He knew it had somehow gotten worse when she began to beg again, this time with a fury that enraged her. The men put a sickle, sharp enough to cut through a watermelon like butter, in the previous host’s hands and gave him a choice, with calm, daunting voices. He could choose to put his mother out of her misery, or he could end his baby brother’s life. If he didn’t choose, they would both suffer. If he chose one to die, the other would live. It was simple.” He nods his head matter-of-factly, like the enemy that forced his hand had a thoroughly thought-out plan.
My skin morphs from wet to damp to dry, and yet I still shiver, as if tiny maggots are wiggling through my veins. The horrors Dessin must have seen. A choice that no little boy should ever be forced to make. He was introduced to pure evil.
“So simple, in fact, his brain, in the heat of the moment, evolved, rearranged itself. As he looked into Sophia’s eyes, she became at peace, smiling softly. It wasn’t a choice for her. She wasn’t afraid or angry. She looked at him with love and asked him to swing the sickle into her. ‘It’s okay, sweet boy.’ she said. ‘You and Arthur are going to make it without me. I’ll always be with you.’ When he looked at Arthur, his little brother was shaking violently. Tears poured from his eyes, and he wouldn’t let go of that pathetic little rabbit, the same one that he had tossed high in the branches of the backyard tree, taunting little Arthur for fun, the same rabbit that had been dragged through the mud when Arthur would chase his big brother in the rain begging him to let him play too. It all flashed before his eyes, and it was more than this boy could take all on his own.”
He closes his mouth and rubs his fingers across the lining of his jaw. And with this subtle break of concentration, I know he’s about to crush me with the truth.
“In that moment, I came into existence. I was and am stronger. I am dominant. I see clearly without the clouded emotions. Born into this child’s body, I knew I couldn’t take on the six men that had held my family captive. The only logical action was to choose, so he wouldn’t have to. And so I did. I told little Arthur to shut his eyes as I swung the sickle into Sophia’s chest.
“It took what felt like hours for her to die. If I knew then what I know now, I would have aimed for her head. And so, naturally, doing what evil men do, they went back on their word. They yanked the sickle from my hands and plunged it into his baby brother. The tip of the blade tore through his rabbit, saturated heavily with blood. And… Arthur looked up at me through tearing brown eyes under his oversized glasses. He wore overalls that day, had a side part in his brown hair, and he never let go of that rabbit.
“In the end, I saw his eyes as he cried for their mother. In his eyes, he was the only one who knew I wasn’t his brother anymore. A monster had been born. A monster that killed his mother and, in the end, couldn’t protect him. Deep in the back of my mind, I felt the boy howl. I felt him writhe in a pool of suffering he hasn’t been able to swim out of yet.”
It was worse than I could have imagined. I’ve given into the shuddering of my shoulders, the hiccups, and the fire that burns under my cheeks. His story is like a wind that fanned the hot coals deep in my belly. In all of my theories and thoughts and imaginings of what could have happened to him… This wasn’t even a possibility. Dessin came into existence to protect him. He was forced to do something that no child should have to experience. He had to be brave and fearless. In that moment, Dessin was born.
“I—I…”
“You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t me that happened to. It was him,” he corrects me dismissively.
But it doesn’t matter. It happened. Regardless of who I’m speaking to, that unspeakable tragedy and pain is stuck inside his body, rotting like a sick animal in the woods that the other beasts wouldn’t finish off. I can reach out and touch the hateful energy it sends off into the air around him.
“I can’t believe that happened.” The tears don’t stop. “I could kill them—” I roll off of the tree trunk we’ve been sitting on and climb into his lap, pulling myself against him with my arms tight around his neck. But he doesn’t react by embracing me back, only tensing his entire body, every muscle, every joint hardened. “Please, hold me back,” I whisper. “I need to know after everything, you’ll never let me go.”
His breath releases from his firm chest, labored, like the result from hiking up a steep hill, and his warmth spreads from the muscular perimeter he surrounds me with. At first, it touches my cold skin, tingling past the first layer, then, stronger than the fire in front of us, it unfurls through my lungs and into my heart, like being hugged by the sun itself.
Infinite.
“I assume you got your revenge,” I breathe into his neck.
“Justice. I gave him justice. The men took me to Demechnef, where, as you know, I was trained for years. When I was eighteen, I ended those six lives in ways I wouldn’t dare say in front of a lady.” He takes my face in one hand to get a good look at me and winks. “Including his father. The man that sold his family out for this… Experiment.”
“Wait… Experiment?” A low growl comes from the trees above us. Dessin’s head snaps up to search for it. I follow his gaze as he locks his eyes on something in the shadows.
“We should go.” He rises to kick sand over the fire. Lifts my damp dress to put it back on me.
“Why?” I search his expression, trying to understand his urgency.
“There’s someone close.”
