W-H-Y Spells WHY

WARNING: This story covers the abduction of a child, stress, terror, anxiety, and very messy parenting and "parental" figures.

This is a chapter of a larger project titled 'The Winterset Conspiracy." Check out my other entry this week: "Objective: Little Brother."

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Lately, Emile began talking of the future much more often. Telling of just what it would look like. If Abel saw so fit as to stay, how happy that would make him.

"I can assure you, you would never be left without the essentials. Hugs. Or tickles!"

Much as he would yell, which he put a cap on now, he never couldn't laugh.

"We'd have all the time in the world to spend together whenever you want. And face it, it can be pretty soothing huh, to make those yummy pastries for breakfast each morning."

There were also, slight, quite little remarks made ill of the old home. Where Abel had lived and Emile been employed.

Abel had asked, somewhat feigning nerves, of becoming involved. Playing with others and doing something outside the house.

He had baldly requested, to be paid for his work enough to buy his own little things.

Since surely at this point he had earned some manner of trust, dissipated some of the tension that had began their living together.

Besides, wouldn't the adults then begin to look at such constant hovering as over-protective, unnecessary? Domineering.

Emile had laughed, once he'd come back to himself from the nasty shock of such accusation. But allowed the points anyway and delivered.

"You know Abel I'm not sure your parents would appreciate this sly side of you," Emile approached, as he brushed his hair one evening, "the one I've gotten to know. So manipulative."

"As few distractions as possible is my recommendation. His hours will be scheduled accordingly for studies."

Mother took many of the things in his room. All manner of his robots or puzzles and figures. The video games too. His entire collection.

"Why are you taking those? Those are mine." More, just about all, he had earned for his excellent grades. His tutors always making a huge fuss.

"No distractions are better for you," Mother replied, "you're-- you aren't like other children and I'm sure you can manage." A slight smile on her face, brief but mildly encouraging he'd admit.

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One bothersome night Abel tossed and turned, unable to quiet his thoughts.

"Then you aren't or are you?"

"Geez what, did your parents give you up for being such a nuisance-- that, that was wrong."

Violet had turned red, she looked close to crying that day.

Abel couldn't quite remember when his smile was so automatic. Or his voice tinged in something soft and honey-sweet.

"That's the loudest you've ever raised your voice."

And then he flattened his expression back, "you know Violet, whatever you guess is going on what are you going to do anyway? What could you? Would people even believe you?"

"I'm scared of a lot of things," she agreed, "I don't wanna be but I am, people are-- they're scary."

"You would still try to help though, even when it is? When it is really bad?"

Abel smacked his pillow flat, taking it in his hand and moving it just a bit so he could fall back onto it in his discomfort.

Except it was a wonderfully soft bed and a squashy pillow that perfectly molded to fit his head and prop his neck.

Only his mind couldn't focus on the small comforts.

Instead it fixated on the door. Using the dimes and nickels, pins, nail, and various other tools he'd attempted to practice the skill. Picking locks, so as to perhaps access the locked room not far across the hall from his.

Having practiced his own door, he'd been able to lock and unlock himself in his room, out of immediate notice.

He tried the master bedroom as well, with less success but not complete failure.

Yet Emile was either aware of his trials and allowed him the entertainment or simple bad luck sullied his pursuit so that even when he heard a barely audible click was it always time for dinner.

And another, somewhat related: why?

The simple question of motive. For all his time and all his careful finesse he'd come no closer to discerning a reason.

Why did Emile desire a child so strongly and obsessively?

Why kidnap a child rather than getting one by legal means? Adoption, surrogacy, a private affair with anyone else.

Better yet, forsaking a job and career where he could work with children. Always young and malleable, over and over again for all his days.

And of all options, he chose someone like Abel. Now that was possibly the biggest query.

Why a serious, gifted child with no interest in silly immaturity and all his games?

Fact of the matter, Emile made a subpar adult.

He always had.

"Heya there, I'm Emile your new... nanny I guess, your Dad, the boss, calls it assistant though," the new man laughed. "But let's be honest here I'm a nanny. Which means, we get to play all day!"

Emile quickly put his hands down upon the lack of response.

"I don't, see any toys here. Now Abby, did you get in trouble?"

"Ridiculous. No, I am not in trouble you would have been informed if I was. Would you prefer sitting or standing while I read?"

"Not even a videogame! That's a crime. An absolute crime Abby!"

And laid down upon his bed where the ceiling was a beautiful tribute to a distant galaxy lightyears away that swirled green among eternal black.

"Come on, look at the stars with me," he urged. "It's really, wow that is seriously amazingly nice."

They'd spent hours like that. Emile per usual, possessing the most superficial, and often wrong, of insights on topics such as the stars.

Leaving Abel to guide the impromptu activity or games of all sorts.

There were often days out to parks and stores, getting candy or other baked goods and sugar from vendors on the street.

Many times there were "just because," trinkets and outings. Often at breakfast time with stealth and secrecy as if he'd actually dare not clear things with the security.

After the first time he'd been hauled straight out of his shoes. A hyperbole, however no less... amusing to bear witness. Even if there'd been stony silence from Father that day.

And that cursed assurance.

"Way I see things Abel you're the only one that matters. Long as you're happy and smiling that little smile," poking at his nose, grinning quite widely himself, "that's the one, then I've done my job. You just say the word, I'll do the deed."

Like a robot or a genie. A fairy godparent-worker thing!

"Really, fairies neither? Oh that is just wrong, we're fixing this!"

Under his covers, trembling from an absent chill or the thump-thump-thump pattering of his chest he wasn't completely sure.

Simply, Abel pulled. So the fabric covered his mouth, almost his whole head when he curved his spine.

Even before Emile had shown up, Abel had put in countless efforts of work. Given scant coins as a reward.

So that in three years he saved enough for a whole hundred dollar bill. All by himself.

He and Emile had both been shrill to see the number.

One. Zero and zero. With an inconsequential o' eight cents after the decimal point.

Emile had jumped into the pond, despite its futility, to get that bill back when his smaller hands had let it go.

"Why did you do that? It was unsafe."

"True, useless too," he said, frowning at the smidgeon of dark green mache paper, "but well it was important to you."

And it was the easiest thing in the world to say.

Abel raked both hands through his hair.

Strong, scratching and annoying confoundment striking so fierce it physically struck right between his eyes, biting his lip Abel kept a steady breathing pattern locked inside his diaphragm.

And perhaps, that was why the room was locked. If he opened it, would he find a much less flattering sort of obsession.

An answer to these questions, settling his mind once and for all.

Photos and newspapers of all sorts, not just the family with one exceptional child, but of all manner of children. That in the long run, Abel was hardly any sort of special.

Plastered all across the walls and the floor like in the crime dramas not meant for him to have been watching.

Strictly restricted and monitored once Emile had found out.

Perhaps he had some drive, encompassing some matter of children as a whole.

He did harp quite a lot on what a child is supposed to need and to have in service of certain needs. Much different ones than stimulation and enhancement.

Or was it simply where he kept the evidence? Perhaps false documents, identifications, some of the adults had spoken to Emile about whether Abel would be enrolled into school for the fall.

It couldn't hurt to ask at least, about what the plan was there.

Much as he resented it, there was only one place to turn for answers.

Shuffling out of bed Abel kept his steps quiet and even, barefoot toward his bedroom door, closed but not locked.

The sound of it made him wince, he'd have to remember to tell Emile it needed something in the morning, otherwise the sound would get annoying real quick.

Keeping his pace on the vacant hall brimmed with deep bluish film Abel treaded carefully of each floorboard, of the longer than wide rug used to decorate the space. Minding that he didn't trip or stumble until he reached the closed master bedroom and turned that knob as well.

The fleeting notion of all he could do while the man slept did occur to him. But was stamped down cold, considering quite concisely that he was far bigger as evidenced by the bigger bed needed to accommodate an adult.

Emile never had or much less mentioned it, but that did not mean he would not starve Abel of food and water if he felt sufficiently threatened of his capabilities to do harm.

For a few moments he simply gazed at how his captor so peacefully slept.

His breathing slow and methodical, by his mental count coming in even intervals.

Mouth constantly open.

Abel wasn't completely certain on how to ask for this certain need.

Did he dare admit it? That at the moment, he required an adult to ease his mind from unpleasant notions and constant questions that would not stop.

And yet, wasn't he still the one in control at the moment? In fact, he'd dare say he hasn't had this manner of autonomy since before this entire ordeal.

Any degree of control, was worth taking full advantage of. Permitting himself the metaphorical chance to breathe.

Therefore taking away the (nonexistent) possibility for the man to refuse as he nestled himself into the thick comforter beside him.

Jolting Emile somewhat awake.

"Hmm. What? Izz tha' you?"

"I couldn't sleep," Abel whispered.

"Oh, oh nooo," he slurred, "diyou have a nightmare?"

Emile yawned, swallowing back something or another so he could speak more clearly. "Well don't worry I'm here. And you're safe and sound."

"I have questions and no they cannot wait until morning," he replied, voice firm and with the kind of authority he'd been accustomed to exercising in that house.

"Alright then, ask away, but mind you I cannot just wake up so excuse me if I still need a-- need a aminute to think."

"That is acceptable."

Matching the way Emile turned to his side, held up by his single forearm under the sheets.

"Could you lie back?" Emile asked, "maybe I can stroke your hair, that-- that used to soothe me. Still does actually."

Abel though for a moment taken aback complied anyway. More than likely the concession would put his guard down. And in such a weary state, say more than he should.

"Emile what-- what makes me special? Why fixate on me when you could, well perhaps abscond with a more compliant child? One who would appreciate your games and the like."

"Abby, Abby," Emile mused, fingers through his scalp in such a light way that sent a pleasurable shudder through his body-- that drew him almost breathless. "That's exactly why it had to be you and only you, you just as you are is who I care about. What am I going to do with some "normal child?" That type is well and good exactly where they are in the world."

His soothing continued, continued to send a pleasant numbness throughout his extremities, forcing his focus on simply warm, larger hands handling his scalp with such skilled precision.

"Such as 'round here, Abel did you know that a parent's love is one that loves their child so completely, with their entire being, that in some ways they come to see through that child's eyes?"

"Is that-- is that what occurred?"

Abel's question turned to a whisper. And did that perhaps provide some high akin to that of a drug or illegality?

"No," Emile answered, pulling Abel just a little closer to himself, wrapping him up in an almost burning warmth. "No I don't believe anyone looked at me that way and in fact not anyone around me either. I don't know why."

"That wasn't what I asked," he complained but slowly waning in his resolves.

"Do you, even like children?" came the next question, uncomfortable, terse.

And Emile gripped tighter.

"Just the opposite. I adore them, in fact, I'm in awe of sometimes how much stronger they are. Whether that's because they're just made of some grittier stuff or if its since they so easily go into their delusions."

"Delusions?"

"Abby, no one helps children. No one helped. No one cares to hear them or let them speak at their own time or in their own words."

"What-- what is it that you like about me? Particularly?"

"I suppose the way you look me in the eyes, the way you spoke without restraint or some may say respect for your elders."

"Because you're absent-minded and silly, and completely unaware of social niceties or etiquette yourself when it comes to other adults."

"Well I don't like "other adults" very much, how about that," Emile pouted. "Like I said, they never listen, never give us the time of day son."

Abel wasn't sure he had processed that correctly.

Most, yes. And Emile had gone silent as well. Then did that mean-- was it a slip of the tongue? Calling him son of all things?

It should have been obvious in retrospect.

"If you want an answer as to why Abby," he hated that nickname, "I want you to be loved just as you are. There's nothing to prove here, I'm here for you just as you are. You are a good son, please believe me that you're a good son."

Abel finally pulled away, expecting laughter but only received a low, lazy whine.

A good son.

Simply a good son.

Wait, Emile was an adult. What did he mean they never listened--

Oh.

Abel felt cold.

Absent of a soothing repetition. If he could bury himself in enough warmth and enough of the soft garment, falling asleep to the constant rhythm of an unfettered heartbeat...

Abel could forget that he'd ever been sad, had falsely attributed what was surely cloying, poisoned affections.

Objective: Pass-fail.