INITIUM

Life—a concept many argue about. An idea, a reality that pushes our minds to the limits. So many things come from it; so many things are taken by it. Life is an unstoppable force that even the most powerful magicker in the world cannot stop or alter. Though many do try.

Life is something I hate, but love with the whole of my heart. Despised, but beloved. The startling difference between black and white. Love is that gray in Life. That perfected the balance of Life in its fullest.

Love.

It’s also the thing that ruined me.

CHAPTER I

“I feel as though we should do something about this problem, Mr. Greyhead.”

My mind is slightly muddled from my medicine I used earlier in the day, but somehow, with the meek strength that I possess, I answer my typist back. “And what exactly is the problem, Miss Bass?” I hear shuffling behind my closed office door, then it opens and Miss Bass pops her head in, glasses so similar to my own perched on the bridge of her ivory nose.

“The Archer file.” A file slides into the narrow space. ARCHER is on the front of it, bold and center, and I sigh.

“Isn’t that the one,” I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes, not at all startled at the white streaks that dash through my closed eyelids, “With that—that peculiar man who kept looking at Henry strangely?”

“The exact one, sir.”

“Can’t someone else do it?” I reach over to the right edge of my desk to grab my cup of coffee. I take a sip and snatch the corner of my most recent report to bring it closer to me. I still have many to complete; the Bureau has given me several documents to uncover, most likely to keep me busy and out of the field—I have two reasons why. My magickal stamina is probably reason number one. Too large, but too special to lose, especially after that incident from three years ago. And reason number two is that I didn’t want to be in the field either and agreed to document every folder they sent to me, no matter how stupid. “It isn’t even a murder case. Mr. Archer heard a noise in the night, that was probably just two young children doing the_ unthinkable_ and snogging beneath the moonlight, and called us because of his misinterpretation of the scene.”

Miss Bass shrugs, not truly believing it but is agreeing for my sake. “Alright, I’ll take it to Percival in the afternoon.” She leans out of the door but pauses before closing it. “Mr. Greyhead.”

 I look up, my head heavy as my strength leaves once more. “Yes?”

“Are you…alright? I notice you seem more out of it these days.”

Those three words unlock something in me, and a feeling akin to regret washes over me. The worry, the care in them; the very things I’ve been trying to prevent from entering my life again. I deserve nothing of the sort—after what I did, a selfish man such as me deserves nothing but Death. That is why I have to stay distant, remote, for if those feelings enter my troubled heart once more, I fear that I will break down until I am nothing but a pile of pathetic ash.

So my body reacts involuntarily. Playing the game for so long makes one an expert in this field. I frown, eyes narrowing, body tensing with a tone that says back off. “That is none of your business, but if you so wish to know, I am doing quite fine. Good day, Miss Bass.”

I, really, am the exact opposite of fine. I’ve been being selfish and taking more pills than I should. But I don’t want to remember. I don’t.

Miss Bass feels the full extent of my displeasure, though it should have pleased me that she asked that question. So that is why? She only wanted to seem like a good guy—or, rather, a woman. She doesn’t care, why would she? I’m just another one of her employers who pays her paycheck. The look in her eyes and her feelings are all random guesses to me.

She gives me a curt smile, politeness masking that look in her eyes. The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence settles over me like a heavy weight. I force myself to focus on my reports again, the silence filling a hole within me that threatened to expand when Miss Bass expressed her concern.

“There have been no Vice attacks since late August, I wonder about that.” I sip on the rim of my mug, spitting the coffee back out when I find that it's cold. Human interactions have messed up my schedule, how awful. I put my mug back on my desk and grab the paper with both hands. I was never one to be interested in reading, let alone writing, and my past education was not one to be appraised for. If it wasn’t part of my job, I would have never even thought about the thing. Reading out loud, I’ve found, seems to help me hold the information inside of this brain of mine. I really don’t know how those readers do it.

“‘Every report so far seems to have been something mundane, such as: robberies, family disputes, and other things of the sort. Why they are calling us, we have no idea, but the Mundane Police Force has assured us that they will try to direct their people to come to them.’ I may have to correct some things, but it seems in check so far. Ugh. I think I may have overdosed on the pills a bit,” I mutter, the report slipping from my fingers. I lean back in my chair, eyes closing involuntarily. One nap. That’s all I need to reset. Just enough to escape, not too long to let the memories break the dam and come flooding in.

My mind shuts down and I retreat into the silence filled oblivion that feels like home.

It’s night when I finally leave. Miss Bass had left hours before me, as well as other coworkers in my office, so I didn’t have to waste any of my energy or time to talk or evade. The night air is cool, the wind low and carrying the light fog with it. The streetlamps illuminate the streets with a damp, orange glow. There aren’t many people out at the moment, and they all seem to keep to themselves. It’s nice; I have the attention that I deserve: none. Here, the Mundane know my name, but don’t care enough to memorize my face; to enact a conversation with me or try to get me on their good side.

Pleasant is what I use to describe this. That’s a rare word for me.

I feel a bit better now, more of my strength returning to me from under the haze of drugs. Tucking my chin into my coat, I hurry my steps as my body starts to feel the cold spikes of winter. When I get home, to my small, cramped and shared apartment, I will continue on my schedule, ignore my roommate Benjamin, who should be home by this time, take a quick dip in my tub, put on my nightgown, take my pill, and go to sleep.

These steps provide no room for error. They keep me safe and others safe from me.

“Rayburn! You're late, chap.” Benjamin is on the couch when I enter, a woman by his side half-clothed and flushed and looking angry that I had just interpreted them. “You had a rough day at the office?”

I brush by him and head straight to my room, catching the wide gaze from the woman. A Magickal one then, how annoying. It seems the “pleasantness” of the night has disappeared.  

“Good night, Benjamin.” I shut the door behind me, shrugging off my coat as I head to the washroom that connects to both our rooms.

“Oh, come on, Rayburn—I told you to call me Benji.” His muffled voice sighs. I don’t respond, instead I grab a rag from the top of my drawer, across the room from my small bed, and head to the washroom.

Several pumps of the parish pump, dips in the cold water, and harsh scrubs later, I emerge from the place shivering, wishing that I had bought a towel and remembering that Benjamin has one. I shake my head, twisting my flat yellowish curls that once glowed yellow in the sun and ring the water from them with my hands. “My god, what an awful thought. Asking that man, who can’t even hold himself from touching the nearest female specimen, for help. I must be going insane. Or maybe I am…where is my medicine?” I take my nightgown from my drawer and pull it over my head, walking to where my bed is positioned under my window. I have a studio—if you can call a small windowless room a studio—where I sketch sometimes. Today, I don’t feel like doing so, I don’t feel like doing anything. I just want to take a pill and hop into my bed, but—

“Where are they?” My head starts to spin as I kneel to search under my bed. “No, they couldn’t have just ran from my room, so where are they?” My hands start to shake as I look; my heart starts to race; there isn’t a part of my body that isn’t reacting to this. I need it.

Where. Is. It?

I check the drawers. No.

I check the washroom. No.

I check my bag. No.

Studio. No.

Kitchen. No.

Couch. No.

No. No. No. No.

I can’t breathe, my schedule is knocked all over the place. I can’t sleep without my medicine. I can’t do anything without my medicine. If I don’t have it, my mind will wander, and when it wanders, it goes to the past. In the past where I made mistakes. In the past where a bright boy waved to me and kept calling me the wrong name, loving the way I frowned at him. In the past where that same boy looked at me, heart broken and tears streaking his face as I left him in the rain.

“Rayburn? Are you alright.” A few steps toward me sound on the wooden floor. “Oh lord! Why are you just laying on the ground? Rayburn? Hey, Rayburn?”

“What’s wrong with him?” A female voice joins him, but I don’t care. It all turns to static as my eyes grow heavy.

“Leave me alone!” I shout at them, pushing them away as I scramble to my room. I close my door and tuck myself into a corner, shaking and shivering. “No, no,” I plead to myself to not sleep, stay awake, “I just have to find them…not yet…please don’t….”