Chapter 10: The Masquerade
1812 Words
Two weeks later, the cane wasn't a prop anymore; it was a limb.
Liam sat in the sunken armchair of Ben’s living room, a prisoner of his own disintegrating biology. The house was silent, save for the refrigerator’s compressor and the Hum inside his skull. The noise had graduated from a background static to a physical presence—a hive of wasps trapped in the bone of his temporal lobe, vibrating against the back of his eyes.
Tick-tock, the tumor whispered. Tick-tock.
He stared at the wooden cane leaning against the wall. It was an ugly thing—dark walnut, purchased online because he couldn't bear the shame of buying one at the pharmacy where he used to buy Sarah’s cold medicine.
His left leg had officially resigned from the union. It was a dead weight, a log of meat and bone that dragged behind him, numb to the touch but screaming with phantom nerve pain deep in the marrow.
He reached for the bottle of painkillers on the coffee table. His hand—the left one, the traitor—spasmed violently.
Clatter.
The bottle tipped. Orange pills scattered across the hardwood floor like hail, spinning and settling in the dust.
"Dammit," Liam hissed, the word scraping his throat.
He leaned forward, gritting his teeth against the vertigo that swooped in every time he moved his head too fast. He reached for a pill.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was sharp, confident, and terrifyingly close. It wasn't the polite knock of a delivery driver. It was a knock that knew it belonged there.
"Ben?"
Sarah’s voice drifted through the door, muffled but bright. "I know you're in there! I saw the light on. I have a crisis involving a very stubborn jar of pickles!"
Liam froze. His heart hammered a frantic, broken rhythm against his ribs.
She was ten feet away.
He looked at the room. It was a crime scene of terminal illness. The cane leaning against the chair. The pills scattered on the floor like a suicide note. The spiral-bound notebook—The Manual—lying open on the sofa cushion, the words HOW TO CALM HER DOWN scrawled in shaky black ink.
"Just a second!" Liam yelled. His voice cracked, high and thin with panic.
He scrambled.
He threw himself off the chair, ignoring the shriek of protest from his bad hip. He swiped the pills under the sofa with a desperate sweep of his arm, sending dust bunnies flying. He grabbed the notebook and shoved it violently between the cushions, burying the evidence of his love.
He reached for the cane.
No, his brain screamed. The neighbor doesn't have a cane. The neighbor is thirty years old and healthy. The neighbor plays basketball on weekends.
He tossed the cane behind the heavy velvet curtains. It landed with a soft, muffled thud.
He stood up. The room tilted dangerously to the left, spilling his equilibrium. He grabbed the back of the armchair, white-knuckling the fabric, locking his knees until the world stopped spinning.
Breathe, he commanded. Showtime.
He wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his upper lip. He forced his face into a mask of casual annoyance. He limped to the door.
Walk normal. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Don't drag it.
He opened the door.
Sarah stood on the porch, framed by the falling snow. She was wearing a thick wool coat and a beanie with a ridiculous pom-pom on top. She was clutching a jar of kosher dill pickles to her chest like a baby.
She looked up. Her smile—that radiant, blinding thing—faltered for a fraction of a second when she saw him.
"Oh," she said. "Liam. I thought Ben was home."
"He's... running late," Liam said. He kept his hand firmly on the doorknob, using it as a crutch. He blocked the entrance with his body. He couldn't let her see the pills under the couch. He couldn't let her smell the sickness on him.
"Can I help you?"
"I feel ridiculous," Sarah said, holding up the jar. The glass was cold, wet with condensation. "I have zero upper body strength since the accident, and I really want a pickle. I was hoping Ben could use his muscles."
She peered past him into the dim hallway. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Are you okay, Liam? You look... wrecked. You're sweating."
"Workout," Liam lied instantly. The word tasted like copper. "I was doing... pushups. High intensity."
"In a flannel shirt?" Sarah raised an eyebrow. The old Sarah—the sharp, observant critic—shone through the amnesia.
"It's a... new trend," Liam stammered, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "Sweat-wicking flannel."
Sarah laughed. It was a beautiful, easy sound that twisted a knife in his gut.
"Okay, well, since you're in such high-intensity shape, think you can c***k this?" She held out the jar.
Liam looked at the jar. He looked at his hands.
His left hand was useless—a claw that barely obeyed him. His right hand was strong, but the tremors were getting worse. The Hum was vibrating in his fingertips.
If he held the jar, she would see the shake. She would feel the vibration of the tumor running through his bones.
But if he refused? A healthy young man refusing to open a pickle jar for a damsel in distress? It would be suspicious. It would be rude. It would be un-neighborly.
"Sure," Liam said.
He reached out with his right hand. He took the jar. It was heavy, cold, and damp.
He braced himself. He planted his feet, locking his bad knee. He clamped his hand around the lid. He focused every ounce of willpower into his forearm.
Don't shake, he prayed to a God he no longer believed in. Just twist. Twist and be done.
He grunted, applying torque.
His hand started to tremble. Not a little shiver, but a violent, rhythmic vibration. The liquid inside the jar sloshed around, the pickles bumping against the glass.
Sarah watched him. Her smile faded. Her gaze dropped to his hand.
"Liam?" she asked softly. "You're shaking."
"It's the... the workout," Liam gasped, his face turning red from exertion and terror. "Muscle fatigue. Lactic acid."
He gave one final, desperate wrench. He poured his remaining life force into that lid.
POP.
The vacuum seal broke.
Relief washed over him so strong it almost made him pass out. The black spots dancing in his vision receded.
He loosened the lid and handed the jar back to her, quickly shoving his trembling hand into his pocket before it could betray him further.
"There," he breathed, leaning heavily against the doorframe again. "Open."
"Thanks," Sarah said, taking the jar.
She didn't leave immediately. She stood there, studying him. Her eyes searched his face, scanning the lines of pain around his mouth, the sweat on his brow. She was looking for something she couldn't quite name.
"You know," she said slowly, her voice thoughtful. "It's funny. Ben opened a jar for me yesterday, and he made the exact same face you just did. That little scrunch of the nose."
Liam’s heart slammed against his ribs.
The nose scrunch.
It was a subconscious tic. He did it when he was concentrating. He hadn't put that in the manual. He couldn't control it. And Ben... Ben must have picked it up. Mirroring. Osmosis.
"Universal face of effort," Liam deflected, forcing a grin that felt like a rictus of terror. "We all look the same when we're fighting pickles."
Sarah smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes this time. She looked... unsettled.
"Maybe," she murmured. "Anyway... tell Ben I stopped by? And tell him..."
She paused. A faint blush rose on her cheeks, contrasting with the snow.
"Tell him thank you for the peonies. They're beautiful. I don't know how he knew they were my favorite, but... he's amazing."
The Peonies.
Liam felt a phantom pain in his chest, sharper than the tumor. He had written that entry three days ago. Page 12: Flowers. He had told Ben exactly which florist to call. He had told him to order the 'Sarah Special'—mostly peonies, with a few sprigs of eucalyptus, no baby's breath.
"He pays attention," Liam whispered. "He's a good guy."
"He is," Sarah agreed. She hugged the pickle jar to her chest, looking at the house next door—their house—with a look of soft wonder. "I feel really lucky. I lost my memory, but... I feel like I'm finding myself again. And he's making it so easy. It's like he has a map to my brain."
He does, Liam thought bitterly. And I drew it in crayon.
"I'm glad," Liam said.
"Well, I'll let you get back to your... flannel workout," Sarah teased, the lightness returning to her voice. "Bye, neighbor."
"Bye," Liam said.
He watched her walk back to the townhouse. She walked lightly, happy, safe. She walked like a woman who was loved.
He waited until she closed her front door.
Then, he closed his.
The moment the latch clicked, Liam crumpled.
He didn't try to catch himself. He didn't have the strength. He just let gravity take him.
He slid down the doorframe and hit the floor hard. The impact jarred his hip, sending a spike of agony up his spine, but he didn't care. He pulled his trembling hand out of his pocket and stared at it. It was still shaking, a useless, vibrating claw.
He had survived the encounter. He had played the role. He had successfully convinced the love of his life that he was just a sweaty, trembling stranger who lived next door.
But the look in her eyes when she talked about the peonies... that was the real killer. That was the moment he realized he was truly dead. She wasn't just forgetting him; she was replacing him.
He crawled across the floor—literally crawled, dragging his dead leg behind him like a wounded animal—until he reached the curtains.
He fished out the cane.
He pulled himself up onto the sofa and dug the notebook out from between the cushions.
He opened it to a fresh page. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely hold the pen, the ink blotching on the cheap paper, but he had to write this down. He had to warn Ben.
Page 21: The Look.
– When she looks at you like you hung the moon, don't look away. Hold her gaze. – She notices the small things. The nose scrunch. The way you hold a jar. – Be careful. She is starting to see ghosts.
Liam closed the book. He lay back on the couch, listening to the Hum in his head rise to a deafening crescendo, and waited for the darkness to come and finish what the pickles couldn't.
- Writer
