Only In Darkness

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Milo

Massacre Rocks, Idaho 2017

I stand looking off the cliff at the raging river and jagged boulders below. I'm going to jump—or rather, let myself give in to it and just fall. That I know. What I don't know is what will happen next. There are two ways it will end, and the more I think about it, the more trouble I have deciding which result will be worse. Often, it's the not knowing that makes life hell. I've been in the dark and unaware for so many years. Now I know what I am. But it is the unknown of what that fate holds for me, should I survive, that makes me shudder.

I've lost my family, my friends, and everything I've ever known, and still, someone, or something, is out there hunting me down like an animal, trying to take what has completely altered my life. The only thing I do know is I'm going to take the leap. It will be a rush for a few seconds, and then I will hit the rocks and hopefully die instantly or—and this is what I can't fathom—if what they say is true, my back will explode, and I will transform into what my grandmother and the others of the tribe call the Winged Ones.

At that point, I will soar and begin a life of uncertainty, or I will be unable to work my new wings and crash to the ground, and all they will find is the evidence of what could be the last of my kind. It's a terrible fate, either way. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to live the rest of my life in isolation, afraid of who wants my curse and willing to kill me for it. I want to love, but they tell me there is no chance of that unless I follow those who have turned. I don't want to believe that, and the only way I will ever know the truth is if I take this first step.

My name is Emilio Chavez. I go by Milo. There was nothing special about my birth. My mother was alone from the beginning. She never talks about my father, so I'm not even sure if he's still alive. I have my mother's dark hair and eyes. My last name is hers, not his, so I don't even have that from him. I was a normal baby, and it wasn't until I was about three years old that the concerns began.

It was my mother who noticed it first. Or at least she was the first one to say anything.

She was drying me off after a bath and noticed the irregular ridges along my spine. The skin covering the bumps was dry and scaly. It wasn't a rash, but a distinct and hardened covering.

My grandmother looked at the patches, but stayed silent.

"Does it seem to hurt him?" my mother asked, her eyebrows knitted in concern.

My grandmother only shrugged.

That night, my mother showed my back to my grandfather. He saw the odd ridges and looked with forlorn eyes at my grandmother.

"What is it?" my mother asked, seeing their shared glance of concern.

My grandfather gave an apologetic smile and left the room. It seems that is when he began to retreat from our lives. I had always found my solace with him. My mother and grandmother argued continually. My grandfather was quiet and would whisk me away from their quarrels and outside where he'd find a nook or hollow near the lava rock cliffs near our house.

There, he taught me games with rocks and sticks or told me stories about other worlds. When he weaved his yarns, it was about strength and truth, and how being happy was important, but even more so, you should do what is right and stand up for that. Being so young, I didn't completely understand what it all meant. I just relished the colorful tales and my time with him.

As the ridges on my back became more prominent, my mother took it upon herself to douse me in lotions and creams, trying to soften the scaly patches, but nothing worked. She hesitated to call the doctor, hoping it was nothing more than a childhood ailment, but after several months, she finally insisted.

"I'm worried about him," my mother said as she fingered the ridges along my spine.

"Don't do it, Cassandra," my grandmother insisted when she learned about my appointment with the doctor. "They will only make it worse. It isn't something they will understand."

Confused, my mother took me from my grandmother's arms. "Understand?" she asked indignantly. "They will be able to help him. What if there's something wrong and he needs treatment? You want me to keep him from that?"

"Those doctors won't understand," she urged.

My mother rolled her eyes. She knew how my grandmother felt about doctors and hospitals, and she grew tired of the old ways and paranoia of anything associated with the modern world. They continued to argue until the day of my appointment.

My mother refused to listen, and she took me to the pediatrician. The doctor shuffled in, rarely looking up from his clipboard, ran a hand over my shoulder blades several times, gave a few befuddled hums, and wrote out directions on a small pad of paper.

I was diagnosed with a rash, and the doctor prescribed a thick cream that my mother applied to my back each night. It seemed like a simple fix, yet the wound between my mother and grandmother needed more than ointment.

As much as my mother hated to admit it, the ointment didn't work, and the growths on my back became even more prominent. This only intensified the tension in our house. I lost my grandfather on the eve of my eighth birthday. I had no idea what the connection was between the ridges on my back and the reason why he was gone.

My mother insisted on finding treatment from doctors, and that's when my grandmother did what she’d hoped she never had to do. She broke her silence and told her daughter about the curse my mother carried. A misery that was now mine.

"Your father came from the tribe of the Munzi in Nicaragua. He came here with others to escape. They were feared and hunted there. For a long time, they lived without problems. But then the others found out they were here and came after him. They'll come after Milo, too."

"Who will?"

"The same ones who came after your father. They'll know Milo has it. The men of the tribe pass something along to their sons. It is something only given to the boys. That is why you are free of it. We thought it was gone. That it was over."

My mother huffed in exasperation. "Are you saying my son is cursed?" she asked. "He has something on his back that needs treatment. Nothing more."

"It is a small thing now, but it will change as he grows. He will die if we don't take him to the colony. Only there will he be safe."

My mother's face turned red with anger. "Do you realize how crazy you sound? I don't want you around him if this is how you feel."

Esmeralda took my mother's hands. "I love him more than my own life. That is why I'm telling you this."

Her tone was so steadfast, it sat my mother into a chair. She fell silent. She blinked and just shook her head, confused.

"You need to know so you can protect him. Please, Cassandra, listen to what I say. It's what killed your father."

My mother scoffed. "I know what killed my father. Stop making up stories to try and erase what he did."

My grandmother sighed, defeated. "I know what you think, but I know what I'm saying is true. I saw it with my own eyes. Your father…" She paused a moment and brought his image into her mind. Her face went sad. "Your father was one of the last of their kind. He told me it only affected the boys, so we thought it was over when you were born. I didn't think about…"

She turned to me as I sat on the sofa watching my favorite cartoon, pretending to be oblivious to their discussion.

"Emilio." She said it in a tortured whisper.

"What is it?" my mother demanded. "Why can't the doctors help him?"

"It isn't something they understand. It's not of this world."

My mother stood up and put her hands to her face. "What? Not of this world?" she bellowed.

"Cassandra, please!" my grandmother pleaded. "If you don't listen, Milo could be hurt or worse."

"How?"

"The doctors don't understand what this is and think it is cancer. They try to remove it, and that is when they either cripple them…" she searched for the words. "Or worse."

"So, if it isn't cancer, what is it?" my mother asked. Her tone was both demanding and accusatory.

My grandmother's face was pained. She dropped her eyes.

"Am I supposed to let him suffer? Do nothing?" my mother demanded.

My grandmother motioned to me. "He isn't suffering. It is part of him. When he's older, we can take him to the colony, and they will know what to do."

"What colony? He isn't some type of leper."

My grandmother shook her head slowly. "No, but he isn't like us and will need their guidance."

"I'm not handing my son over to anyone."

"Cassandra, this is bigger than you and me. He will need to be with those who can help him."

"He needs a doctor!" my mother exclaimed. "Handing my child over to a bunch of voodoo people isn't going to help him."

My grandmother lowered her head and spoke softly. "Cassandra, I know how you feel about what happened to your father, but the people who knew your father are the ones who know what Milo needs to survive. If we don't go to them, he will die."

"How can you say that?"

"I'm telling you this because I love Milo. I don't want to see him hurt." My grandmother turned and watched me as I stared at the television.

"If this is what happened to my father, then I want no part of it."

Esmeralda took an exhausted breath. "It's been years since I've seen any of the people of the colony. I wouldn't even suggest it, but Milo needs help."

"What is wrong with him? Tell me!"

"I'm trying. Please, Cassandra," she pleaded with my mother. "All I can tell you is I know what will happen if you don't."