Page 2 of Light Leech

Two thought streams warred in my mind. One for survival, screaming that this was a repeat of the Cuttles. The other told me that need was not the same desire. The Cuttles called for love, obeisance, and devotion. This called for my attention, brief though it was, to cast my mind elsewhere.

I was at home. I had a home. Not an apartment, but a home owned by the wealthy of myth.

I sat with a book in my hand, one of the thick ones I wanted to have the time for, looking up to the person in the chair across from me. White light lit the room. I was content without the vanity of violet or even blue.

“Is everything alright?” she asked. Seeing her face, recognition dispelled my amnesia. This was my wife. Zeg, this was Naoma. She held an infant in her arms. When the child started to cry, she rocked it back into a blissful sleep. Not it. She.

Syla. That was her name. I knew it because I gave it to her.

“Pet?” Naoma asked. She was older though far from wrinkled. Her hair was black. Any makeup she had was free of light. She wore a red robe, free of any electronics or light.

“Yeah,” I said, laughing in relief. Zeg, what did I do to deserve this life?

The years played through my mind. Our wedding. Traveling together. The word “Gongtide” came to my mind, yet it carried no meaning.

Remnants of a barbaric hunger tickled the back of my mind, yet the need to feed had diminished. Why did this hunger leave an ache that could never be satiated?

A boy ran into the room and up to his mother. “Devóne,” she said, “did you finish your–”

“Not yet, Moooom.” He dragged out his complaint, stopping when we locked eyes. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

He was five. Memories of his birth raced through my mind. Naoma had chosen a natural birth. She wore white on that day.

Still no memories of light.

There never was physical light.

“Your dad’s just tired from work, right, Pet?”

I laughed, trying to dispel the tension. “Just trying to work as hard as your mom.”

Naoma scowled at me, though it was a playful gesture. “Handling these two isn’t the same as what you do.”

And that is? I couldn’t recall. I tried to ponder ‌it, but my son spoke to cut off my cognitive trail.

“Is dinner ready?”

“Almost,” Naoma replied.

“What is it?”

“Can’t you smell it?”

My boy shook his head.

“Teeth just like–” She stopped and I felt like time rewound to correct a mistake. “Soup just like you asked for.”

Something was wrong.

“Devóne,” I said.

My son turned to me. “Yeah, Dad?”

Devóne. That name resonated deep within my memory, yet its ties to my life were beyond my reach. Where had I gotten that name? Why had I given it to my son?

Devóne shrugged, seeing that I was not going to answer him, and walked towards the kitchen.

Devóne. Boyband. Teeth. These ideas pulled memories that felt forbidden as if the world was trying to convince me that they were false, despite my personal assurance.