Nicholas Vials: The Case Of Michael Vials

Though it had been a foggy night, for Nicholas, as he stumbled onto the tree, his eyes saw better than he did when he was sober. The leaves towered over him, berries chimed above him like fruit waiting to be picked, so sweet and ripe. He felt himself lean onto the rough bark of the tree, his hand shedding skin as tiny splinters stabbed him. With his back against the trunk of the tree, he slid down, his coat hung against the bark as though it had been hung. Nicholas breathed, but he couldn't find relief. His hands shook, he was unable to find air in nature. His feet felt weak, the little strength he had diminished. His heart felt like a spider fighting against its own knots to be let free, a shadow set precedence in his chest. It was his first time drinking irresponsibly, and he already felt overwhelmed.

Nicholas mustered his energy, standing on his two feet once more. Though he wobbled and slipped, the act itself was enough to incite a retaliatory revulsion from his guts.

He fell against the trunk of another before falling onto the grass, bruising his chin from the fall. Another attempt at standing up, his hand pushed away the Earth, steadying his body once more. His eyes saw just a shadow through the fog, its grey silhouette welcoming and warm to the hopeless traveler.

He stood again, his arm had gone completely numb. The spectacle crowded by the tall lush green trees, yielding its branches around the tree like a bird's nest. Nicholas walked intently, his enthusiasm unwavering, and his veins throbbed as though they were to tear from the pressure. His confusion was unlike any he had ever felt before.

Why he was here, it was unclear. He had been sneaking drinks in the institute; he was drinking, and now he stood before the stairs of a small house. The house itself hadn't been refurbished in years; the walls were made of creaky wood that threatened to break into itself. The windows broken, the remainder of its glass had been smothered with mud and paint.

He approached the stairs of the house, his shadow like a reflection, hunched over and jittery. His hair stuck out in odd places, his chest rising and falling without rhythm or pattern.

It only took Nicholas one step. His toe stepped on another; his hand attempted to save him but before he had the chance, he fell on the stairs headfirst, physically feeling the crack form on his skeleton.

...

"I don't know, I don't know," the man said to himself. Nicholas merely heard him mumble, his mind playing a trick of being in control though being totally unconscious. His senses were present but not in his control.

The man hummed to himself, walking back and forth like a pendulum, dancing across the plain field. He started clicking his tongue, almost like in a row with his own self.

"No, no, no," he argued against no one in particular.

Nicholas felt his fingers again; it was like finally seeing the light. His head bobbed up, looking around, finding no familiar face. His only observation; the blood that ran down one side of his face, making his hair stick out, reminiscent of a chicken's feathers. The other, the gun in the man's hands.

He coyly placed it against his forehead, as if in deep thought as he wandered. Nicholas clumped his brows together in confusion, his arm still slightly stale by his side, his tongue had gained much of its feeling back.

The man finally opened his eyes, looking at the boy who lay on the stairs, unable to move, simply to stare in horror.

He stiffened his posture; his dark skin shone against the sun like glass being put before a fire. His gun by his side, he approached Nicholas like a bull that saw red. His swiftness left Nicholas' mind, which was already in a haze, to silence, Nicholas was left looking at the spot above him.

Henry pulled the collar of his shirt. His eyes were set into Nicholas', angular and sharp.

"Who sent you?" Henry questioned sternly; there was nothing non-serious about the way he phrased it.

Nicholas turned his gaze away from the ceiling, finally acknowledging the man before him, his mouth agape, flustered. "Can I have some water?" he asked as non-threateningly as he could.

Henry didn't hesitate to take his gun, aiming straight at his head. He pushed into his temple as if knocking on a door. "Who are you?" he questioned, demanding an answer.

"Nicholas Vials," Nicholas said, gulping away the lump that formed in his throat. "Can I have some water?" he asked again. Though he had noticed the immediate change in the transgressor's expression, falling from raging cold to sympathetic amusement.

Henry gently lowered the weapon, his eyes resembled that of a statue, forever immortalised in deep thought.

"Michael's brother?" he questioned, softening his gaze in genuine worry.