Lyro rolled his tongue while he stood on the back porch under the veranda. The rain was gentle now, striking the veranda like dozens of little pebbles. It was therapeutic, helped him think. He flicked the occasional ash from his cigarette, his stare locked onto the hammock he and Camilla built when they were still kids.
"Camilla…" Her name escaped his lips in a whisper, as if saying it any louder was too dangerous.
He looked down at the rings on his left hand. He wore six in total, four on his left and two on his right. Five of the rings were everlasting reminders of his failures, and his deal with the devil. The sixth ring—his wedding band—was a reminder of his lies, his broken vows. Intentional or not, he'd failed to protect her and their family.
"Damn it," he muttered.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was a genius, top of his class, valedictorian, the person people stopped when they passed him in the streets. 'He's going to go far,' they would say. For a man so smart, he sure did feel like an idiot. They'd told him he was bright, exceptionally intelligent. If they'd known how many of those years he spent in panic, then maybe they'd say differently.
After Camilla's miscarriage, Cammilla resorted to hard drugs and became increasingly difficult to deal with. She spent much of her time high and locked up in her room. Each attempt to convince her to get off the drugs resulted in a screaming fest. The anxiety struck his nerves like a hammer to the nail, and eventually he began to expect screaming whenever he spoke to her.
His exhaustion took hold, and he became closer to the mayor due to their shared interests in economics. Time passed, and as the two grew closer, the mayor introduced him to his library. He would peruse the non-fiction section in search of knowledge whenever he needed to take his mind off things. It brought him a sense of calm, and gave him the strength to return to Camilla's side later that evening.
The library eventually became a haven for Lyro.
Countless arguments were had as to whether they should try again for a baby. The doctor had stressed that the complication was a rare circumstance and was unlikely to happen again. Of course, the doctor never gave them an answer one way or the other. Lyro understood why. Saying one would discredit the other. In the case that the doctor was wrong, he could lose his medical license.
Concerned that Camilla may do something reckless, Lyro stopped visiting the library. He and the mayor grew apart, associating with one another only when necessary. Mayor Just—a terribly ironic name—was a smart man, however, and soon he approached him with inquiries. Somehow, he'd caught wind of their miscarriage.
The world became stranger after that. So much stranger.
Lyro remembered the event, word for word, action for action. All he wanted was to forget the past and instead work toward the future. When the mayor offered him a chance to speak with someone who could ensure such tragedies wouldn't happen again, his curiosity was piqued.
Two days later, Lyro met the man the mayor had spoken of. A tall figure, with inky features and a disturbingly black umbrella that seemed to swallow the sky stood beneath the tree in the mayor's backyard. Mayor Just had been standing beside the figure, a proud smile on his face.
'I understand you have lost someone precious,' the shadowy figure had said in a husky tone. 'You wish to ensure it will not happen again.'
"I should've—" Lyro growled, recollecting the event in perfect clarity. "Damn me."
Shima—as the man was named—made a promise. One he could keep. It would come at great cost, and that cost would be unknown until the moment the pact was made. For his service, Lyro or anyone else would be granted a boon; a wish of sorts. He would be allowed seven of these wishes, to be used whenever he deemed appropriate. A ring for each wish would be placed on his hands, never to be removed until the moment the wish was made.
The desperation to see Camillia happy and healthy, with children of her own, took hold in that moment, and Lyro had surrendered to him.
Rings adorned his fingers, and for his first wish, he asked for a successful pregnancy and the family he always desired. Shima smirked, whispering, 'With this trade, the privilege of age is lost to you. Something is given. Something is taken.'
At the time, he had thought nothing of it. It was a small price to pay to ensure the safety of their future child. As the devil promised, Crowlei was born without complications, and at last they had a family.
After Lyro's parents passed away, finances worsened. The mayor offered a property of his own, promising that it would not affect his wish count. What happened between Lyro and the devil was their business, not his.
Years passed without issue. Crowlei was a wonderful daughter, and Lyro and Camilla played with her every day. They frequently discussed getting a dog, building a library, and so much more.
What Lyro was unaware of at the time, was how much Camilla was struggling to keep up with him. Once Crowlei had been born, Lyro saw—what he thought—was the original light that'd drawn him to her in their middle school years.
Their happiness was fleeting.
Years passed.
One evening, when Lyro had returned home, he found Crowlei crying at Camilla's door. When Lyro found it was locked, he broke the door down to find his wife in bed, her bedside table littered with needles and straps. He ushered Crowlei into the hall and tended to his wife. She'd been as cold as ice, her breath barely present.
The panic took hold, and Shima heard his plea.
Camilla gasped and coughed, the warmth returning to her skin in a flash. Her eyes were clear, the bags beneath them gone. Whatever this devil had done, he had done it in an instant. It was at that time that the devil's whispers reached his ears once more.
'With this trade, the privilege of remembrance is lost to you. On this day every year, the newly met will forever forget you. Something is given. Something is taken.'
With the devil's words, the second ring had disappeared from Lyro's hand.
Lyro shut his eyes and forced himself to return to the present. He could stand here all day, thinking of the actual thousands of ways he could've remedied the problem, the different ways he could've solved it. The reality was—regardless of how painful it was—that what was done was done.
Benji could yell at him all day for not divulging the details of his circumstances. The truth was, however, that he had explained his situation to Benji. He had explained the complications behind his curses, his duty. He, Camilla, and Crowlei did everything they could to explain what was happening.
But no matter how many times they told him, a devil had taken Lyro's life from him and left him to rot in the ageless body of an eighteen-year-old. Four times he had gone down this road with Benji. His son would cry, apologize, and the two would return to amicable terms.
Only to do it all over again the next year.
At first, it wasn't all that hard. He loved his son, as did Camilla. If explaining himself every year was the price to pay for Camilla's happiness, then he would gladly pay it. Crowlei was a wonderful older sister, and the two were invaluable in helping him deal with his son's annual amnesia.
Lyro took a puff on his cigarette and blew a heaping of smoke into the air. He tapped the side, and a clump of ash fell to the porch floor. This would mark the first year he decided not to explain the details of his pact. He'd grown tired of it. Tired of explaining, tired of mending their relationship, tired of the crying, tired… of being forgotten.
So fine. If that's how it was going to be, then so be it. He'd be the deadbeat dad who was never at his son's side. The man who abandoned his wife and child for reasons unknown. It sure as hell was a lot less painful than fixing their relationship once a year.
"I want to be your dad, Benji," Lyro whispered, lingering on the old oak tree in their backyard, "but he won't let me. I'm sorry."
Lyro sighed and flicked his cigarette into the yard where the rain doused it. For a moment, he identified with the cigarette. The strong flame that once existed was long gone, now a mere facsimile of its prior self. The remaining embers would be snuffed out, and he would surrender. The only thing that kept him going was the love and duty he felt for his family.
If only Crowlei could be at his side. Then perhaps this would be easier.
"I hope you're okay," he whispered, "wherever you are."