Whispered Secrets: He Keeps an Eye on The Arcs in the Mirror

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. And, they said it loud, clear, and often enough that the gullible believed them.

But not him.

Not my grandpa.

He would never be a believer.

Because Grandpa Joe knew firsthand they were liars.

And it cost him his best friend, his freedom, and his left eye.

Two black suits, donning even blacker sunglasses, took imposing stances in the receiving room at the front of our house. Visitors always assumed they had been escorted inside. The appearance of the space led even the most discerning eye to believe they had entered our home. It cost a king's ransom for contractors to meet the specs my grandpa required. Then, the builders disappeared.

Evaporated?

Absorbed?

A soundproof and bulletproof mirrored glass enclosure, the receiving room, held tight the secrets on the backside.

Grandpa Joe shot me the side eye ~ yes, with his good one, not the glass replica, pressed a finger to his lips and gave a slight nod of our tacit agreement for silence. It mattered not for I knew better than to reveal my presence. 

I was 12, not stupid.

From the recessed wall that hid my slight frame, I watched. Quiet and invisible and I fought to breathe. Liberally splashed, woodsy cologne assaulted my nose and our home. Their intoxicating scent evoked visions of mold and moss-covered, aged pines in the thick of the forest. 

Mouths moved, hands waved to reinforce points made and they all stiffened in opposition.

Grandpa turned on his heel and escorted the men through the glass door and back outside. It was obvious that they left unsatisfied.

Once the duo sauntered out of sight, he turned to me and quietly asserted that they'd be back, more likely sooner than later. 

I was pretty sure I knew where these men came from but not why they were here. Their negativity field was palpable and undeniable.

We ate dinner in silence. I pushed food around my plate and anticipated some explanation about the visitors. Their aroma of decayed wood mixed with rotting dirt lingered and spoiled my appetite.

The old man's wheels spun as he calculated his next move with intensity.

"Tell me, Grandpa, please. You know I will do whatever you ask."

For just a moment, he slumped in defeat. He tired easily these days. I imagined that running, fighting, and hiding his past from society, all depleted his once resilient resources.

I loved my grandpa deeply and him, me.

At times I feared him but struggled to put my finger on why.

Each time he regaled me with fantastical tales, I peeled back the fluff and uncovered the hidden truths. Step by step, I got closer to the story I desperately wanted to hear. His cryptic style spoke of his need to protect me.

My grandpa had been recruited as a teen by strong-armed outsiders. His word, not mine. 'Recruited' softens the blow, and takes the edge off the dark truth of unfulfilled absorption. Snooping, listening, and spying confirmed my suspicions. My sleuthing skills were sharply honed within no time.

In all fairness to him, my grandpa spun a strong tale. He whispered his past in the darkness to me. His recruitment by the Arcs lasted a full year. He returned home, minus an eye, bruises not yet faded, and a stubborn wound on his neck that never fully healed. His friend Malachi didn't make it back with him. My grandpa boldly professed that he, too, was a hero. Malachi sacrificed his life for grandpa, who narrowly escaped.

The actual detailed events slowly unraveled in the nighttime stories of his past.

But. There is no way anyone escapes the clutches of the Arcs. Glaring flaws in grandpa's recounting made me dig for the truth.

Grandpa played his cards close to the chest.

He found love with Lillian in their early 20s and married shortly after. He and my grandmother raised two boys, and their youngest son fathered me. Grandpa Joe showed me old pictures to keep memories alive. I suspect that it's more for him than for me. I feigned affinity or familial longing with the strangers in print to encourage more dialogue. 

But, honestly, I've only known grandpa, ever, all my life. 

He measured his words carefully.

"My life and this fortress of protection are all for you, Gracie. You've learned the basics for survival but it's time to learn more. You are the family legacy. The fate suffered by the rest of our people is not to be your destiny. Absorption is not the answer, yet the Arcs are driven. Heartless, cold, and hyper-focused in their quest to alter all of humanity as we know it. One by one, they absorb our race."

His impassioned plea continued.

"They couldn't get me, and they won't get you."

Afraid to blink and break his rhythm, I waited.

Full disclosure did not come.

He retired to his chair with his nightly scotch, neat. Melancholy crept in and took hold. By his second and longer pour, he nodded off with the tumbler still in his hand.

I took full advantage of his escape from reality to rifle through his meager memorabilia. I sat enveloped by darkness, just a glow from my reader light, riveted by one particular picture.

The worn edges curled from the excessive handling and time. The photo showcased my grandpa in the center and my father to his right.

Spitting images of each other, really. It jumped out at me, the detail I had overlooked 100 times before. My brain second-guessed my eyes. I took my light and brought it closer. I zeroed in and highlighted the wound on my grandpa's neck. Panning over to my father, the camera had captured something peeking from my father's collar.

Was it a shadow?

Was it the same wound, in virtually the same spot?

My sleep came in small increments between fits of restlessness.

Was my father a survivor, too? Is he one of the unfulfilled absorptions, an interrupted and abandoned procedure, or was he rejected due to defects?

Maybe a monster walks in his skin, now.

According to Grandpa Joe, the chosen few were preselected at birth based on their lineage and DNA profiles. Three hundred thousand candidates each year were tracked until they ripened. Most were between the ages of 14 to 16 and considered mature entities yet untainted by external contaminants like nicotine or alcohol. Pure.

The Arcs planned to be the majority population within the century. Earthborn DNA was extracted for study and replaced with Arculian light to create a synodic celestial new world of superior beings.

Grandpa Joe, my only reliable source, though filled with creative omissions, insisted that my father, uncle and grandmother were all executed. He alluded to the Arcs and their elimination of dissenters.

Before sunrise, I heard grandpa stirring and tinkering in the kitchen area. A grunt of disgust escaped from his throat. He flew into my room.

"They're back, stay put, he hissed. This stops now."

The air was static, the energy electrified. The hair on the back of my neck rose to attention and triggered all senses to high alert.

In the darkness, I spied Grandpa Joe leading the men through the opened glass and into the secret tunneled space behind it. My heart raced. Not just because the men returned. 

A shocking indigo light beam radiated from the gaping hole in grandpa's face when he slowly removed his eye.

From the tunnel, I heard the screams echo.

I suddenly knew why I feared him.