Palace of Horns

The backpack was leaning to the side of the door as if it meant nothing, as if it was here just to occupy some space. It had wide straps to protect the shoulders, and those straps were black but the ladder locks were of dirty greyish yellow that once had been bright and cheerful. The backpack was red. Will felt the wave of nausea building up and tried to avert his eyes, to study something else in the room filled with voices and camera flashes, and he could not. The backpack was like Schroedinger’s cat. It was there and yet it wasn’t, and Will couldn’t but keep staring at the backpack just like Pandora was probably staring at the box she was prohibited to open and trying to guess what was inside, what beautiful gifts were there. The only difference was that unlike Pandora Will had a very clear idea of what was inside. He knew before knowing that the Schroedinger’s cat was not only dead but murdered. “Will. Are you alright?” But in reality, it wasn’t like that, it wasn’t the question Jack voiced. It was an affirmation, and it went like “‘Will, you’re alright”. A whole world of difference blooming behind his closed eyelids. A whole world of fucking knowledge that he had not been alright from the very beginning, he had not been fit to do the things Jack wanted him to, and he was not alright now, his “alrightness” slipping away through the fingers just the way the sand slips through them when you try to hold it tight. Just the way his sanity was. Will tried to speak and his voice betrayed him turning into a hoarse grumble so he had to start again when Jack actually looked at him for the first time since they had entered the house. “Will?” “This,” he nodded at the backpack. “Is not one of ours.” Jack looked at the backpack and frowned. “What do you mean?” “This…” Will didn’t want to point at the backpack as if it could see him doing that. The notion was insane but it felt right, there was a Pandora’s box waiting to be opened, to be found, and even though Will knew he had to be the one to do that, he didn’t want to. “Is the part of the crime scene, Jack. We didn’t bring it here.” “Fuck…” Jack muttered under his breath when the revelation struck him, and the next moment he leapt into action. He is like a dog, Will thought leaning on the wall and watching Agent Crawford barking the orders around. A shepherd dog maybe. The backpack was leaking. And it was RED. The kitchen was bathed in sunlight, and this was his favorite time to be in the kitchen, the early hours of the day. It was filled with the strong smell of coffee winded up with the golden rays flooding through the window. Will liked to imagine the white ribbon of the coffee smell dancing in the kitchen just like it was shown in cartoons – of course, it was either the ribbon of the cheese smell or the pie smell taunting the characters and pinching their noses, but this was real life, and it was better. The best part of the day when they both were in the kitchen and Dad was having his first cup of coffee before starting with breakfast. “I bought you something.” “What?” “I don’t remember,” it was always Dad’s eyes that started smiling first. “Can you spot something new in the picture?” The last bit of his sleep evaporated as Will opened his eyes so wide trying to find that something, and he looked, oh, boy, he looked so hard around their tiny kitchen, and it was there, right there leaning against the door! When you see it, you can’t unsee it. How could he have missed the new backpack patiently waiting for him to notice? To spot it out from all the other elements of the picture? To spot it out from the crowd. Will rushed to pick it up, and it was new, and it had cool stripes, maybe a bit too wide for his shoulders, but that was the best thing because it was the grown-up backpack, not the kiddie stuff all of ‘em had at school. And it was red.