Dear Camilla

Lyro rolled his tongue in his mouth as he stood on the back porch under the veranda. The rain was gentle now, pelting 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 practically kids.

"Camilla…" Her name escaped his lips in a whisper, as if it were too dangerous to say out loud.

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 as he swore.

"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 praised when they saw him in the streets. 'He's going to go far,' they would say. 'I wonder if he'll become a doctor.' For a man so smart, he sure did feel like an idiot. Despite his intellect, he spent much of his younger years in panic. Making the right decisions for such a long time had paralyzed him in situations where tougher decisions didn't always have a correct answer.

After Camilla's first miscarriage, the relationship had been on the rocks. Their relationship repaired over time, but Camilla never quite came around to herself again after that. The days were fond, albeit anxiety riddled. Every question was met with a half pause, and he usually had to probe her when he thought something was wrong. Even so, he wanted the marriage to work, and knew what kind of person Camilla was on the inside.

That was, until she wanted to try again for a child.

Lyro used his pinky and thumb fingers to play with his wedding band as he thought. They'd gotten into countless arguments over whether they should try again for a child. The doctor had stressed that the complication was a rare circumstance and was unlikely to happen again. Of course, the doctor couldn't rule out the possibility, and Lyro understood the truth behind his words. What it meant was, it was possible, and the doctor couldn't say one way or the other without risking his medical license. Lyro was privy to the order of the world, and such veiled words had little effect on him.

It wasn't until Lyro became regularly acquainted with the mayor that things took a turn for the strange. As time passed, and Lyro saw the mayor on more occasions, he sought out the man's library. He liked to spend time there, perusing the non-fiction section whenever he needed to take his mind off things. Eventually the library became a haven for Lyro to return to.

For a time, it was comfortable, quiet, and served as a reprieve from current day events.

That was, until the miscarriage. Afterward, Lyro struggled to return to the library. He and the mayor grew apart, associating with one another only when necessary. Mayor Just was a smart man, however, and soon he approached him with inquiries. Somehow, he'd caught wind of what happened to them, and Lyro was vague on the details.

That was, until the day came that Lyro returned to Mayor Just's library.

Lyro remembered the event, word for word, action for action. All he wanted was to forget the miscarriage and move on. When the mayor offered a chance to speak with someone who could ensure it wouldn't happen again, Lyro's interest was piqued.

Two days later, Lyro had met the man the mayor had spoken of. A tall figure, with inky features and a disturbingly black umbrella 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 to Lyro 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 panic took hold in that moment, and Lyro had surrendered to the man.

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 child. As the devil promised, Crowlei was born without complications, and at last they had a family.

When Lyro's parents passed away, and the confirmation that an inheritance was never promised, the mayor offered one of his properties. Lyro had panicked, wondering if it would come at a cost. But Mayor Just simply laughed and waved his hand. 'Not everything is going to come at a cost, dear boy. I am not Him,' the mayor had said.

With a new property and a healthy baby daughter, the 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. Shortly after the miscarriage, Camilla had taken to hard drugs. When she wasn't working, she spent a great deal of time in her bedroom, high and locked away. 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, his 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, and the bags had disappeared. 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. Those you meet after today will forget you ever existed on this day each year. 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 reality was—regardless of how painful it was—that what was done was done. This merry-go-round had to have an exit; he just couldn't see it.

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 it was no good. No matter how many times they told him, the devil had taken Lyro's life from him and left him to rot in the ageless body of a seventeen-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. Each time it felt as if Lyro was putting back the shattered remains of his family. Each time it felt like someone ripped his heart out and stomped on it.

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 he had to explain himself each year, then that was just fine if it meant the survival of his wife. Crowlei was a wonderful older sister, and the two were invaluable in helping him deal with his son's annual amnesia. Eventually, though, his exhaustion caught up with him.

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 absence to his son. 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. He could live with this. Couldn't he?

He sighed.

"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 within seconds. For a moment, he identified with the cigarette. The strong flame that once existed was long gone, replaced by a facsimile. Soon, 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."