Sarah McLachlan- Do What You Have to Do. –Surfacing, 1997

"This way, Lynn." Gray Man gently guided Lynn by her shoulders down the long, stretched hallway painted white, bordered with stale blue. The smell of disinfectant and antibiotics hung heavily in the air, like the miasma of medicinal Death. Her vision blurred by eyes streaming saline into two salty rivulets down her cheeks, everything she saw blended into one another into a confusing, tedious tapestry. The hallway, though straight, was winding and eternal.

Everything faded to gray.

Wherever Gray Man’s steady footfalls fell, she followed. Her mind could not think, or rather, it was thinking too much. The moment Gray Man rushed up to her cubicle as she was hacking into the computer servers of Eaeshore for IP addresses that might be useful, her composure shredded. She could not remember how she managed to arrive into Eaeshore Hospital. She could not remember what Gray Man had said to her. It was like she was not herself; not conscious of her surroundings. As tears mingled objects together, her mind became opaque to awareness. The only emotion that was decipherable was fear. She was so afraid that Isaiah would be dead. Isaiah could not die. He could not leave her in that way.

And thus fear fed her tear ducts, now overflowing with a silent flood.

A door was held opened for her by Grey Man and she walked in to be greeted by another corridor. A shorter one which led her into the waiting lounge outside a major operating theatre. There Elijah was, seated on one of the yellowed plastic green chairs. Brownish yellow against sickly green. The gross pairing reminded her of the color of puke.

Elijah shone with a detached whiteness. His blond hair was white. His complexion was white. His long-sleeved white shirt was white. Only his pants were grey- a pair of cold steel slate.

Long-sleeved shirt. White with blotches of red. Isaiah’s blood on his brother’s crumpled shirt.

She ran over immediately, ignoring the pinching of her toes by the tough-leathered court shoes; unmindful of the restrictive hems of her short, black skirt.

"Elijah! What happened? How’s Isaiah? What? Why? WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP THE DAMN KILLER??!!"

Lynn bombarded Elijah with a slew of questions; her voice shrilling. Hysterical with the sudden release of pent-up anxiety, she exploded into a frenzy- shaking Elijah’s shoulders violently; threatening to shake the statuette head loose from the neck.

Gunshot wound. She read about those before. Some do recover but most of the time- if they did survive in the first place- they usually ended up in an timeless slumber until they got tired of breathing.

Lynn did not want Isaiah to die. Lynn did not want Isaiah to sleep forever either, keeping her in poignant curiosity with the perpetual question as to what he was dreaming about while she watched him aged on the white pillow which would be drenched with her tears.

Gray Man stood behind her as she faced the block of ice. Elijah was expressionless, not even looking up at her in response to her question. She did not expect much but she did not expect the blankness. Like the robot he was, he droned.

"I guess the killer had a clear shot but probably Isaiah opened his car door for some reason and the bullet hit the side of the metal door and was deflected. Instead of traveling straight through his head, the bullet is now lodged somewhere inside."

"I don’t want to know why the damn bullet didn’t exit! I want to know how he is! Is he going to be ok? What did the doctor say…" She broke down then and stumbled backwards. Gray Man caught her and she turned and cried into his chest.

"Has the surgeon said anything?" Gray inquired, his concern was masked behind a still voice but it was still detectable. Lynn heard his heartbeat through his shirt, skin and ribcage. It was almost as fast as erratic as hers.

"Yes. The entrance of the bullet was on the left occipital region. They took a CT scan of him which showed the skull fracture and a large underlying cerebral contusion. Isaiah was taken to the operating room for debridement of the wound and skull fracture, with repair of the dura mater."

"What?" Gray Man sounded startled. Lynn knew why. It was not the shock that Elijah could repeat flawlessly all the obscure medical terms that the doctor might have relayed to him. If Elijah figured the whole procedure for himself, Lynn would not be shocked too.

It was the way he said it. He sounded more like a disinterested third party, so bored by the whole incident. Lynn’s right palm burned and trembled. Recalling the deep love Isaiah had for his abnormal brother- a love seldom spoke but sensed, a love that Isaiah had much trouble conveying because Elijah had no qualms rejecting in the harshest, apathetical manner- Lynn calmed her palm and tempered her anger.

"You’ve heard me." Elijah replied in irritated staccatos before he stood up. Ignoring them, dismissing their grief and worries, he strode away from the lounge to the hallway. Lynn heard his movements, pulled out of Gray’s reassuring embrace, whirled on her heels and stared incredulously at the retreating back of Elijah.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Lynn called out after him. The surrounding around them disappeared as Artic took over. Cold, callous cold, wrapped its frosted arms of ice around the tendrils of her voice.

Elijah’s strides continued, his footsteps were soft, steady with calm.

Peeved, Lynn raced up to him, oblivious to the click-clacking of her court- shoes destroying the silence demanded by sickness of the hospital. Stretching out a hand, she halted him by pulling back his shoulder.

He stopped, but did not turn to face her.

"He needs us here."

"I don’t like to waste time." The quiet reply blasted in her ears and hacked the lock that secured the chain which she restricted her anger with.

Rage surged through her as her hot blood bubbled. Not even molten larvae could melt this hoarfrost.

"Waste time? Isaiah’s your brother damn it! Can’t you at least show some compassion!"

"There’s a serial murderer on the loose. I don’t want to waste time." Elijah grabbed the hand on his shoulder and chill shot through it to her heart; creating rime in her as well.

Elijah’s flesh was as cold as his heart.

He turned around finally and gazed impassively into her eyes- his hand still holding on to hers which trembled under the chill. Very mechanically, he let it go.

"Go to him if you want."

Lynn watched in muted silence at his silhouette which was diminishing down the hallway yet again. Hailstones hurled down and a barrage of ice sizzled out the scald in Lynn’s resentment-but not the intensity. Her anger reflected the whiteness of its target- white, cool and piercing.

She closed her eyes.

"I have only one word for you, Lijah Raily."

He froze.

"Defrost."

***

Elijah drove all the way back to New York in Isaiah’s Lexus. It was quiet all around him but he might as well be turning deaf. His mind was churning incoherent thoughts, assailing in every direction from the inside of him. His guts twisted. His heart was beating fast.

Memories which he repressed deliberately were collaborating now on Operation: Resurgent; carrying it out with a vengeance.

The air-conditioning in the car was not cold enough. The leather seat brought him no comfort. He drove fast, speeding down the highway aimlessly when a sudden urge took hold of him. He knew where Isaiah stayed. Isaiah kept a pocketbook in the glove compartment of his car and his address was written on it.

He smirked. They were brothers. But they had not even exchanged addresses.

And probably Isaiah would never guess that Elijah stayed only two blocks away from him.

Turning into the car park of Isaiah’s apartment building- a beautiful, posh building that reflected a deep sophistication in the night- Elijah swung the car swiftly into an empty lot and everything else after that was lost to him. He was in a trance, not exactly conscious of what he was doing.

And why he would desire to visit Isaiah’s apartment.

The security guard stopped him. He had forgotten his answer. But he was let through.

He unlocked the door to the apartment and switched on the lights. It was only when he was faced with the stark contrast to the emptiness of his own abode that he regained full control of his consciousness.

His brother, Isaiah, was leaving a double life as well. Deep, openly enigmatic and melancholy summed up Isaiah. Elijah knew. Elijah saw but he just did not comment. He knew a lot about Isaiah by just quietly observing. He saw the frustration whenever the arched brows furrowed slightly. He watched the lips move in silent prayer sometimes.

Scanning the cozy living room that was presented in front of his eyes, he noticed that Lynn’s pictures were exhibited in pretty frames and they lined the mantel together with crystal ornaments of a pair of love swans, a sparkling violin and a revolving piano.

The colors of the hall were too happy- peach, orange and bold red. Isaiah would be more suited to blue.

A cross was hung high up on the wall with a portrait of the Sacred Heart just under it.

He closed the door behind him gently.

Entering Isaiah’s room, he dispelled the darkness with a flick of the switch.

Isaiah’s bedroom was blue. That was the private Isaiah. He wore it on his face but still, he did not want people to know. A bible was just placed next to bed on a night table- bookmarks stuck out of it in many places. Elijah noticed that while the overall theme were shades of indigo, a breathtaking, laminated photo of a beach- with the sun rising out of the sea like a ball of molten orange, waiting to herald in the dawn, canopied by a purple sky streaked with pink and tangerine- was standing upright behind the bible like a perpetual, graphic materialization of the prayer in Isaiah’s heart.

A prayer for happiness to be his finally probably. Isaiah had hope and love. Elijah had none.

And that was why Elijah felt envious; deeply envious. Happiness. Everyone touted that happiness was a choice. Whenever Elijah thought he could choose to be happy, someone or something would take it away.

The someone was probably him. His emotions were treacherous.

He spotted the 1925 "Johann Glass" Leipzig violin just next to the bed. So, Isaiah had not forgotten. Elijah had tried to. Elijah wanted to forget but he could not. He approached the violin and his hands squeezed its neck. It was exquisite. It would sound exquisite.

There was only one song in him. Winter. It was fitting. It was his favorite season, not by choice but by need. The need for everything to be covered with whiteness- not of purity but of emptiness. The need for the world to be so cold, so deadly cold so he would not feel too estranged from it. So he could at least belong to it for a while.

He played the violin; coaxed it with frozen passion.

He cajoled each note of the presto rhythm with stunning accuracy, though he had not touched the instrument for at least a couple of years. While most would be burning with pride at not forgetting, he wondered why he would recall; why the music would boil in his blood still. A slight furrow of brows; a twitch of his cheeks- remembering had never been so condemning.

The song reached its rousing crescendo. Elijah played it faster than presto- nimble fingers expelled his anger and anguish because he could not show it through the face that returned to its deathly still state- the eyes were closed normally, not even squeezed shut. The brows forced to relax; the cheeks were demanded to be numbed.

The violin, controlled by him, sang and wailed- becoming his soul’s voice when his own failed him. He knew, how could he not? No morals. He had no morals. His actions were coolly calculated; not morally based.

The music that it weaved into the tendrils of the air was horrifyingly beautiful.

A string broke but he kept it up. The horrifying beauty that hailed down stones and ice, wove, twisted and turned into grotesque passion. Banshees spirited from the violin; banshees screaming his lament.

"ARGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" He screamed, throwing down the violin stick when frustration finally brimmed over. With both his hands, he gripped the violin’s neck- strangulating it.

"SHUT UP! STOP WHINING!!!!" He shouted at no one in particular. The veins in his neck popped; his deep, blue eyes glared at the delicate workmanship. So beautiful. It was so beautiful.

How he hated this thing of loveliness that was the loudhailer for his mangled soul only just now. He hated what it spoke to him. He hated what it revealed.

And he realized that he hated himself utterly.

Dashing out into the living room, self-denunciation became his body’s fuel. He searched for more beauty to consume with his hatred; searched for more intricate, loved objects to bring them down with him.

He swung the violin at them and they came crashing down onto the floor, breaking into several pieces, like the broken remnants of a ruined, beautiful dream.

He smashed the violin onto the wall. He kept smashing and smashing until all that was left was its neck in his hands, splintered at the ends like the futilely salvaged frails of an empty dream; the unwanted importunate trails of a nightmare. Hurling it on the floor, he stormed on it with one angry foot.

Running into the kitchen, he re-emerged with a kitchen knife. This time, he would not mutilate himself. He felt such need to destroy the happy-looking furniture.

He would do Isaiah a favor.

Slashing and tearing, he went into a mad frenzy, seemingly possessed. Years of suppressed emotion were unleashed in that one moment. He had no idea of what he was doing, only that he must do it; that he wanted to do it. When he was done, when his energy was expelled, he crumbled onto the floor. Gripping the blade of the kitchen knife between his teeth- feeling immediately the metallic sensation shooting through the enamel and dentin- he began to roll up his sleeves, revealing the rising and falling of scars crawling all over his forearm.

But quickly rolled it down again when he heard the door opening.

***

Lynn stared at the tattered living room in horror. Isaiah had painstakingly put it all together, choosing colors he normally would shun as a reminder to himself that he wanted to paint his world, no matter how bleak he viewed it to be, with hope and brightness. Aurora. Dawn.

Isaiah wanted only one thing. Salvation. His name, salvation of God. That was all he wanted.

She burst into fresh tears when the remnants of madness faced her, blaring in deafening silence at her. Gray Man had told her to go back and changed into something more comfortable and he would see if he could transfer Isaiah to one of the better hospitals in Manhattan. She had not wanted to go home. She wanted to be with Isaiah but Gray was insistent. So she went back, quickly changed into a loose translucent blouse and a pair of straight-cut jeans.

Gray Man, only Isaiah’s work mentor, had shown him more compassion and concern than his wintry brother.

She thought she could perhaps bring some familiar trinkets to remind Isaiah- maybe the revolving piano which was her birthday present for him last year. It sang prettily in a tinkling voice when the screw was wound and then released. She detoured over to Isaiah’s place and unlocked his door with the spare which he kept in the one of the unlit bulbs of the antique lamps he bought to decorated the sides of the entrance.

Walking pass the ripped couch, she stood in the midst of the shattered violin, the crystal shards and gazed helplessly at the shredded curtains.

The debris of the forced destruction of Isaiah’s dreams and efforts.

"Who did this?" She asked the man who was sitting on the floor in a defeated position, slouching against a wall next to the kitchen’s entrance. His shirt was tucked out; his hair was ruffled. Dead. His eyes were dead. Not even frosted over with the familiar sheets of ice.

"Monster." He answered inaudibly.

The culprit was apparent. The sharp kitchen knife with fibers of cloth stuck on its serrated blade lain down beside Elijah . Isaiah only kept only sharp kitchen knives. She suddenly missed his cooking. He was a good cook. He should quit the Network and be a chef.

"Why?" Perforating were the accusatory arrows she fired at him. Didn’t he understand? His elder brother who loved him so much was in a bed, in a hospital with tubes sticking out of him, with no assurance that he was going to wake up.

The elder brother of his that she loved. She finally knew but knowledge of her heart came at such a great price. A price she could not afford.

"The monster hates the beauty. He chewed on it and spat it out." Elijah muttered, staring at the knife. Lynn stormed over, knelt down and shook his shoulders angrily for the second time, trying to shake some sense into him.

"HIS! YOU DESTROYED HIS VIOLIN! HE KEEPS PLAYING AND TELLING ME HOW PATHETIC HE WOULD SOUND COMPARED TO YOU! HE KEEPS TELLING ME ABOUT YOU! NOTHING BUT YOU AND YOU CAME AND DESTROYED EVERYTHING THAT’S HIS!!!! HOW CAN YOU DO THAT AND STILL SIT HERE TELLING ME…" She stopped yelling at him and shaking him when she saw the deadness in the man. Suddenly, she pitied him. She caught what he was trying to tell her.

"You’re not one. At least not in his eyes. The way he talks about you sometimes, you will be so proud. ‘A cherub with fine strands of white gold for his hair but starved of his wings.’" Her slender hands were still on his shoulders but they were no longer the channel for anger. They sought to become the conduit for comfort. Gentleness, compassion and charity spoke to her and through her, tried to speak to him; to penetrate the layers of forbidding nothingness.

It was time for understanding, not accusations.

"Come, we’ll clean this up. It’s not too bad… I know where he bought these things, we can replace most… go get a broom… and I’ll sweep... he won’t blame you…" She tried to smile but failed when Elijah gazed at her and yet, not her.

"We can’t replace what was taken. It may look the same, it may feel the same but it won’t be the same. The original one is gone… like the smoke dissipated by the wind, never able to form into a whole again. Its dance was over; its moment gone. Do you understand? It’ll kill him when he sees what I see everyday when I look inside of me. He can only be so strong and he’s not that strong. Lijah was not strong enough. What makes you think Saiah could be?" His voice caressed her achingly and she had no idea when he stopped talking about himself and about Isaiah. Or if he was talking about them at all or some figures he imagined. He just seemed to be on another realm.

The eyes of the vanquished spirit were closed and just as Lynn wanted to just touch the frozen cheeks, the eyes stared back at her. Lijah or Elijah- this entity was confused between the boy inside and the estranged man outside. Estranged from the world; estranged from his brother; estranged from the boy.

He slid himself up against the wall and walked away from her, approaching the door. Again she stared at his retreating back.

Not in anger but with empathy that meandered down her cheeks.

"It may not be the same. But it may be better. Thrown to the chancy weather, it is smoothed by the harsh grains of the trials of life. Ultimately undaunted, it may emerged with a brilliance that it can never achieved had it remained sheltered all its life.

Everyone makes mistakes. We can’t let our mistakes ruin our lives. We can turn it around and turn a failure into a triumph for us and for others. I don’t know much but I know this. Love can heal what hate had destroyed.

Elijah; Lijah, do you understand?"

The figure had paused. His head hung low.

"I’ll find the killer. I owe him that."

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. That was not the answer she was waiting for.

"And they don’t understand. They never understood Love. It was taken away from the boy. The man never saw it; nor taste it."