before his eyes, silas’ face completely twists and turns, throwing out words of aggression — almost fear ? — but it didn’t seem like they were directed at him. his line of sight actually seemed to be moving directly behind him, and while he turns…. he sees nothing. he would have easily assumed that silas was having some sort of mental breakdown, or maybe not enough sleep ? could be that his weed was laced with something. but… after the day he, himself, has experienced, another thought enters his mind, and his brows furrowed. how do you even begin to question a guy in this state if he’s been hearing fucking ghosts all day, too ? especially when it could easily just end up being one of the options assumed by alex above.
that is, until he hears it. a faint voice, not any different than the ones he’s been hearing all day in different places… but this one seemed to be coming in clearer than anything else he’s heard today. and he didn’t know whether it was because of the full glow of the moon on him right now, or if it was because that voice was just saying silas’ name over and over again. for the longest time, alex doesn’t say anything to him — all he’s focused on is what he was hearing. after what seemed like the longest 10 seconds, alex — eyes squinting, still in complete disbelief, unable to find a rational answer to this — speaks up, “ silas … do you know anyone with the name owen ? ” that question alone earned him even more chatter from the voice in his ear.
He’d thought the pain could never get worse, that he had fully explored the deep cavern of loss that Owen’s death had created. He’d been the final nail in a lonely coffin, the catalyst for years of burned bridges and broken hearts, growing blurry in Silas’ memory with each year wedged between knowing him and losing him. And now, reappearing beneath the mysterious glow of the large moon, a little blurry around the edges but otherwise the same. “This– You– I saw your body.” He splutters, still speaking over Alex’s shoulder, forgetting he was even there. But Owen, this Owen, doesn’t speak. Silas can see his lips moving, strains to hear the voice he so clearly remembers. But, of course, he’s never been able to hear the shadows, only to see them. And it sinks in, that he’d somehow been too overwhelmed by the familiar face to remember the spirits he’s been seeing all day. To remember that he can see the dead. Owen is dead.
It hits him nearly as hard as the first time, a heart-stopping body slam of shock and all he can think of is the sound of Cerberus barking out back as he compresses Owen’s chest again and again and again until the paramedics arrive and usher him away. He screws his eyes shut like a child avoiding the scary parts of the movie – except he has no one to turn towards instead, no shoulder to hide against. By the time Alex says his name, he’s regained control of his breathing, has stopped the trembling of his hands, if only by clenching them tightly. But, he still flinches when Alex says Owen’s name, opens his eyes again to turn a frenzied stare towards him. “How the hell do you know that?” His voice is quiet, raw, taut with barely contained emotion. “I never told you that.” It tumbles out louder this time – and maybe his anger is misdirected, but its burn is more bearable than the icy emptiness of his grief, so he steps towards Alex and shoves him, not hard enough to bring him down but with enough force to send him reeling backwards. “How the hell do you know that, Alex?”
