The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

the soul of Yara had reached from beyond the grave to give me a warning.

Yarrow made a bowl of leftover chicken thighs for himself, settling at the kitchen table and taking a bite.

I slipped into the chair at his side, the medical file held in my trembling hands.

“Do you know what it says?”

He shook his head, still chewing.

I sucked in a breath, fortifying myself for what might come next.

“I’m not sure I’m ready.”

Yarrow grunted, continuing to chew. “S’why you came here, isn't it?”

I didn’t answer, because he was right. On some level, that’s why I was still here—to excavate my own past.

I slipped the file open, my name in bold letters across the top of the first page: Bryn Usher Weaver.

I cringed, the reminder that I shared blood with my captor all too real. I began to scan the first page, only a basic accounting of my medical history available. The striking detail I first noted was my listed birthdate: it was one day off, but all else identical.

I registered the address of the walk-up I’d grown up in in Flatbush, both the names of my parents—Weavers—but beside my father's name was asterisked with Usher noted beside it, along with his accurate birthday and place of employment.

Yara had known everything about me before we’d even met.

I flipped to the next page, shock sizzling my nerves as I discovered a series of dates and blood draws—all between the ages of my birth and three years old. The age I was when we’d moved to the one-bedroom in Flatbush. The age of which before, no personal photos existed—at least until now.

I flipped the next page to find a grainy polaroid clipped to the top of the page. I was united, a familiar burn boiling to life in my stomach. I’d seen this photo before in other medical files, only this time, it was my face that was circled in red ink.

The baby was barely beyond newborn stages, but already I could see family resemblance in the features.

“They were harvesting my DNA, weren’t they?”

Yarrow didn’t answer right away, taking his time to chew and swallow before his ancient eyes turned to meet mine. Lines crossed his forehead and wrinkles lay on his weathered hands. I would never think of him as my great-uncle, even though by blood he was.

His calm demeanor even now reminded me of my father, and I couldn't help but wonder what Yarrow’s life would have been like if he’d been allowed to leave Usher and pursue his own path.

He’d never said explicitly that Yara kept him locked at her side like a loyal prisoner, but I could see the truth in his eyes.

“They thought they were helping you, taking blood samples and experimenting with regressive therapies.”

“But why?”

“Because you were touched. From the time you were old enough to speak you talked of things...horrible things. They feared you, so they muzzled you.”

“With what—I was a baby!”

“It started with withholding affection, then shock therapy, and finally—when you began to talk of seeing the ghost of a young girl, the medical therapy was increased.”

“Medical? I don’t remember any of this.”

“You shouldn’t, it’s all been blocked. ‘S’all in the reports, if you know the code.”

Angry tears ruched my eyes as I thought of the years of struggling with the fire in my own mind, trying to squash it and flame it in equal parts. I’d been cursed with a mind on fire, and Usher had played a role. Usher lingered at the edges of my psyche, poised to pull me back into the dark abyss of my mind at any moment. The years spent in therapy sessions, the obsessive thinking and constant state of self-annihilation clung to me even now.

And then a long-forgotten memory came back to me like a sense of déjà vu. “It was her.”

Yarrow didn’t reply.

“I had a recurring nightmare as a child—I was locked in a room alone and a little girl in pigtails watched over me, but never spoke.” I wiped at the wetness at my eyelids. It was young Yara, the very same illusion that’d come to me at the library window that night in the library apartment. “Maybe she was trying to tell me, even then.”

He nodded, seeming to understand the words I didn’t say.

“She was broken when your father took you. She was determined to find you. It was only a matter of time.” Yarrow refused to call the name of his dead sister into reality. I didn't blame him. “You were never a random choice. Usher was in your blood.”

“Who was my grandfather?” I asked.

Yarrow simply shrugged. “Yara never said. I never asked. If you look at the dates it’s not hard to guess.”

I let his words hang heavy like a rain cloud. Nate. I finally uttered, “But what about Thax—why put him through all of that if he wasn’t related?”

Yarrow shrugged. “Her curiosity got the better of her when it came to him. Yara had many secrets. When he arrived she was insistent I gather two samples of his DNA. Thax devoted too much time to discovering her secrets, she couldn’t risk what he might find.”

“But couldn’t she just let him leave like she did my dad?”

Yarrow tore off another chunk of chicken thigh and chewed, eyes trained on the plate in front of him as he did. “She didn’t let your dad leave. He escaped. The last one.”

Sadness settled on my shoulders as silence passed in long beats between us. My eyes crawled around the corners of the kitchen; small polished-enamel bird cages in pastel colors decorated the available shelves, a nod to Usher when I’d first come here.

“I’ve never asked,” I finally said, “but...will you tell me how the last writer died?”

Yarrow grunted, then set the newly-cleaned thigh bone on the plate and wiped his hands on his work pants. “The vitamins didn’t agree with her—she had to be chained to her bed so she wouldn’t hurt herself.”

“By vitamins you mean the peace lily toxin?” I asked.

He nodded. “Double-dosed. Her worst