Free Aphelion by Andy Frankham-Allen Page B

down the dark path of indiscretion. And it must pay, as I have paid by losing everything.”
    Robert knew of what Bernard spoke. His friends, his family, even his wife, who had promised to stick by him unto death, had turned on him. Not even wishing to hear his side of the story. Since that time he had been alone… Just Bernard and his guilt.
    Robert wanted to speak, tell Bernard that it was not his fault. He had seen the life Bernard had lived, watched as the teenager manipulated things, twisted everything. Bernard never stood a chance.
    Robert knew from his brief tour of Bernard’s memory that he was the latest in a long line of people who Bernard had lured to his house, to borrow their bodies, use them as tools of his punishment.
    In his whole life, Robert had never wanted to block anything out as much as he did this. And he knew, whatever the outcome of this night, his safe life was gone for good. And so he watched—what else could he do?—as Bernard raised the pipe and began beating down on his own, vacant, body…
    *
    Time passed, as it was wont to do, and Robert could do nothing but wait. Float around the house, explore every nook and cranny, anything to keep himself occupied and out of the kitchen. Away from the beaten pulp of Bernard’s body.
    Robert had watched, horrified by the pure viciousness of Bernard’s assault, raining down blow after blow with the steel pipe. Eventually, after what seemed like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, Bernard had stopped, turning away from the body, paying it no further mind. He had gone to the sink, and washed the blood off the pipe and Robert’s hands, before returning the pipe to its hiding place amongst the rubbish beneath the table.
    “I will be back,” Bernard had said, looking up. “Make yourself at home. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he added.
    Robert was struck by the lack of feeling in Bernard’s voice. He could only pretend to understand how much the self-hatred ate its way inside Bernard; even with the snapshot view of Bernard’s life, Robert could not truly comprehend living with such darkness for twenty years. Bernard had left, walking out of the house in Robert’s skin as if he’d only borrowed a jumper.
    Robert was left to float around uselessly. Exploring the house was no adventure; it was disgusting and vile. For someone to think so little about themselves, that they’d allow their home to get in such a state… It sickened Robert, who lived in a tidy house, sure he didn’t have a world-shaping life, but he had a good life, one of self-respect. Looking around, he wondered just what would need to happen in his life for it to sink to the level of Bernard’s.
    Robert shook his astral head. What was he doing, trying to sympathise? Bernard had brought him to this house by nefarious means. To what end? To play this twisted game of self-loathing? What had happened was wrong, Robert could not and would not deny that, but for Bernard to carry on the way he was…it was one sin compounded on another.
    How many people had Bernard brought into his dark and twisted world? Almost twenty years’ worth of visitors, stealing their bodies, using them to inflict unimaginable pain on his own useless shell. Leaving them to float around the house, helpless, while Bernard went out into the real world, his body healing from the worst of the injuries.
    Disassociation at its worst. Bernard was not paying for his error, he was distancing himself from it. Dishing out the punishment on his body, as if it wasn’t him who gave in all those years ago. No, Robert, decided, the cycle had to end.
    *
    It was the early hours of the morning, by the time his body sauntered into the kitchen; yes, actually sauntered, carrying bags of shopping, as if the old man inhabiting it had not a care in the world. Robert would have smiled to himself if he could. Bernard looked up, to where he imagined Robert would be.
    “You’ll soon be back in your body,” Bernard said,