Chapter Text
"And tonight we have breaking news on hockey's rising star, who vanished after his rookie season. In light of new evidence emerging, Ilya Rozanov was pronounced dead last Tuesday at 7am local time. On Saturday, the family held a small private funeral in Moscow, and this week teammates and friends in Boston gathered for a vigil in his honor. The twenty-year-old Raiders centre was first flagged as a missing person eight months ago, while he was staying in Russia with his family for the off-season. The search quickly extended to the European Union, as well as the United States and Canada. Despite the diligent work of multiple police departments, federal agencies, and thousands of volunteers, no leads were uncovered prior to this dismal discovery. We reached out to law enforcement to ask about what little they were able to–"
Shane snatched the remote and switched off the TV with such force that he almost surprised himself. He'd never exchanged more than a few very tense words with Ilya Rozanov outside of the rink and a few press appearances, never once mustered the courage to try and really befriend his rival, the only man who had ever caught his eye. He'd never learn if Rozanov's piercing stare was more than just an intimidation tactic. And now he would never have the chance. He quickly admonished himself at the thought as he stood up and stretched. This poor kid had gone missing– likely abducted and murdered – and that was his first concern? He rubbed the tip of his index and middle fingers against the pad of his thumb. Once, twice, thrice, over and over again until the refrain of Selfish, selfish, how selfish could you be? had faded to a mosquito buzzing through his brain.
Well, this explained why his mother and agent had called him about a hundred times each yesterday. He'd been avoiding everyone since he'd caught wind of a lead on the Rozanov case last week. Sure enough, the worst had come to pass.
He blinked away the latent guilt and the grief that tugged at him. When Rozanov had first gone missing, Shane had felt as powerless as anyone. To the public, he'd made solemn appearances calling for Rozanov's safe return, even taking part in a useless volunteer search of the Montréal metropolitan area. To himself, he tried to explain it away. Rozanov was well known for his especially hotheaded manner– God knows he'd shoulder-checked and chirped at Shane plenty of times after their games, whether he'd won or lost. He'd gotten into countless fights both on and off the ice. It wasn't too far-fetched to assume that he was volatile at heart, reckless enough to spend his free time off the grid getting into all kinds of trouble. Nothing he couldn't recover from, though. The lie reassured him and allowed him to be hopeful for those who were actually close to Rozanov. He'd run off for whatever reason, maybe didn’t want to be found, and would turn up when he pleased.
The 2011-2012 season beginning with no Rozanov in sight had quickly shattered that little fantasy, so, going forward Shane just tried not to think about it. The Raiders, to their credit, hadn't suffered too much performance wise, going strong until they'd lost to Montréal last week in the second round of the playoffs. Shane respected how they played as if their missing captain was watching from wherever he was, like he would kick their asses for slacking when he came back. Next season, both teams would be playing in his memory.
Now, with the Metros out for the season, there was little for Shane to do other than train and think.
The evening sun was all but threatening to sink, its amber rays winking at the windows of Shane's sixth floor Laval rental condo. He reached for his phone and pulled up the hours of every library within 50km. One of them had to be open past 8:30, he reasoned. He had once heard of the Montréal PL announcing extended hours for some locations during the warmer months. Sure enough, the Saint-Michel branch would be open until ten, which would give him plenty of time once he arrived.
When the practice rink wasn't an option, libraries were Shane's safe haven, his quiet, calm home away from home. Best of all, there was little overlap between Metros fans who would recognize him and late-night library patrons, even in a city as hockey-crazed as Montréal. Whenever his skull crowded with layer upon layer of endless, droning rumination, he would pace the aisles until it abated. Then, he would settle down with a book– any book– and vanish into it until he finished it or was asked to leave at closing time. Whichever happened first. He faintly wondered if Rozanov had ever felt this way, and what he did to cope with it, and blinked once more to brush it away.
Once settled in the driver's seat of his Jeep, Shane examined the route carefully. He hated to go anywhere without first knowing what he was getting into. The fastest route took him straight across the Pont Viau and down Rue Berri, which cut right through a cemetery for over two hundred meters. Plenty of time to remind him of the very thing he was running from, but it was preferable to the twenty precious minutes wasted on the only other route offered by his navigator. He didn't have the wherewithal to figure out the way on his own.
Shane started the ignition and pulled out of the parking garage, listening to nothing but the soft rumble of his engine. Music of any kind was unwelcome at the moment.
As he drove, he stayed focused on the road, but the ever-fretting train of thought on blast in the background steered away from the news about Rozanov and towards the cemetery ahead. As a kid, he had once heard someone say that if you breathed in while walking by a graveyard, you opened yourself up to the ghosts nearby, and invited one to possess you. He'd known right away that it was a ridiculous superstition, but among many other equally ridiculous things, it planted a seed in his head, and now he felt obligated to hold his breath every time he passed a cemetery.
That little "quirk" came up so infrequently that Shane barely recognized it, let alone took it for a "symptom" of any kind. It was so rare that he'd see a graveyard far enough in advance for the mantra of hold your breath to rise to a deafening roar, but here he was. As soon as the first row of headstones came into view, he duly complied.
He tore his eyes away from the small plot beside him as he turned left onto Rue Sauvé, only to see the light ahead turn from green to yellow.
Shane wasted precious oxygen cursing aloud as he slammed the brake, all out of time to floor it through the intersection.
The following sixty seconds felt longer than the time he'd waited for the '09 draft pick to be announced. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he contemplated. The knowledge of how irrational he was being did not persuade him to stop. Instead, new anxieties blossomed. The stupid fear of being possessed by entities he didn't even believe in rivaled the very real fears about cutting off the supply of oxygen to his brain, of getting dizzy and driving distracted, possibly causing a traffic accident. He silently cursed every vehicle whooshing through the light on the perpendicular road, and himself for not having the foresight to take a deep breath before holding it.
Finally, finally, just as his vision began to blur, the light turned green. The torturous wait was over. He took a deep, desperate breath, flooring the gas pedal. One less thing to worry about, he told himself.
Ten minutes later, Shane pulled into the parking lot, choosing a spot close to the back to prolong his walk. He put his earplugs in, though there weren't many patrons to block out. Pretending to bob his head in time to music, he began to pace. It required a great deal of focus to keep himself from walking as quickly as he wanted to. Between that and reading the spine of every book, his mind blissfully, mercifully occupied.
As Shane completed his first "lap" of the library– that is, stalking up and down every single aisle except for the kids' section– he finally registered a strange feeling he'd had since driving away from the cemetery. The familiar sensation of his brain being bathed in TV static mingled with something foreign and unpleasant. It was as if a hand had plunged into ice water before tracing delicately across the surface of his cerebral cortex, prodding at the ridges as if seeking an entry point. He broke his own library rules and took out his phone.
holding breath brain damage
The results all confirmed what he vaguely remembered: that two minutes was the approximate threshold for brain damage to potentially occur. He reasoned that, since he hadn't taken a breath beforehand, that window would be slightly smaller for him. Maybe ninety seconds, which he had maxed out by the time the stupid light turned green. Not anything permanent, he had to hope. That same sensation persisted and was draining too much energy for him to bother with neurotic mental math or even a doctor Google rabbit hole.
He blinked again, once, twice, then rapidly. You're probably just disoriented, he reminded himself, and kept on walking.
Another half hour passed without disturbance. At one point, he paused to trade his earplugs for actual earbuds and selected some gentle piano music playlist he had saved, hitting play and ignoring the whisper-soft intrusion of a name in his head. He was used to intruders, and maybe getting better at letting them languish and fade.
Ilya Rozanov.
Shane's entire body jolted violently in shock. His phone slipped from his hand and dangled by the headphone wire before pulling away and careening to the floor. Shane himself followed, stumbling forward and landing on one knee.
A nearby librarian looked up from the books she was re-shelving. "You okay, sir?"
"Yeah, yeah, just," Shane attempted a good-natured chuckle as he stood, sounding blunted and dull to his own ears. "My shoe was untied."
She gave a polite nod, eyebrow knitted in concern, pointedly avoiding looking down at his Reebok slip-ons, which were decidedly lace-less. "Alright then. Let me know if you need help finding anything."
Shane managed to eke out a "Thanks, will do." before turning and shuffling in the opposite direction. He was too rattled to feel embarrassed. What the fuck was that.
Shane had never experienced an auditory hallucination. He was certain of this because he'd explained to the therapist his parents sent him to in juniors that sometimes he could hear his thoughts so loudly and clearly that he worried others could hear them too. That they would hear that jeering voice taunting him about his capacity to kick a nearby puppy or something, and mistake it for something he wanted or god forbid intended to actually do. For the umpteenth time that morning he'd gone teary eyed and asked if he was crazy, and she'd gently reassured him that it was very normal for people with his condition. She asked if he "heard" those thoughts in the same way he was hearing their voices as they conversed. He thought about it for a moment, then said, ‘No, not really.’
’In what sense do you 'hear' it, then?’
He summoned the answer he'd given at the time and replayed it in his head, hoping to make sense of the sound that had literally knocked him to the ground. 'It's not loud like a breaking dish or a speaker, its more like, it's taking up so much space I can feel it in my ears, but that's only the case for the really awful aggressive intrusive thoughts…’
Not that, then, he reasoned before continuing the memory.’Other thoughts are just so clear, like they belong to me, like I'm translating something for myself. It's like a phantom of my voice, but only because their my thoughts, so how could they sound like anything else, right?’
So, not a hallucination either. He shoved his phone into his pocket and picked up his pace, forgetting that his earbuds were still in, attached to nothing, the jack dangling against his thigh. The same register as his 'own.' thoughts, but distinct nonetheless. It was more like a memory of sound, or premonition thereof. The thought had appeared with the certainty of the voice behind it. The voice was slightly deeper in pitch, the cadence more laid back where Shane's stumbled forward despite his best efforts. A warmer timbre and a slight rasp that his own lacked. Most notably, he'd heard a strong accent– Russian, maybe?
Rozanov, he managed to land the thought in that same declarative register. Ilya Rozanov.
Nowhere close.
It was a memory, then, he decided firmly. An auditory memory of Rozanov introducing himself to Shane or someone else within earshot, maybe. He had just enough self control not to dwell on the details of those memories and compare them to that moment. He was disoriented, tired, and maybe a little messed up from the very stupid compulsion that had gone too far. It was nothing to freak out over, so he told himself.
Normally by this point he'd have found a book that looked interesting, at least, more interesting than reading title after title, and sat down. But now, movement and familiarity kept him sane, and a change was the last thing he needed. It's nothing, it's nothing. The explanation kept him calm while the same librarian let him know that closing was ten minutes away, as he drove home on a different route, ate a quick dinner of leftovers, went through his meticulous night routine. He dug up his first aid kit and applied some ointment to his knee, red and stinging from the collision with rough commercial carpet. By that point, he had almost convinced himself that he really had tripped over his shoelaces. Almost.
As he settled into bed and pulled his weighted blanket tightly around his shoulders, he thought he felt that same voice again, tiny and full of trepidation, trying out different words. The spiral he'd followed since the evening news had kept him high strung for so many hours, and as soon as he shut his eyes, sleep washed over him and swept it all away.