Chapter 11 #2
I shake my head and lather the bread with mayonnaise. “You’re ridiculous. This costs me nothing. I do it because I want to. Because I want you to be comfortable.”
It’s so strange how he can fully understand that when it’s him doing something for me, but finds it so hard to accept care. At least he seems to think about it before he turns on the TV.
I check news about the manhunt on my phone, but I don’t want him to obsess and be stressed about it, because then he comes up with stupid ideas.
The last one being that we should set up traps around the cabin.
We agreed he gets to check the news once a day, and he was fortunately fine with that.
Even said that being here is a digital detox.
The screen awakes, and lo and behold, it’s another segment on the Festive Fugitive which is what they call Eli despite knowing his name and identity. Every day, some new facts from Eli’s life get pulled out into the open, and I don’t like it. The less is widely known about him, the better.
“Has the culture of the interwebs invaded our real lives too much?” the anchor asks, looking straight at the camera.
“For a long time now, we have discussed how the anonymity of the internet causes people to ignore social boundaries and tell others things they never would have in real life. This case shows how far this can go. Even the name, ‘Festive Fugitive’ is disrespectful to the victim and his family. Search engine results display pages upon pages of memes and videos presenting the murder of Arthur Sullivan as a joke—”
“The first amendment guarantees people the right to free speech, but is this a worthy use of that speech?” one of the commentators on the screen asks before shaking his head.
I’m too busy with food preparation to keep watching, but a third voice joins the same discussion I’ve heard more times than I care to.
“The investigation into Elijah Ward’s motive did reveal that Mr. Sullivan wasn’t the person the public knew him as, though.
Several bodies found on the grounds of his property?
An underground room with torture devices?
Who knows what else the police haven’t even disclosed?
I’d bet my arm that Elijah was a victim of Sullivan’s.
If anything, he saved those who Sullivan would have hurt in the future. ”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Festive Fugitive is hardly some angel of vengeance—”
“How would you know? The case has too many unanswered questions.”
“We still shouldn’t use silly terms like Festive Fugitive when we talk about murder.”
I turn to glance at Eli who doesn’t even blink, glued to the screen as if it’s hypnotizing him. I heard about the discovery a few hours ago, but I didn’t want to rattle him before our trip to the lake. I know all about that underground torture chamber and what else Sullivan hid.
I’ve been there many times, though only once as a victim.
“Did you hear that?” Eli whispers absentmindedly. “People will find out who Sullivan was.”
But when I try to answer, he shushes me, desperate to intake all that the news has to offer.
The show’s moderator turns to the camera. “It’s true, there are many questions left, so who better to illuminate us on them than someone who knew Elijah Ward best? Let’s hear from Spencer Shaw, his ex-partner.”
Spencer?
Spencer? That piece of shit who couldn’t be bothered to take over some of Eli’s chores when he was sick?
The butter knife drops from my hand, and I gravitate closer to the screen, my muscles like stiff leather. I sense the tension in the room as if I could smell the cortisol spiking in Eli the moment that fucker appears on screen.
Spencer is your average Joe-type with a pleasant smile, but his eyebrows are drawn together, as if he were a funeral director trying to express both sympathy and sorrow at the same time. He’s even dressed in a black suit for this remote interview.
“Thank you for having me. It’s so tragic. I’ve been trying to piece everything together for days now. I’d say it’s such a shock, but it’s not when I really think about it. Elijah has expressed his violent urges to me many times. We argued about that a lot, actually.”
Eli jumps up and stands on the couch with his face going red. “You motherfucker! Violent fucking urges?”
I cut his legs from under him and use both my arms to guide his ass back to the seat, because I am not letting him injure himself over this. But I understand the frustration of being accused of things that just can’t be true.
Eli is a good person—a lamb hurt so badly it snapped and spilled the blood of a wolf. He doesn’t deserve to be besmirched on live TV. Especially by a selfish lowlife like Spencer, who never treated my Eli the way he deserves.
“That’s so interesting,” the anchor says. “He has no prior criminal record, and appeared to have led a peaceful life before becoming homeless.”
Eli lets out a sound I’ve not heard from him before. Something between a growl and a rumble deep in his chest.
Spencer goes on, and even seeing his face is making me jealous. This fuck not only touched Eli, but also made him miserable. And now he’s spilling his version of events on national TV.
“Depends how you define ‘peaceful’. He couldn’t hold down a job half the time.
I told him after he lost the court battle against Mr. Sullivan, that he should let it go, focus on getting his life in order, but he wanted to take law into his own hands.
I, of course, thought he was all talk, or I would have reported it.
He did have a tendency to blow things out of proportion. ”
The anchor nods with a serious expression. “Do you have any idea why he might have chosen to dress up as Santa Claus to commit his crime?”
Spencer shakes his head. “He always had an unhealthy obsession with Christmas. I couldn’t take that, and his violent fantasies were getting too toxic. I feared for my safety. In the end, I had to end that relationship.”
Eli screams out in fury. “He fucking didn’t! He fucking used me until I had no more to give. And then he hit me, so I dumped him and walked away! But I’m the violent one?”
My skull feels like it’s about to crack. On the screen, conversation continues, but all I can see now is the raw fury and regret on Eli’s vulpine features. He’s raising his voice until it’s so shrill I worry his throat’s going to be sore.
I want to protect him from those violent emotions, from feeling slighted, and from the rat playing the good guy now that it’s offering him a moment in the spotlight.
“He did what? Hit you?” I ask, gesturing at the TV.
“Just once,” he says as if that makes it any better. Eli takes a deep breath, but the hurt is so obvious on his face I’m losing my mind. I need to do something.
When the screen fills with the grainy image of Spencer’s self-important pout, raw hate flashes through me like lightning. It’s about to switch off my heart, and the only way to not let that happen is to put a stop to this bastard’s lies.
Breathless and drunk on my own rage, I take two steps and slam my fist into the TV, making its back hit the wall.
For a second, I’m shocked that I did it, but then I punch the screen again and again and again, until I can no longer see Spencer.
There’s steaming green jealousy in my actions as well, but the wrath I have for that fucker outweighs it.
When I imagine this bastard hitting Eli I want to travel to where he lives just so I can put my hands around his neck and strangle him to death.
Spencer’s managed to upset my Eli from hundreds of miles away, even though he’s a worm unworthy of stepping on.
I’m heaving when a hand on my arm pulls me out of my stupor.
“Cesar? You’re bleeding, come to the kitchen,” Eli whispers, and when I see him standing, guilt slashes through me immediately.
“I told you, you shouldn’t walk so fast,” I mumble and lean down to pluck the TV cable out of the outlet, so it stops hissing at me.
“It’s fine, my ankle really is a lot better. Did I… make you angry?” he asks, looking more resigned than scared, as he leads me to the sink, but what do I know? I’m not that good at reading people’s emotions.
I used to be better at controlling my own too. Was it because I was afraid of punishment? Now that Sullivan’s leash is off, I can express myself more freely, but is it such a good thing?
Am I unhinged?
Could I… hurt Eli?
It’s just a thought, yet it feels like a punch to the gut, and I fall to my knees, struggling to catch my breath.
I want what’s best for him. He does not deserve to be around someone he fears.
How is it that I try so hard yet always fail at doing things right?
“No… no, of course not. I’m sorry. I really am, Eli,” I whisper and press my lips to his warm fingers.
He scoots right next to me and strokes my head. “It’s okay. Sometimes I get really angry too. I’m glad I don’t have to see his face anymore. Maybe if it was my TV, I would have done the same.”
I don’t remember feeling like this before.
My chest feels like it’s about to burst. It’s a bad feeling, full of anger at everyone who’s ever put their hands on Eli, but also at myself, because now he won’t trust me either.
“I just… you were so upset, because of all his lies, and when you said he punched you, I imagined it. I couldn’t stand that he’s not here, so I can twist his fucking head off,” I growl and push my head at Eli’s chest. “He doesn’t fucking deserve to live!
How dare he? How dare this bastard raise his filthy hand at you? ”
These emotions in me are so new, so raw, I’m afraid they will scare Eli off.
Sullivan always punished displays of feelings until I no longer knew if I had them.
I was built to attack and maim. Even when I protected Sullivan, it was out of duty, not because I thought he deserved it.
I don’t know how to handle the tenderness inside me.
Am I too broken to accept Eli’s affection? Do I deserve it?