6. Four
Four
Creed
My knee bounces restlessly, my thumbnail bit down to the quick. There’s no way for me to hear what’s happening on the other side of the door, but I’m sure as Hell not going to watch her while she’s nude.
It’s not that I trust her, because I don’t. The girl clearly has some deep rooted issues. But wouldn’t I if I was trapped in this house?
While I had been chopping potatoes for dinner, my brother admitted to me that he knew who Eden’s father was and that she likely spent her whole life here.
In classic Cecil fashion, he didn’t bother disclosing any more information, only reminding me to be careful around the girl.
When I asked why we don’t leave, he said we couldn’t pass this place up and he’d find out what to do with Eden.
As if she were an ugly piece of furniture left behind and not a human being.
His willingness to stay is more than a little suspicious, but interrogating my brother’s motive is moot.
At least I have someone else to talk to. Sort of.
I can’t help but find our situations similar, Eden and I.
I can’t hear, she can’t—or won’t—speak, and we’ve both been hidden our whole lives.
With what little knowledge I have on The Cleansing, I assume she was hidden for the same reasons.
How Cecil knows her father is still a mystery.
Or why said father would leave her in an attic to starve to death.
And I thought my dad sucked.
Making Eden dinner helped a little with my guilt from the attic debacle.
The only real talent I have is cooking, thanks to the endless amounts of recipe books I burned through as a teenager.
With no friends or social life, I’ve digested almost every kind of literature there is.
From Shakespeare to the Encyclopedia, I’ve probably read it at least once.
And if Cecil was going to be my provider, the least I could do was ensure we didn’t rely on PB&Js.
I look at the clock again. Fifteen minutes. Either the girl doesn’t care whether I live or die, or she drowned in the bathtub.
That second thought has me jumping up and marching over to the door, ready to barge in and save her life. She’s got a head injury for God’s sake, and I let her take a bath!? I might as well have dug her grave and thrown her in.
My palm barely grazes the doorknob before it swings open, narrowly missing my face.
Eden’s mouth opens in a gasp. A towel is wrapped around her body, and I couldn’t have stopped myself from ogling if I tried.
Dark hair clings to her neck, her cheeks are pink from the heat, and she smells good.
Like vanilla and peppermint. The tiny cuts on her face are still there, and her lips are still bit to all Hell, but it doesn’t matter. Oh God, she’s pretty.
My gaze finally makes its way back up, zeroing in on silver eyes adorned with thick lashes. She furiously tugs the towel higher and lower at the same time. I sign sorry on my chest and whip around.
A moment later, the faintest touch of fingertips on my shoulder has me chancing a peek. I’m met with a notepad held out in front of her face.
No clean clothes
Oh.
I take the pen from her and try to keep my eyes from wandering off the paper.
DO YOU HAVE CLOTHES IN THE ATTIC?
She pulls a face at that. They’re dirty
ALL OF THEM?
She shrugs helplessly. I glance at the closet behind us, but it’s filled with white button downs and suit jackets. Not really sleeping material.
DO YOU WANT SOMETHING OF MINE? I write.
It’s the only solution I can think of, unless she wants to sleep naked. The thought of that makes my mouth run dry.
Apprehension has her eyes darting across the room. If she’s been here all her life, her interactions with men are probably more limited than mine are with women. Wearing someone’s clothes to bed is strangely intimate, but we don’t have a ton of options.
She relents with a dip of her chin, and I step out of the room. Again, breaking my not even for a second order.
A few short minutes later, she's clad in her new pajamas: boxers that are rolled at the waist, and a black t-shirt that hangs to her knees. I stifle a snort.
Finally tucked under the sheets, she finger combs through her hair briefly, staring into space.
Confident that she won’t escape into the night, I offer an awkward wave.
Throwing a hand up, she begins flipping through the notebook, pointing to her earlier thank you message. Then she points at my hands.
It takes a moment for my tired brain to compute what she wants, but when it does, I’m stunned. She wants me to teach her a sign. It excites me more than it should, but Cecil is the only person I’ve spoken to in ages.
Placing my fingertips to my chin and pulling my hand forward, I demonstrate the gesture. Eden is quick to copy the movement. Though it isn’t perfect, a smile overtakes my face.
Despite all that could go wrong, I can’t wait to see her in the morning.
The moment sunlight creeps through the large window of my new bedroom, I’m shooting out of the bed.
Silken sheets and a velvet comforter are strewn haphazardly back into place and the clock reads 6:54 in the morning.
Hopefully it's early enough that Eden is still asleep and I can reach her before my brother. Cecil always wakes up at 5:30 in the morning. He’s never been much of a sleeper.
The drafty home rises goosebumps on my arms as I make my way down the hall.
Rushing through a shower, I don’t take the time to appreciate the massive bathroom.
My mind is stuck on Eden and her circumstances.
Does she like sweets? Has anyone ever made her pancakes?
What did her father feed her? Though my brother couldn’t cook to save his life, he at least bought me whatever groceries I requested.
My brother may be a controlling psychopath, but he adores me. It’s kind of cute, in a suffocating way.
Speaking of the devil, I bump into him on my way out of the steamy bathroom and gasp, palming at my chest.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I use the back of my hand to swat at him. He swats me back and frowns.
“I told you to watch the girl.”
Averting my gaze, I reply, “She’s sleeping.” I hope.
“No, she’s walking around the house in your underwear.”
My eyes bug. I speed past him, worried how I’ll find her.
Probably hog tied on the kitchen table if my brother had anything to do with it.
I search the halls, scanning each room before moving onto the next.
My level of anxiety heightens the longer I’m unable to find her.
He wouldn’t actually hurt her, right? Right?
Bursting into the kitchen, I find Eden perched on a barstool. My entrance startles her and she looks up from her journal, throwing the pen down like it bit her. My eyes flick to the page to see what looks like an outline of a bird mid flight.
“Are you okay?” I ask, dropping my hands when I remember she won’t understand.
She looks fine. Her cheeks have more color, and her hair has dried perfectly straight, framing her face. While her eyes are still nervous and dart around the room, she looks less… feral.
My brother enters the room and crosses his arms over his chest, staring Eden down. The intimidation tactic is exhausting. It’s pretty obvious that she’s scared shitless.
Itching to ease the tension, I turn to a new page and write a message.
DO YOU LIKE OMELETS?
I feel Cecil watching our interaction, but I choose to ignore him.
I don’t know
Eden shifts uneasily on her seat.
DO YOU LIKE EGGS?
Averting her gaze once more, she traces the edges of the notebook with the tip of her finger and offers one concise nod.
I ask Cecil if he’ll eat with us, but he informs me that he’s already running late.
My brother leaves almost every day and I’ve never known the destination.
I used to worry, waiting anxiously for him to return, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years.
The concern never left, I just learned to carry it.
At the very least, I’m confident in my brother’s abilities to take care of himself.
With a reminder to keep Eden in my sights, he leaves us alone. The fact that he’s willing to leave me with a stranger in the middle of nowhere is moderately comforting. She must not be the threat he originally thought.
Big surprise.
While I cook our meal, Eden watches with interest. The look of despair has lifted to one of curiosity as her eyes trail me around the kitchen. By the time I slip her omelet onto a plate, she’s sitting up on her elbows to get a better look.
While outdated, the kitchen appears completely untouched. I’ve never seen an oven so clean in my life. Either they had a professional cleaning service, or it was used… never.
Sat at the island, I pour each of us a glass of orange juice. She waits for me to grab my fork before she even looks at the dish in front of her. With an encouraging smile, I motion for her to dig in. She raises her hand to her face.
“Thank you.”
With a smile on my lips, I respond with a “you’re welcome” and take a bite of my eggs. Tentatively, she does the same.