7. Five
Five
Eden
The eggs are as good as the roasted chicken. My movements are slow and well-mannered, though I’d prefer to devour it like I did my dinner. Papa would tell me it’s not ladylike.
It’s easier to breathe now that father’s gone.
The house itself seems at ease; the quiet more peaceful, less suffocating.
It had been ages since I’d been able to go anywhere but the attic.
The older I got, the more paranoid Papa grew of what I was capable of.
He kept me hidden from the rest of the world and in his own way, he was protecting me.
But I think he was also trying to protect the world from me.
I’ve never felt as evil as he believes. If the Darkness really ran through my veins, wouldn’t I feel it? A humming of wickedness that ran through my body and mind?
I sip from the glass in my hand. Sweet nectar coats my tongue and I only get to enjoy a moment of it before it’s slicing its way down my throat.
I sputter, throwing my palm over my mouth so I don’t spew onto the table.
Acid scorches me from the inside and I stifle a groan, running to the sink to expel what’s left in my mouth.
Cupping my palms under the faucet, I slurp at the cool water to wash away the agony.
I’ve become accustomed to the pain, but every once in a while I’m reminded of the damage that’s been done.
A last ditch effort by my father and a “doctor” to be rid of the Darkness once and for all.
It didn’t work, of course. The will of a curse doesn’t bend to that of an experimental surgery.
It’s soul deep, and there’s no burning it out.
That was the conclusion the doctor came to, anyway.
After that, I was permanently confined to my attic.
At the time it was a relief, a safe space after the agony I had endured.
Like all good things in my life, it didn’t last. It inevitably became its own kind of torture chamber.
I’ve never known pain like I did in my 18th year. But if what Papa says is true, if I really am evil, I suppose it’s well deserved.
A palm presses between my shoulder blades and I whirl around, catching the boy’s worried expression. His silhouette is blurry through my tears.
There’s no way I’m going to tell him about my throat, because then I’ll have to tell him why. The two men already don’t trust me. If they found out, who knows what they might do? Papa says there are some things worse than death.
I don’t touch the drink again and I leave the last half of my omelet uneaten. Creed doesn’t seem to mind, polishing off my plate as well.
Once the dishes are scrubbed clean and put away, we’re back to watching one another. Neither of us know what to do with the other, that much is clear. An idea springs to mind and I write out a note, sliding the notebook over to him.
What’s your name? With hands
His cheek dimples in amusement.
I’m almost embarrassed to ask, worried it may be too personal. It’s foreign, daunting, to try and get to know someone. But the prospect of having another person to talk to has a giddiness building in my chest.
A life of isolation doesn’t make you lonely. It makes you hollow—a chasm of emptiness where love and companionship should reside.
Creed brings his fingers to his shoulders and pulls them outwards, closing into fists. I cock my head to the side, contemplating how the movements translate.
IT MEANS brAVE. CECIL CHOSE IT FOR ME WHEN I WAS LITTLE
A swell of emotion rises in my throat and I force it down with a swallow. I can’t help but consider how my life might have been if I had a sibling. Or a family at all. I envy him very much for that.
His smile slips. The boy is always watching, reading my body language. He doesn’t just look, he sees, giving things his undivided attention. Papa watches me, but it’s cold, and full of resentment.
I HAVE A NAME FOR YOU
Curious, I raise an eyebrow, folding my hands in front of me patiently. With one hand, he brings his hand to his face and taps his thumb and pointer finger together. It looks like… a beak opening and closing.
IT’S THE SIGN FOR BIRD
My heart sinks. He couldn’t know, could he? The innocent look on his face doesn’t suggest he does. He merely offers a shy grin and repeats the motion.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t mourn the tiny bird my father killed all those years ago.
Our lives were so similar, I’ve often wondered if it was a glimpse into my own fate.
It was certainly a reminder of why I cannot get too close to anyone.
Death and destruction are a parasite I cannot be rid of.
Thoughts spiraling, I stand dumbly in front of Creed, wringing my fingers so hard they ache.
If what Papa says is true, if the Darkness really is a part of me, maybe I should be the one to leave.
With no knowledge of the outside world, I’m not sure where I could go.
Run until I can’t anymore. Until I’m alone.
Would you rather be alone, or would you rather burn in Hell?
My nerves come alive under my skin, both on fire and freezing cold. I’m shaking, too, my teeth chattering. I can’t seem to catch my breath, now that I think of it. There’s not enough air in this room, in this house, maybe not even in the entire continent with how my lungs struggle.
I need air. I need space. I need to be alone. Alone alone alone alone—
Warmth envelops my face and the world around me shifts back into focus. Creed is standing in front of me. Oh God, I’ll hurt him. But I can’t tell him, and I can’t move. My limbs are like stone.
“You oh-kay.”
The words shock me so much that it halts my hyperventilation in its tracks. All I can do is blink. He spoke to me. It was awkward, the emphasis not on the correct syllable, but it was clear enough.
Those kind green eyes trace over my face, a wrinkle of worry separating his eyebrows. The heat, I realize, is two smooth palms. Carefully held between his hands, he regards me like I might shatter.
And I might.
“Oh-kay,” He repeats, nodding as if to convince me. My chin wobbles. I’ve never felt this. The tenderness in his touch tears a hole in my heart, and mends it all the same.
The panic releases me enough that I mirror his nod. His hands lower, and I shiver with the cool air that replaces them. Creed takes a step back, but reaches a hand out and grips mine. Our fingers don’t intertwine, but my clammy palm presses to his. I don’t let go.
With wobbly legs, I let him lead me into the grand living room. Another place I haven’t seen in years. This time, though, my attention is on the boy in front of me. I pay no mind to the same tired carpets and framed artwork.
Creed ushers me to take a seat on the stiff couch and I do, tamping down the disappointment I feel when he releases my hand to take his own seat. Realizing he brought the notebook, I study his movements while he writes.
The question he asks releases all the dread I felt only moments before.
If I’m lucky, Creed might be my first friend.