11. Nine
Nine
Eden
Cecil slept through the night. Creed and I took to the floor next to the bed in case he woke up. Neither of us got a good night’s rest, both tossing and turning and checking to make sure our patient was still breathing. He’s doing okay, all things considered.
When the deep blue of an early winter morning bleeds through the cracks of the curtains, we give up on sleep. We need showers, and when Creed tells me to go first, I jump on the opportunity. Though I changed my shirt, the coppery scent lingers as a nauseating reminder.
Beneath the steaming spray, I try to dig out the ruddiness that’s caked under my fingernails.
It’s even in my hair—rivulets of pink circling the drain.
I watch in a daze, yesterday’s events hitting me like a ton of bricks.
Cecil could have died if he didn’t make it home in time.
Creed worries about him, and the ache in my chest tells me that, oddly enough, I do, too.
It’s new, caring for others. Papa never gave me the opportunity to get too close to him or anything else, so the coinciding emotions are foreign.
The things I cared most about as a child had been ripped from me. My father made sure of it.
Satisfied that I’ve scrubbed myself inch by inch, I brush my hair and get dressed before relieving Creed of his babysitting duties.
Once he steps out, I lower myself to the edge of the bed and hike up Cecil’s shirt, running my fingers along the puckered skin.
It’s going to leave a nasty scar. However, if scars could suit someone, it would be the man stretched out in my bed.
I can’t help but admire his imposing nature.
Even unconscious, he’s daunting. There’s a permanent line between his eyebrows, presumably from years of scowls, and he hardly fits on the mattress.
If it were any shorter, his feet would dangle over the edge.
Emerald eyes flutter open and my breath catches in my throat. Without realizing, I had begun raking my fingers through Cecil’s hair, absently smoothing the gnarls. He’s probably livid that I touched him, especially while in a vulnerable state. My cheeks burn and I slowly draw my hand back.
His eyes don’t stray from mine. He doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t look angry either. He just looks.
“How do you feel?” I ask, desperate to draw his attention elsewhere. Though I can’t imagine his answer will be anything but “awful”.
He opens his mouth to speak, but his voice cracks from disuse. Grunting, he brings a hand to his face.
“Water.”
It’s the first time he’s signed to me.
Eager to escape the tension, I jump up and race to the kitchen. As quick as I can, I return with a glass and set it on the nightstand, helping Cecil prop up on the bed. He grunts and groans, but he doesn’t complain.
The stitches hinder the movement of his dominant hand, so I hold the water to his lips. Within seconds, the glass is empty and I’m back at his bedside. This time, I keep my hands to myself.
“Do you need anything else? I can look for medicine,” I say, hesitantly turning my eyes back to his. He studies me like I’ve grown another head. Maybe the blood loss did more damage than I thought. Or maybe there’s something on my face.
Tentatively, Cecil raises his left hand and takes mine, bringing it to his eyes. I wait with baited breath for whatever he’s about to do, torn between intrigue and terror. His fingers are rough and calloused against my own, and goosebumps spread over my arm.
Without a word, he studies my fingers one by one, turning them this way and that.
Satisfied with what he’s seen, he gently places my hand back in my lap. He pulls the blanket down enough to view his scar. Still not a happy face, but not angry either.
“You did that.” It’s not a question.
My brows draw together, but I nod. Is he mad at what I did for him? Was he hoping it was his brother? Am I so beneath him that I’m not worthy of saving his life?
Cecil blows out a long breath and rests his head against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.
“Holy fuck,” he mumbles incredulously.
Offended, I clench my teeth. “What?”
Raising an eyebrow, Cecil lolls his head to the side to look at me. And then he smirks. Oh my God, he’s completely lost the plot. A thatch of hair hangs limply over one of his eyes.
“I could kiss you.” He says it weakly, voice raw despite the water. Shimmering eyes and curved lips have my brain feeling fuzzy.
The man was gravely injured. He’s delirious.
I gather what’s left of my resolve and straighten my spine. “No thank you,” is my response.
And then he laughs.
It’s dinner time, and I’m filling a bowl with beef stew to take to Cecil.
Creed and I have spent the day taking care of him, switching on and off.
He slept most the day, anyway, but he’s feeling well enough for some of his bite to return.
For lunch, I made him a peanut butter sandwich to which he rolled his eyes, grumbling that he wasn’t a toddler.
I informed him that I survived off peanut butter for weeks and didn’t have anyone to complain to.
He huffed, but ate it without another word.
Creed has been collecting and chopping firewood most the day, insisting he “feels” an ice storm brewing. I don’t understand how he could possibly feel that, but I trust him enough not to question it. Part of me thinks he has a hard time seeing his brother this way, and is avoiding the room.
I shuffle through the house, a steaming bowl in one hand and a glass of water in the other, balancing a couple rolls in the crook of my elbow. The man has quite the appetite, as I learned from the peanut butter sandwich debacle.
I wrestle to open the door and tiptoe through the room, placing his meal on the nightstand. Cecil is asleep, again, and I don’t want to startle him. Leaning over his frame, my hair tickles at his chest as I pat his cheek. He hums low in his throat and stirs, squinting at me.
“I have to clean the stitches, but I brought dinner,” I sign, motioning to the bowl. This piques his interest, and right on cue, his stomach growls.
A breathy giggle escapes me. My eyes grow wide and Cecil snaps his head toward me. For a moment I think he might say something, but he quirks his lips and looks away.
“Fine, but make it quick. You two have starved me enough for one day.” He sighs, and my lips pull down into a frown. Does he think that’s what I was trying to do?
“I would never—” I begin frantically. Cecil catches my wrist.
“I’m teasing you, Eden. Relax.” He sounds exasperated, and I huff in response.
I try to help him into an upright position, though I don’t manage more than fluffing the pillows behind him. I couldn’t lift his weight if I tried.
“Let’s change your shirt,” I tell him, hoping he doesn’t argue this time around.
Surprisingly, he acquiesces. Halfway over his head, it gets caught and he shifts side to side to escape.
The shirt has lifted hair off his neck, and I catch a patch of discolored skin right at the base of his skull.
Curious, I lean closer, a nervous flutter beginning in my stomach.
It’s a symbol. A familiar symbol, seared into his skin.
The shirt drops to his lap and I stand dumbly before him.
I could ignore it, that would be the wise thing to do, but my mind is already racing and there’s no catching it.
I know that mark, having seen my father wear it my whole life.
An oval with a cross through it, and smaller circles on each point.
It was etched into a ring Papa kept on his pinky, glinting at me every time he’d point an accusing finger in my face.
I should leave it alone, but I can’t. I was beginning to think I was safer with them than I was Papa. The doubt slams into me like a sledgehammer.
“What is that?” I’m too frazzled to beat around the bush.
“What’s what?” Cecil responds coolly, but the firm set of his jaw gives him away. He knows.
“On your neck. Why do you have that?” My breaths are coming in short pants now; my fight or flight screaming FLIGHT FLIGHT FLIGHT.
He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “It’s a scar. I’ve had it since I was a kid.” Liar. We both know he’s lying, and with the look on his face, I’d say he’s daring me to call him out on it.
I want to tell him that I know; that Papa was a bad man and he wore the same mark.
I want to ask him why he came to my home and where my father is.
I want to ask if he knows about me, and if he’s been planning to kill me all this time.
There’s so much I want to say, but I’m paralyzed by the fear of what the answers might be.
Creed wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, would he? He probably doesn’t know about his brother, either. Maybe I’ll tell him, and we can figure it out together. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Or maybe I am crazy, like Papa said. Delusional, dangerous little girl.
“Can I have my food now?” The sound of his voice has me sucking in a gasp of air, and I realize I must have stopped breathing. The tingling in my fingertips warns me that I’m on the brink of fainting.
There’s nothing I can do at the moment, so I push it down, down, down. Later, I tell myself. Cecil isn’t going to be honest, so I have no choice but to turn on wooden legs and grab his meal.
Settling the stew in his lap, he begins to eat. He keeps his gaze averted, and I do the same. The ease that I’ve felt around him is long gone. At every turn, I’m reminded of the dangers of this world.
The moment the spoon clatters in the empty bowl, I grab the dish from his hands and flee the room. He doesn’t try to stop me.
Back in the kitchen, I scrub furiously at the dishes until my hands are raw. The water is scalding, but I pay no mind. The window in front of the sink is fogged from the steam. I stare into cloudy nothingness while I wash.
If I had known about his mark before, would I have saved him?
Yes, I think to myself, you would have. And although I’d like to think it’s because I’m selfless and kind, I really know it’s because I’m terrified of being alone.
I’d rather live under the same roof as someone who wants me dead than in isolation. What does that say about me?
A cold hand on my shoulder has me whipping around, the glass in my hands slipping and crashing to the floor. Creed jumps back and begins to laugh, signing a “sorry”. It’s not until he catches my eye that he gives pause.
“Eden?” He begins, the concern evident on his face. “What happened? Is he okay?” He reaches for my hands, and I flinch back.
Any ideas I had of telling him about what I saw leaves me at once. Cecil is his brother, the person he loves the most in this world. He’s known me for less than two months, and he’s known his brother for twenty years. I would be a fool to feel entitled to his loyalty.
“Of course. He just finished dinner,” I tell him. His eyes roam my face, trying to interpret my expression. There’s no hiding from Creed, so I resort to lying.
“I’m not feeling well. Do you mind if I go to bed?” I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that the taste of copper fills my mouth. The burning in my hands is catching up to me, and I tuck them behind my back and out of sight.
His eyes soften. “Yeah, go ahead. You can sleep in my bed if you want. I’ll stay down here with him,” he tells me.
His freckled cheeks are rosy from the cold, and he’s still wearing the puffy coat that I borrow.
I want nothing more than to wrap myself around him and take advantage of the comfort that only he has ever provided.
But I can’t, because if I do, I’ll break.
I muster up a thankful grin and step around him, not bothering to say good night. I feel his eyes on me the whole way out of the room.
And I am alone again.