13. Eleven
Eleven
Eden
The bruises heal at a snail’s pace. After ten days, I’m able to walk around without a scarf or turtleneck. The freezing temperatures made a good excuse; Creed never brought it up.
Cecil did, in fact, rip his stitches. The story was, he got up to use the bathroom and tripped. No one asked me to re-suture them. According to Creed, after a long argument, Cecil convinced his little brother that he could sew the torn half back up himself. And he did.
After my run-in with Cecil, I have withdrawn.
My friend instantly took notice of my change in behavior.
Every day he asks for help with dinner, or to read a book together, or play a game of cards.
I’ve given in a couple of times because I can’t stand the disappointment on his face.
Mostly, though, I feed him an excuse and retreat to my room.
The bed belongs to me again, any traces of blood washed away. Even though the sheets are clean, it feels odd to sleep where Cecil had the week before. It’s like I can still feel him here, his shadow left behind. Hovering.
Now that he’s healed enough, Cecil is back to leaving each morning.
I, however, haven’t stepped outside in days, the bite of air cold enough to take my breath away.
How he’s able to get to and from the house with the amount of ice covering the ground is beyond me.
Creed teased that his brother can’t freeze if his heart is already made of ice. I didn’t smile at that.
Today, I’m curled in a chair by the window of my room, absently sketching in my notebook.
Mindlessly, I swirl the pencil round and round while I stare off into space.
Every day, I’m haunted by the faces in that folder.
Each one seared into my mind, refusing to be forgotten.
That little boy… I shake my head to rid myself of the image.
Looking down, I realize I’ve begun to draw the emblem that mars Cecil’s skin. Over and over again, in a chaos of lead. I tear the paper from my book and crumple it up.
The door behind me opens. I know it’s Creed, and I know he’s come to pester me about leaving my room. It’s not that I don’t feel guilty, because I do, but I don’t know how to behave around him. Any sense of security has crashed down around me.
That night, after I promised to keep Cecil’s secret, he helped me to my feet and led me back to Creed’s room.
The details are blurry; I think I went into a state of shock.
What I do remember is him tucking me into the bed, and using a cloth to wipe the blood from my cheeks.
There was a tenderness in the way he touched me, and I know it was born out of guilt. He almost killed me. It scared him.
Well, that makes two of us.
The notebook is ripped from my hands. I bare my teeth, forced to lift my eyes to the boy in front of me.
“Enough of this. I want my friend back.” The stern set of his jaw is out of place on his kind face. He holds his chin high and his shoulders back, glowering at me over the tip of his nose.
I reach to retrieve my notebook, but he holds it high above his head.
“Give it back. I’m working on something,” I tell him, stretching to my full height. With his palm, he pushes me back into the chair. I blink in surprise.
Flipping through the pages upon pages of scribbled nonsense, he rolls his eyes. “No need, it’s shit.” The crude word is enough to hurt my feelings. He’s never mean to me. “Get up, we’re going to read some books Cecil brought back.”
The notebook sails across the room and lands with a thud, undoubtedly ruining some of the pages. My frustration mounts and this time when I jump up from the chair, he doesn’t stop me.
“What is wrong with you!?” I ask.
“Me? What’s wrong with you!? You won’t even look at me!” His nostrils flare, a vein in his neck pulses. Unbridled anger has him resembling his older brother more than ever.
“If you want to be alone so badly, why don’t you go back up to your cage, little bird? I won’t bother letting you out this time,” he taunts. My face heats with fury and shame. For the briefest moment, remorse softens his features, but my hand wipes it away.
The sting of my palm is my first clue that I smacked him. Though I’m angry, I don’t feel the swelling in my chest that warns of overwhelm. On the contrary, it actually feels good. Like air being released from a near-bursting balloon.
Creed is stunned; jaw dropped and eyebrows halfway to his hairline. There are red fingerprints on his left cheek. Before I can think better of it, I swat him in the chest again. Fight back, my mind pleads.
My hands take on a mind of their own. I begin pushing, shoving, desperate for him to do something. The pent up rage and panic and sorrow comes pouring out of me at once.
He doesn’t move, and I fear he’s going to take my abuse.
One hard swing clips his jaw, snapping him into action. In one swift motion, I’m in the air and then my back hits the mattress. Undeterred, my feet slice through the air as I kick blindly.
Strong hands wrap around my ankles and pull me to the edge of the bed.
Forcing my legs down, Creed presses his lower body to mine to keep me still.
My mind is blank as I swing and swing and swing my arms, hitting him everywhere and nowhere.
The strikes are weak, and clumsy, but I can tell by his heavy breathing that his patience is wearing.
Finally, he’s able to snatch my wrists out of the air and restrain my hands against his chest. Unable to communicate, he stares me down, eyes swirling with outrage. His grip is firm, but careful, despite my outburst.
Our chests rise and fall in sync, gazes locked on one another. I don’t try to fight any further. Even if I wanted to, I’ve exhausted myself.
Once he’s confident that I’m done with my assault, he releases me. I expect him to be angry, or ask what’s wrong with me, but he doesn’t do either. No, he does something much different. Something brand new.
Gripping my cheeks roughly, he surges forward. His mouth smashes into mine. I freeze, my eyes blown wide and hands hovering in the air.
Neither of us move. We stand there, pressed together, breaths mingling. As quick as it came, it vanishes and I’m met with pools of green. Guilt is written all over him. He must worry I’ll be upset. I’m not, not really. Moreso… intrigued.
I know what kissing is, but when it comes to the feelings that coincide, I’m at a loss.
As he steps back, I step forward, slipping my fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissing him again. It’s bizarre—I don’t know whether I like it or hate it. Either way, my head spins.
All the heart fluttering I’ve dreamt of isn’t there. It isn’t bad. I love being close to Creed. But if kissing always feels this literal, I don’t quite understand the appeal.
In unison, we pull away and stare at one other. The last few minutes have taken such a turn that the corners of my lips rise. He must be thinking the same, because his expression lightens and his teeth flash. In an instant, he’s laughing hysterically and giggles shake my shoulders.
He flops onto the bed beside me as I lay back, flushed faces turned toward the ceiling.
“Weird,” he signs into the air.
“Yes.”
“That was my first kiss.”
“Me, too,” I confess, turning my head to look at him. “I’m glad it was with you.”
Creed rolls his eyes. I punch him in the shoulder.
My mind is blissfully quiet.
“Favorite color?”
“Blue, like the sky.”
“Favorite food?”
“Sugar.”
“That’s an ingredient.”
“Food with sugar.”
“Whatever. Favorite animal?”
“I like the fish in the pond.”
“Boring.”
I sit up on my elbows to sneer at Creed. “If you don’t like my answers, why do you keep asking?”
He plucks a cherry off our shared plate and pops it into his mouth. We’re sprawled out on the ornate rug in the sitting room, soaking in the warmth of the fireplace. After our fight this morning, we’ve spent the whole day together.
“Because it’s fun,” he retorts, shooting me a wink. “Oh! I’ve got a good one. What’s your last name?”
I hesitate, nibbling at the inside of my cheek.
“I don’t know,” I shrug, averting my gaze.
Now Creed is the one who sits up, the look of astonishment only adding to my embarrassment.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” His brows pull low over his eyes.
“Papa never told me. He said it was better that I didn’t know,” I explain, feigning nonchalance. Creed looks at me like I’m crazy, and it’s making me feel crazy.
“What’s yours?” I ask, aiming the attention away from myself.
“B-a-s-t-i-e-n,” he replies. “I think it’s French.”
I nod absently, taking a cherry for myself.
“You’re from France?” I rack my brain of all that I’ve read of the place. My books had to be approved by Papa, and he liked to limit my knowledge of the outside world.
Creed’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “No. My grandfather was born there. My dad’s dad.”
Intrigued, I sit up onto my knees, giving him my full attention.
“You don’t speak of your father much,” I hedge, subtly digging for information.
Creed’s cherry pit shoots toward me. I swat it away only after it hits me in the cheek. “Neither do you.” He’s right, of course, and now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
“There’s not much to say,” I respond passively. We both know it’s a lie. My father was a very… complex man. Speaking of him only leaves me feeling hollow. Confused.
Creed’s stare makes me squirm, itching to flee the conversation. He sits up so we’re level. “Don’t you wonder where he went?” He asks, glancing around the room. “He vanished, leaving you and the house behind.”
My chest tightens, my shoulders deflate. I don’t think I love my father, not really, but he was the only person I had to rely on my whole life. In his own way, I think he cared about me.
And if people really are after me, it’s clear why he hid me.
Creed grabs for my hand, and my attention. The pity is clear as day in his eyes. It makes me feel sick. “It’s okay to be happy he’s gone. He was evil, Eden.”
That word makes tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“He wasn’t. He thought he was doing the right thing,” I insist. If Creed thinks my father was evil, what will he think of me?
“You can’t believe that. The way you looked when we found you… he did that. I need you to understand that you didn’t deserve it.”
His sincerity only makes me more upset. I’m undeserving of it. Cecil knows who I am, who I really am, and that’s why he stays away.
I wanted to believe that I wasn’t all the things Papa said, but the older I get, the more I feel it inside of me.
“Maybe I did. Maybe I’m the evil one,” I respond before I can think better of it.
Creed shakes his head, looking to the fireplace. There’s a long moment of stillness, both of us at a loss of what to say. Blowing out a sigh, he plops back onto the rug and faces the large windows. The sun is setting now, the sky a melancholy purple.
“Well, if you are, I must be, too. Birds of a feather.”