25. Twenty Three
Twenty Three
Eden
The pastel yellow of morning eventually wakes me.
Disoriented, my mind and body are weak with exhaustion.
Fighting off memories of the day before, I nuzzle deeper into the blankets and focus on the present.
Silky cotton sheets brush along my ankles, a velvet comforter tucked beneath my cheek.
The room is warm, smelling of baked goods and pine.
A faint breeze tousles the hair of my forehead. One of my eyes pop open, and I inch back to see what I’m pressed against. The first thing I recognize is a smattering of freckles with auburn eyelashes intermingled.
Creed is asleep on his back, face turned toward mine. His lips form a small ‘o’, each exhale releasing a puff of air. I’m not in my own bed, but his. He had carried me in here after I woke from… whatever that was.
It wasn’t a dream. It was death. Over and over and over, without an end or beginning.
We didn’t talk about it—we didn’t say anything at all. He sat me on the bed, crawled in next to me, and pulled the blankets over us. Eventually the crying ebbed, and I fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
Beneath the covers, I reach for Creed’s hand. Without waking, he laces his fingers with mine. I don’t want to be sad, or afraid, or anything at all. I want to lie here with my friend, and let the peace of nothingness wash over me.
A green eye cracks open, squinting against the harsh light of day. The curtains are cracked, a beam slicing the room in half. Its blade falls between our faces.
Creed’s lips curl into a sleepy smile. All I manage is a twitch of my cheek, but I don’t burst into tears, so that’s something. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to my forehead. I relish the affection though I know I’m undeserving.
Too soon, he rises from the bed. Stretching his arms above his head, he releases a loud yawn. I watch on, too afraid to leave the room. Once the day begins, I will have to face the harsh realities and the sorrow that coincides.
“Come on,” Creed insists, swinging open the door.
I frown, raising the blanket until only my eyes peek out.
“I’ll make you pancakes.”
My stomach growls at the prospect of food. Still, I do not move.
Creed’s gaze softens before scrubbing the sleep from his face. Approaching the bed, he brushes hair from my eyes, studying the lump on my forehead, the slash on my cheek. Though the pain has grown dull, the memory burns.
“We don’t have to talk about it. Please?”
His expression is so sincere, so boyish, that my resolve slips like water through fingers. He’s impossible for me to deny, so I follow him to the kitchen.
If luck were on my side, this day would mirror all the others. I would perch on the countertop, watch him cook, and smother my pancakes in far too much syrup.
I’ve never had much luck.
Cecil stands at the counter, his back to us as he reads a newspaper and brings a coffee cup to his lips. The ends of his hair drip, darkening the collar of his gray shirt. It’s such an unassuming vision—socked feet and a caffeinated breakfast. But I know better.
The creaking floorboards give us away and he glances in our direction. The shadows beneath his eyes and the stubble along his jaw is the only indication that he might not be faring much better than I am.
Before Cecil can get a word in, Creed steps in front of me. His hands are moving, but I’m not able to make it out. Standing on my tiptoes, I peek over his shoulder to catch Cecil’s response.
“Fine. After breakfast.”
Pancakes have never tasted worse. Every bite is tar in my mouth, clogging my throat and difficult to swallow down.
Did that boy, Emory, ever eat pancakes? I suppose it’s no matter. He’ll never have them again.
There’s an agony in enjoying the life that has been ripped from someone else.
To my surprise, Cecil joins us at the table, clearing his plate within a couple minutes. Creed takes his time. Using a fork and knife, he meticulously cuts bite size pieces and chews at a snail's pace. If I were to guess, he’s prolonging the inevitable conversation.
I’d prefer to get it over with.
Pushing my plate away, I square my shoulders and turn my attention to Cecil. His eyes are already on mine.
“Did you tell him?” I ask apprehensively. Instantly, Creed drops his silverware.
“Tell me what?” He asks, looking between the two of us.
Cecil crosses his arms across his chest.
“No,” he says aloud, pointedly leaving Creed out of the conversation. “I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”
“How do you expect to keep it a secret when you're going to… use me?” My jaw sets, and I try to keep the sting of betrayal from showing on my face. My emotions are on a carousel, cycling through grief, anger, despair, and resignation.
A slam makes me flinch, and I whip my head towards the sound. Creed has both fists planted on the table, his nostrils flared.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he signs, lips pressed into a firm line.
My palms sweat, and I gnaw at the inside of my lips. What will he think of me?
Darting my eyes back to his older brother, I feel like a coward. I can’t get the words out. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Having must read the plea in my eyes, Cecil cracks his knuckles and begins to sign.
“Do you remember how she was covered in blood when I found her by the pond?”
Creed’s lip curls in disgust, but he nods.
“She has a… capability, something that I never thought was possible. It puts a target on her back, even larger than yours. That’s why her father left her here; he knew it would mean his death if they found out he’d been hiding her. ”
There’s a lull, and I study a string of syrup that stretches between the edge of the table and my plate.
Creed snorts.“Wait—what? You’re saying Eden has a superpower?” With a roll of his eyes, he shakes his head.
My bottom lip quivers. I grab the plates, standing from the table to escape the conversation. Turning on the sink, I avert my eyes from the reflection of them in the window. There are mumbled curses from Cecil and grunts of aggravation from Creed.
I take my time, drying each dish and placing it in the cupboard.
My movements are slow, methodical. Wiping the sink until it gleams, I count the seconds in my head.
Ten minutes have passed, so I abandon the safety of the faucet and turn back towards the two men.
The looks I receive make me wither, but not for the reason I expected.
Creed wears such a look of sadness, I think I might have preferred disgust. For God’s sake, I don’t deserve anyone’s pity.
“You can’t make her do that,” Creed insists. He looks at me expectantly, as if he’s waiting for me to jump in and plead my case.
I learned long ago that my fate will never be up to me. I shrug pathetically in his direction.
“I won’t let anyone hurt her,” Cecil assures. “I have a plan.” Grabbing the newspaper from the edge of the table, he unfolds it and flips through the pages. Dropping the rest to the floor, he spreads out one sheet, skimming his fingers along a photo of two young girls.
MISSING SISTERS
On January 21st, at approximately 2:15 a.m, Evaline (16) and Bonnie (10) Shrauder were taken from their home in Wisnaw County. Evaline was last seen wearing an oversized pink sweater, and polka dotted fleece pants. Bonnie was wearing a floral nightgown, her hair in two braids.
If you have any information on their whereabouts, please contact the Wisnaw County police department.
Below the article is a more detailed description of the girls’ appearance: hair and eye color, height, weight.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. My eyes skim the article again, searching for anything I might have missed.
“I took them,” Cecil’s face is impassive, while Creed’s is anything but.
He throws his hands up to interject. “You kidnap children?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Cecil growls. “Will you let me finish?
It’s a lie. They weren’t taken from their home, they were taken from a holding house that the Brothers use. That day that I came home with the gash in my side? A Divine caught me sneaking them out.”
A gasp passes my lips. “What if he tells the others?”
Cecil’s eyes darken, and he averts his gaze. “He won’t.”
My face blanches. There’s no telling how many people have met their death at Cecil’s hand, and I certainly won’t ask. Not that I have room to judge, though, do I?
“So where did you take them?” The younger of the two brothers asks, deliberately changing the subject.
Leaning further back in his chair, Cecil gnaws at his cheek. Not one for sharing the truth, he’s fraught admitting years worth of secrets.
“An orphanage. There’s a few dozen of us… a resistance. We try to get as many victims as we can before—” He pauses, sniffs. “You know.”
The influx of information is making my skull throb. Resting my elbows on the table, I bring my fingers to my temples and press firmly.
Papa always warned of the world’s dangers, but I never expected this. How can the same place that homes flowers and sunrises and butterflies allow room for such ugliness?
Cecil shoots me a look, racking his knuckles along the table in an anxiety-induced tempo. “There’s one more thing,” he admits.
Creed groans, dropping his forehead with a dull thunk. A full minute passes before he has the nerve to straighten and ask the dreaded, “What more could there be?”
It’s then that the subject of all of my grievances intertwine to create an impossibly complex conundrum.
Cecil makes quick work of telling his brother about my father. How he knew Papa, how he found the house, and how my father is undeniably dead because Cecil saw the body with his own two eyes.
I feel ill, and Creed looks it.
“Oh, my God. This is…”
“Complicated,” Cecil offers.
“Insane!”
My sentiments exactly.
“So what do we do?” Creed pushes, eyes blazing with urgency.
“Fight,” Cecil responds coolly, as if it’s the most simple solution in the world. “It was always our goal, to eventually end them. We wanted more people, but with them knowing about Eden, we don’t have time. The Reverend only gave us a month before we’re supposed to return.
Tomorrow, I’m taking Eden to the camp. A few of the members have been a part of the resistance for decades, so maybe they’ll have an idea about her…” he trails off, glancing in my direction. “Origin.”
The thought of meeting new people makes my stomach flip. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.
Creed nods pensively.“Alright, what time will we leave?”
“We?” Cecil scoffs and shakes his head. “We are not doing anything.”
Pushing up from the table, Creed huffs out an incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious. After everything, you would make her go alone?”
“She won’t be alone, she’ll be with me.”
“And how has that worked out for her so far?”
The words are daggers.
An unnerving stillness falls over the kitchen. The only sound is that of Cecil’s molars grinding. Fisting my hands at my sides, my fingernails threaten to break the skin of my palm.
Ever since I was found in that attic, I’ve done nothing but cause problems between these two. No matter what I do, or where I go, chaos ensues.
It would have been easier if they had let me go.
A mumbled “fuck this” is Cecil’s departing words, and then he’s out the door.
There’s a triumphant twinkle in Creed’s eye.
“That wasn’t nice,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “He’s not nice. Come on, let’s sit on the porch.”
He offers me his hand. Bewildered, I stare at the outreached palm. How could he still bear to touch me? It’s at the tip of my fingers to tell him he has every right to be afraid. Matter of fact, he should be afraid.
But he doesn’t look like he fears me at all. Actually, he wiggles his fingers impatiently.
And because I am selfish, I take his hand.