27. Twenty Five
Twenty Five
Eden
The rhythmic chopping of vegetables draws my attention to the kitchen for only a second before I’m back to peering out the window. Side by side on the couch, Creed’s leg bounces next to mine. It takes everything in me not to dig my nails into his knee so he’ll be still.
It’s a miracle I’ve kept my composure this long, but with Cecil out of reach, I feel the walls closing in on me.
The older woman steps into my vision and I draw my eyes up to meet hers. A soft smile plays at her lips, but the large knife in her hand has me pressing further into the cushions. She tsks, steps back into the kitchen, and returns with empty hands.
“Do you like soup?” She asks us.
I shrug.
Creed, on the other hand, shoots up straight. “You know sign language?”
The woman smirks. “I think.”
The two begin signing back and forth, but I zone out and lean to the side, attempting to watch the pair outside.
A shout from outside draws Veda’s attention, too.
Creed follows our gaze until all three of us gawk out the window.
They’re far enough that I can’t make out words, but there’s no missing the sharp smack delivered to Cecil’s cheek.
Without thinking, I jump from my seat, but the woman is quick to place a hand on my shoulder.
She coaxes me back onto the couch, waving her hand dismissively.
“If they’re not kissing, they’re fighting. It’s nothing new, I promise.”
Creed snorts, elbowing me with a look of amusement.
It’s funny to him, the idea of his brother being involved with a woman, but all the air has been sucked from my lungs.
I attempt to focus on something else, but my eyes keep wandering back towards the window.
Creed is oblivious, grabbing a photo album from the coffee table and rummaging through it.
The woman Cecil is speaking with is very beautiful, and that somehow makes this suffocating feeling all the worse.
Her skin is a rich gold, the likes of which I’ve only ever read about.
Ebony hair grazes her shoulders, accentuating the sharp line of her jaw.
Even her clothing is unlike anything I’ve seen: tight pants, a leather jacket, black boots.
Meanwhile, the sweatshirt I wear is massive, and my pants are cinched with doubled over yarn.
She is undeniably gorgeous, and I have never felt more plain.
By the time the pair return, the three of us have already eaten our early lunch. I’m busy picking at a loose thread on the couch while Creed and Veda discuss Mediterranean cuisine.
Cecil clears his throat, and I struggle to meet his gaze. Instead, I stare at the angry welt on his cheek. The sting of my teeth digging into my tongue is a necessary distraction. I’m angry that she hit him, and painfully curious as to what caused such a reaction.
Even worse, the girl doesn’t look ashamed. Her brow is raised, pinning Cecil with an expectant glare. Though she only reaches his jaw, it’s as though she’s looking down at him.
Cecil’s shoulders are rigid, his jaw twitching with tension. “This is S-y-l-v-i-e,” he signs.
Ever the peacekeeper, Creed nods, waves, and responds with his own name.
Sylvie’s eyes wander over to me and I don’t move a muscle. Whether it’s shyness or a touch of spite, I’m not sure. The two of us stare at one another. Her eyes are as golden as her skin.
Living in isolation wasn’t a life I would have ever chosen for myself, but being around people isn’t going over well, either. New, nasty emotions threaten to burst me at the seams.
“You haven’t taught your pet very good manners, have you?” Sylvie speaks out of the side of her mouth, her tone teasing. I may not know why she’s referring to me as a “pet”, but I do know when I’m being insulted.
Cecil says her name in warning. “She can hear you,” he grits out.
Sylvie shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it onto the armrest beside me. The end of a sleeve lands on my thigh, and I slowly pull my leg out from beneath it.
“Relax, I’m only joking.”
I want to tell her that it wasn’t very funny. I want to ask her if hitting Cecil was a joke, too. I want to say a lot of things, but timid as a mouse, I don’t say anything at all.
Creed, however, nudges me in the side as soon as Sylvie’s back is turned to us. When I look at him, he signs, “She’s nice.”
My lips almost twitch.
The sun is nearly set, cowering behind the trees. One of the male members, Jasper, builds a fire. Every time he pokes at the logs, a burst of orange flies into the air, flames floating around our heads like gnats in the summer. And every time, I flinch.
Creed and I sit together at a “picnic table”. More and more people filter in, some emerging from their homes and others arriving in vehicles. Every one of them casts a wary glance our way, and sit elsewhere.
Many send Cecil accusatory glares.
They don’t look how I imagined they would, the people. It’s fascinating, the differences between everyone. From their skin to the shoes they wear, I’m in awe of the different colors, textures, patterns. Some women have hair like Creed’s, while men have hair like mine.
Twisting the ends of my tresses around a finger, I try to envision myself with hair as short as Sylvie’s.
Would I look prettier?
Metal rods are handed out with meat sticks pierced onto the prongs.
I decline the offering, but a young boy shoves it into my hand, anyway.
I turn to Creed for an explanation, and he tells me we’re meant to cook the meat.
The thought of putting this tube of pink something into my mouth is hardly appetizing, but I follow suit.
Cecil and Sylvie are sat across from us, speaking in hushed tones.
Creed jabs his elbow into my side, motioning to the end of my stick.
The meat has burst into flames. Panicking, I jerk the handle back, reaching out with my other hand to get a better grip.
Closing my fist around the metal, it takes a moment for the pain to strike.
The burn is a shock to my system and I don’t have the wherewithal to stifle my reaction.
A startled shriek flies past my lips, and the stick drops to the ground.
Realizing my mistake too late, my uninjured hand flies over my lips. Most everyone has their hands clamped over their ears, releasing gasps and curses. Snapping my head in Cecil’s direction, I wither at his blanched expression. Within a few hours of meeting his people, I’ve caused harm.
He must be so disappointed in me.
The heavy thumping of my heartbeat drowns out the speculation and alarm. A familiar heat in the backs of my eyes warns me of the nearing tears. Wouldn’t that be something, piercing ear drums and then weeping blood for all to see.
I sign a hasty apology before I’m on my feet and racing to the truck. My limbs tremble terribly and I can’t get the passenger door open. Gripping the handle, I tug and tug but it doesn’t budge. The tears only worsen my vision, and frustrated grunts rumble in my throat.
Fingers close around my elbow, and I whirl around, expecting to see Cecil or Creed. Instead, I’m met with powder blue eyes that are curtained by wrinkles.
“It’s just me,” Veda says softly.
I wipe at my face quickly, but I know she’s already seen the Darkness.
There is no disgust, or apprehension staring back at me. Only concern. Certainly not for me, but maybe the people back at the fire. People that she cares about.
“May I?” Her words are hesitant, like I might startle and run for the tree line. I’m not certain I won’t. Cool fingers encircle my wrist, and after a moment, I allow her to flip my palm.
There’s little light, so she inches nearer. While she studies my wound, I study her. I’ve always assumed my life would be short, but looking at Veda, I picture myself with crinkled eyes and creased smiles.
“If you come back with me to the RV, I can wrap that up for you.”
My eyes shift nervously between her and the truck to my side.
“Or I can do it out here. It just might be difficult to see...”
I’m dumbfounded. Didn’t she see what I did?
My hand does throb, though. It wouldn’t hurt to let her put something on it.
“I’ll come.”
I slink behind her, keeping my head down. The back of my neck prickles, and I feel the eyes on me as I enter her RV. No one objects, or screams out in fear for Veda’s life. I guess that’s a good sign.
Back on the couch, I watch her disappear into a bathroom.
The cushions beneath me are lumpy—perfectly worn so I sink into them.
It hits me how tired I am, and I struggle to keep my eyes open.
Resting my head back, I study the wall of pictures to my right.
Creed went through a photo album earlier, so they must have a ton. Are there any photos of Cecil?
“First aid is on the way,” Veda calls out.
She walks back into the living room, snagging a stool on the way and plopping herself down in front of me.
Placing the supplies between her feet, she holds a hand out expectantly.
It’s bizarre, the amount of comfort I feel.
Perhaps I’m just too exhausted to put up a fight.
I give her my palm.
Veda works in silence, only the group’s muffled conversation reaching my ears. The once rapid beating of my heart has slowed to a steady thump. The brush of the gauze being wrapped around my wrist is so delicate that it borders on pleasant. My blinks get slower.
Veda tucks the bandage into itself, looking up at me.
“You must be so exhausted. I truly can’t imagine…” She trails off. It sounds like she might say more, but she presses her lips together.
It takes a couple of tries for me to swallow the pills. I’ve never taken medication before, but after some sputtering, the capsules go down. Water escapes down my chin, but I catch it with my sleeve.
Veda watches me with an unreadable expression.
“Your eyes… they’re very unusual,” she tells me. I’m not sure what I’m meant to say in response, so I say nothing. “Did you get them from one of your parents?”
The question catches me off guard, and I'm suddenly very nervous. My eyes dart to the door, and I wonder how difficult it would be to get past her.
She raises her hands innocently, putting some distance between us.
“You don’t have to tell me, I was only curious.” Her words are sincere, her face passive. It’s enough for me to muster up the courage to respond.
“I’m not sure,” I lie. Well, halfway lie. I never knew what my mother looked like, even though I’d asked Papa to describe her countless times. I can say with certainty that I don’t get them from him. His eyes were dark as night, iris and pupil bleeding into one another. Vacant.
Veda hums noncommittally, but she doesn’t press. Rising to her feet, she walks around to the wall and plucks a small photo from the top corner. She smiles fondly at the photo before handing it to me.
“This was my greatest friend, Imogen. You remind me a great deal of her, especially those eyes.”
My hold on the photo is gentle, afraid I might somehow ruin it. The picture is slightly yellowed and out of focus, but it depicts two young girls with their arms around one another. One of them is blonde, with soft blue eyes and a dazzling smile. Veda, I realize, though much younger.
The other girl is taller and thinner, with waist length black hair. She doesn’t smile, but smirks, and her eyes are captivating. It’s there where you see her amusement, the silver sparkling with mischief.
Handing the photo back to Veda, I shrug shyly.
“The eyes, maybe,” I concede, raising my gaze up to hers. There’s that unreadable expression again, but I almost recognize it as disappointment.
“Yes, well, I haven’t seen her in ages. Nowadays, she probably looks old like me.” Her chuckle sounds forced as she fits the tack back into the hole on the wall. “Well, I better get back and help Cecil rally the troops.”
The blood drains from my face at the thought of going back out there. I can’t bear to hear what they must think of me.
Veda peers at me over her shoulder, “Why don’t you stay in here and rest?”
Gratitude is a funny thing. It swells in your chest as sadness does, and threatens tears just the same.
All I manage is, “Yes, please.”
Within seconds of the door shutting behind her, sleeps tugs at me. I kick off my shoes and curl onto my side on the couch.
Nightmares evade me.