54. Fifty One
Fifty One
Eden
When sleep finds me, it’s brief. For a few hours, I float through the aftermath of heaven’s touch in a pool of deep, dark slumber. No thoughts penetrate the walls we’ve built around us. It’s him and I, flesh to flesh, savoring an impossible opportunity of solace.
Until I wake.
My head rises and falls to the rhythm of his breathing, his heartbeat thumping against my cheek.
One of my hands rests low on his stomach, and in a moment of bravery, my fingertips trace over each individual muscle that resides there.
The twitch of his abdomen gives me pause.
Then, the brush of knuckles across my lower back.
The rumble of a voice laden with fatigue.
“The sun will be up any minute.”
I crane my neck to get a peek of him, but with my head tucked beneath his chin, all I’m met with is the shadow of stubble across olive skin. The light has been turned off, but morning’s muted blue peeks through the curtains.
The reality of the day crawls from the confines of my mind. Talons dig into my psyche and work their way forward, extinguishing any residual bliss I might have felt.
There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. No attic to disappear into. Years of suffering and torment have led me here.
Extracting myself from the warmth of Cecil’s body, I sit up. The blanket pools around my hips, and his eyes track the movement.
“What is the date?”
He squints into the darkness. “The date?” He asks.
I nod.
“June eleventh.”
My lips turn down ever so slightly.
I was never sure of my birthday—Papa thought celebrations were improper—but I know it’s this month.
Once, he slipped and muttered something about my turning ten ‘soon’.
That night, I snuck into his office to check the calendar.
It was June. Ever since, I’ve celebrated my birthday, alone, on a random day of the month.
Until now, that is. I hadn’t even realized June arrived.
Will I die at twenty two or twenty three?
The not knowing sinks into the pit of my stomach, leaden and sour.
When I return to Creed’s room, I expect to find him as comatose as I left him. It’s not quite 5:30, and he isn’t known for waking any time before 8 o’clock. However, stepping into the room, I’m met with curious eyes.
I hesitate, looking down at myself. Even in my nightgown, I worry he’ll sense that I had been nude in his brother’s bed mere minutes ago.
His face is passive enough that I’m confident moving forward and lowering to the edge of the bed. The hair on his forehead sticks straight up, a line running down his cheek from the crease of a pillow.
“You need a haircut,” I tell him.
Creed raises his brow, then his hand, tugging at the unruly auburn locks. A piece falls across his forehead. He blows out a puff of air, and it dances across his hairline.
A fond smile stretches over my lips.
“Maybe tomorrow you can cut it.”
The smile dies on my lips quicker than it came.
My heart aches to tell him, but it’s not a viable option. I can’t bear to look him in the eye and tell him come tomorrow, I’ll be gone.
Instead, I reply with a noncommital, “Maybe.”
I keep my face as impassive as I can, but as always, Creed sees right through me. Sitting forward, he brings a hand to my face.
“Are you nervous?” He asks.
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
I throw my hands up as if to say, Well, there ya go.
Creed sighs, leaning his head back onto the headboard with a dull thunk. “We won’t let anything happen to you,” he assures. “Cecil and I.”
Guilt has tears burning in the backs of my eyes. I angle my head to hide them. “Some things you can’t control.”
I trace the patterns on the velvet quilt idly, feigning interest so I don’t have to look at him. A hand covers my own. I peek at my best friend.
“You’re a survivor, Eden. Remember that.”
When a tear spills over, I don’t bother brushing it away. Creed catches it and gives me a reassuring grin. There’s a scar on his lip from where his brother hit him. It’s so out of place, and I can’t fathom any harm coming to him.
It hits me with startling clarity that I may have to give my life for his.
And I will.
“You are, too.”
The Refuge is eerily silent. Everyone sits outside their respected homes, waiting patiently for instruction. Members of all ages have joined. A group of teenagers huddle together, speaking in whispers. An elderly couple stand side by side and sip from mugs, unphased by the impending doom.
Most brandish weapons, and everyone is clad in either shades of brown or black. Glancing down at myself, I wonder if the sky blue of my t-shirt will put even more of a target on my back. Doesn’t matter either way, I suppose.
It’s nearing 10 a.m., but the skies have darkened and given the world a sense of timelessness. It’s both foreboding and comforting.
Creed and I sit pressed together on a log, the bouncing of his leg jostling the right side of my body. It doesn’t bother me, though. I welcome the distraction, no matter how slight.
A hand touches my shoulder, and I peer behind me. Veda stands with a grim smile on her lips, raising her hands. In one hand she holds a comb, the other a hair tie.
“May I?” She asks, motioning to my long tresses. I’m unsure of her intentions, but it’s the very least of my concerns, so I face forward and shrug my shoulders.
The comb against my scalp sends a shiver down my spine. For a brief moment, I’m reminded of the feel of fingers in my hair, down my neck, across my spine. My eyes seek out Cecil instantly, and I shift nervously on the stump when I spot him.
With the way Papa spoke of adult relations, I expected myself to feel shameful. He had told me that men take advantage, and that if I were found, sex would be used as a weapon against me.
But I don’t feel embarrassed, or tainted. Instead, I feel… invigorated. Proud. I never knew I was capable of such things.
And if I’m to die today? I couldn't ask for a greater last night alive.
“It’s safer to have it up,” Veda informs me. “Hair as long as yours, someone will try to grab it.”
I’d never thought of that. I nibble at the inside of my lip, gratitude wobbling my chin.
“Thank you,” I sign into the air. She hums out a “you’re welcome” just as she ties the elastic. With the braid finished, she drapes it across my shoulder. I stare at the roped hair in astonishment. I want to ask her to teach me, but it’s no use.
My lips twitch between a smile and frown.
Her eyes glisten. “You could be her twin,” she tells me, shaking her head in disbelief. “She is so proud of you.”
We stare at one another, the milky gray of the sky making her appear older, more frail. A breeze blows across my cheek like a caress, and the unseasonable chill rises the hair on the back of my neck. Creed places his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze.
There’s no time to dwell on the bittersweet emotion that swells in my chest, because with a thunderous clap of his hands, Cecil commands everyone’s attention.
With my braid in my fist, I straighten my spine and turn my gaze forward. His eyes meet mine as he scans the faces. He hesitates for only a moment before moving on.
“Here we go,” Creed says beside me.
Yes.
Here we go.