Chapter 30 #3
She hums, not rushing to give me an answer and really think about the answer.
“There have always been these parts of myself that I’ve kept hidden,” she starts, reaching out to trace her finger along the spine of the last book I pointed out to her.
“They never felt like the ugliest parts of myself,” she sighs, “To me they weren’t ugly, just born from the most broken pieces of me. ”
Berlyn stops again and I wonder if she’s waiting for me to say something, but she doesn’t look back at me either. She keeps her attention on the books we’ve collected and displayed as our gift to her. A curated collection of our devotion to her.
“I didn’t have anyone who would accept those pieces that I knew to be a part of me as much as any other part of what made me who I am. No one who would love them. No one who could even understand them.”
Maybe Berlyn grew up just as isolated as we all felt in that town. She may not have been outwardly shunned, but she never found her place until she left home. Something we can relate to all too well.
“Dark romance books have always been the place where I found those pieces of myself reflected in the pages. The pieces no one else wanted were highlighted and celebrated in those books. Loved.”
“I love you,” I whisper in her ear, making her giggle again. She finally feels almost whole again. It took hours, but little by little she came back to us.
“I love you too, West,” she says, turning in my arms and wrapping her arms around my neck. The gold in her hazel eyes seems to burn brighter now, shimmering with the same wonder I feel every time I look at her. “Do you like reading?”
Hmm. I’ve never actually thought about it. It was always something I did to feel closer to Berlyn. To understand her more. Do I enjoy reading?
“My favorite part has always been you,” I admit, but there’s more to it than that.
Getting lost in someone else’s world. Reading has helped me understand other people a little more.
I’ve always struggled with it, and never cared about anyone enough to want to understand what was going on in their head.
Reading showed me how different people’s minds can work.
It was a kind of cool discovery.
Would I read without Berlyn? Maybe. It’s inspired some of my art over the years. I’ve drawn pieces based on the feelings a scene has invoked. Read something and needed to give it a different type of life with my twist on it.
“But yes,” I finally answer. Berlyn’s words about seeing herself in these stories play in my mind on repeat. The scenes I’ve always been drawn to create have all been moments where I felt like I could relate. Even when the details were different, they had felt familiar in a way.
For the first time in my life, the words come easily to me as I look at Berlyn’s face.
“Art was always my escape,” I tell her. She knows a little bit about it, but not why it saved my life.
“Our parents dying was the best thing that ever happened to us.” A harsh and dark statement, but true nonetheless.
They weren’t good people. “Before my uncle saved me, my art did.”
She nods her head, watching me carefully and I wonder if she realizes I’ve never spoken these words aloud. Not once. Not even to my brothers. They only know because they were there. Because of our uncle. Not because I ever had the words.
Her fingers twirl around the curls at the base of my neck and it makes everything feel easy.
Makes it seem absurd that it’s taken me this long to put these thoughts into words.
“My parents didn’t want me,” I explain. “Every time I spoke, I was punished.” They took the sentiment that children should be seen and not heard to the extreme.
“I’d be locked in the bathroom for days on end without food and drinking water only from the sink. ”
Tears well in her eyes, and I wipe them away gently. I don’t want her to hurt for me. For worse or for better, it made me who I am. “I learned to hide snacks and paper and pencils in the bathroom. I’d spend the time drawing. Imagining anywhere that wasn’t there.”
I kiss the tip of her nose and she tugs on my hair, making a different kind of desire begin to burn. “I like that books paint those worlds I used to imagine but with words.”
She hums, rolling her lips. “We should read a fantasy series together.”
“Sure,” I agree, anything she wants to do.
She rests her head against my chest. “I’m kind of glad your parents are dead,” she admits and I laugh. My bloodthirsty girl.
“Me too,” I agree, holding her a little tighter. The tangled web of barbed wire that's always been in the back of my head, making it hard to find and filter my thoughts doesn’t seem as dark and oppressive anymore.
People say they feel as if a weight has been lifted off their chest after talking about something. I can’t say that’s what this feeling is. I’ve never really felt it in my chest or my stomach. It’s always been the broken paths in my mind where I was at risk of getting lost or drowning.
Berlyn turns back to the bookshelves, her fingers dancing over the spines now until she stops at one and pulls it out. I smirk as she notices all the tabs.
“What are these?” she asks.
The library door is pushed open and Jude wears a matching smirk to mine. “Positions we want to put you in.”