Chapter 20
Emory
"Intamacy is not just of the body, but the soul--dare to be seen."
It’s been pure torture that I haven’t been able to, truly, touch him till now. It was only recently that I held his hand, and now this and whatever ‘this’ is… is intoxicating.
The control.
The intensity.
A strong, intimate connection, like a string tethering our souls to one another.
I’ve never enjoyed causing someone pain—I’ve always been the peacemaker, fixing problems I was never originally a part of.
I never had it in me to hurt another human or otherwise, but he wasn’t human, was he?
No, he wasn’t. His body died a long time ago, and while his soul ages like top-shelf whiskey, his appearance prevails, unfazed by time.
With every wound of his I open, I feel one of mine close.
A fleeting moment in time, and this man has made a mark on my heart.
Not a smudge, which can be smeared over time.
A deep laceration that would leave behind an ugly scar—one that would heal but would always remain.
Slowly, he became the only real thing while everything else dematerialized and faded into the background.
The world revolves around him and me in this moment.
The way he feels in my mouth, his taste, the subtle sounds that escape him, all mesmerizing.
All this power should be illegal. The reactions this man has… are magnetic. When I suck, he moans. Rhapsodies of praise and elation radiate from deep within his core. Breaking away from him, I allot the right amount of suction to provide that satisfying pop on release.
Not even seconds after the sound echoes off the stone, I feel a sticky, hot, mucus-like substance hit my face.
“Well, I’ll never say you’re a bad shot ever again.
” My laughter is a difficult obstacle to talk through as he bursts into a giggling fit.
I lean over, relieving him of the scraps that once formed his shirt, and use it to clean up the mess we made.
My mind drifts to his words about the ‘being’. His voice becomes muffled as my mind is bombarded with thoughts, images, and more questions. I couldn’t get his story out of my head.
What could it have been that had such a hold on him that he would choose to exist in misery? Did he love my Great-Grandmother? Or was it my Great-Grandfather? What was the promise he made?
Then my thoughts shifted to the words on the headstone he said belonged to him:
“Eternally shall I be a thorn upon the stem of thy Rose”
Voices interrupt our recently obtained joy, and I see the look in Oliver’s eyes—his pupils were consuming their irises. As a compilation of emotions oozing from their sockets, telling a story of pure ecstasy interjected by fear.
He kicks at me, trying to get my attention. “The keys. Get the keys.” He demands in a hushed tone. “They're in the nightstand.”
I yank open the first drawer—I almost send it flying across the room. There, in the front right corner, sat a vintage set of keys. I grab them. Noticing the clothes they rested on, I make a mental note that they are there, knowing my clothes are still soaked.
As my fingers shake, I insert the key into the olden day cuffs, turning it and allowing the lock to release so the metal vise can spring open.
Once free, Oliver scrambles to his feet, grabbing clothes from within the stand on the opposite side.
Quickly stripping the wet material from me, I pull a thin white button-up from the drawer, and I begin to fasten it over my body.
A rush of air brushes across my face, and I am swept off the bed and into the darkness of yet another hidden passage.
Beating on Oliver’s back, bartering with him to put me down. “I have legs, damn it.” It was only with the vanishing light that the corridor came to life. The sconces on the walls flickered on, dimly lighting the old stone catacombs.
“Oliver, at least tell me what is going on?” I holler, “Who were the people yelling? Where are you taking me?” No words, just the silence and the wind as it hastens past my ears.
Occasionally, he would glance behind him, before a loud thud interposed the quiet as we broke through a door, bringing us into the cellar. Here is where he finally puts me down
“Emory, I do not have the time right now. Please take my hand, and I will escort you to your room.” He drops his hand in front of me, palm up. “Once all is said and done, I will come back, and we will talk.”
I refused his hand, smacking it away from me. In moments, I am soaring through the air again, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Before I can get a word in, edgewise, I am thrown on the familiar champaign sheets as the door slams behind me.
The distinctive sound of the lock causes me to go into full panic. Slipping from the bed, taking the sheets with me, I charge the door once my feet hit the ground—I try to turn the handle. A loud howl emanates from my core when the knob doesn’t turn.
“OLIVER!!” I scream before I rush to the balcony. I fling open the French doors as a clash of lightning strikes—bathing me in an electric blue. I stand there looking up at the sky as the clouds close in, adding to the already eerie events of the night.
“What a gloomy way to bring in the new year,” I yell to the heavens, a smokescreen plea to whatever God is listening. “I haven’t even found my sister.”
It was this moment that the flicker of candlelight dancing in a far window of the library caught my attention. Something is swaying on the other side, periodically blocking out the light. At first, I thought it was Oliver.
The shadow begins to shrink in size as whatever is there moves further away from the light source and closer to the window.
Two people? Oliver and Niven, then. Oh no, I hope she is okay.
Staring for a while, I wait for the silhouettes to materialize into beings.
My heart skips a beat, and the world slows around me when the figures finally come into focus.
“Evelyn!” Her name erupts from my mouth with more intensity than lava emerging from a long-sense docile volcano—its cap finally bursting after several years.
I have finally found her—she is finally here... within reach.
“Thank you,” I mutter to the being on high, as I glance up at the sky, overcast and sorrowful. All at once, visions take over—each emotion, digging up its own story to match. The obvious emotion is—
Relief: relief that she is here. She is safe. Stronger than the relief I felt with the five-car pile-up incident, and gaining the knowledge that she wasn’t hurt.
Rushing up behind it came—
Depression: The depression I have been sulking in when the nights get lonely, and I didn’t know where she was or what had happened to her. Depression, like the kind that consumed all parts of my heart when I heard my mother cry after that phone call that initiated this journey in the first place.
All at once, those emotions get tossed into the wood-chipper known as—
Anger: Anger that flows like hot magma through my veins. The questions in my head are only fueling the betrayal that feeds it.
How long has she been here? Why didn’t Oliver tell me? What could he be hiding?
Standing here with these emotions, crumbling like earthquakes, rocking me clear to my center.
The air around me is closing in—suffocating me as though I were wrapped in visqueen.
The bedroom door is within reach in a matter of seconds.
I know it’s locked, but that doesn’t stop me.
My hand is on the handle, and I start to pull down—with each denial, I respond in kind with another yank.
Frustration arises with every click against the lock.
My rage grows stronger with every click of the metal, preventing me from going further.
“Damn you, Oliver!” My screams pierce the air around me at a frequency barely audible to my ears.
I begin throwing myself, trashing, and gyrating like an angry toddler mid-tantrum.
I ram the door, using my entire body to add more momentum—much like the ginormous logs that were used in the medieval era to bombard castle gates.
When that fails to produce, I revert to throwing anything and everything I can at it.
After what could have been hours, I rest my back against the wall, dazed from the excitement—my energy drained and wasted in the attempt to break free. I am fuming and confused, as my head spins, wondering why Oliver has locked me in here.
I am replaying the events of the evening, trying to figure out if there was something I missed. Now that I know my sister is here, my brain is no longer ‘clouded’ but ‘crowded’—no longer a fog but a full-on obstacle to hurl over.
Is she healthy? Did Oliver go out and find her for me, to keep me protected?
I feel sick, my body movements feel distant, a ghost of my former self. I turn on my heels… my gaze locked on the open French doors to the balcony—all falls still around me. My heartbeat breaks the silence, faint and slow—but steady.
Lifting my foot from the wood floor, I feel my heel slam back into it as I start sprinting. Running. The wind molding around my body as my velocity increases, only to be cut short—almost careening over the banister as I skid to a stop.
I scream her name over the roaring thunder…
my arm outstretched toward her sleeping face, bobbing in the window.
“EVELYN!!” My tears are now one with the rain.
I watch helplessly as a man I have never seen before holds her in his arms. He was a Ginger, and he looked an awful lot like Peter, with facial features to match.
The only difference was that he was much younger and even taller than Peter.
His muscles were prominent beneath her weight.
I take a step back, the rain still masking my tears as it joins the streams already present.
Surveying my surroundings, I see the railing is a facsimile of myself—rivulets of despair intermixing with the tears from the heavens.
To the left is a trellis decorated in vines, which appears sturdy as it clings to the side of the manor.
I follow it with my eyes, noticing how it just barely touches the ground.
I gauge the distance and decide that it is enough for me to hang from—falling a foot instead of a whole story.
Impulsively, I grab the rail, straddling it… making sure my placement is perfect.
I can do this.
I repeat in my head.
Fuck. I looked down.
Why did I look down?
Blinded by my panic, I am startled by a crash of lightning… and I slip.