Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 23
She flung the car through the river of shining vehicles and terrified guests. We almost collided with a tactless limousine at the gate.
Anya released a victorious war cry and punched the roof as we turned onto the street. I stared down into his resting, swelling face.
“We’re going home,” I whispered in his ear as the tears fell into his battered curls.
I shattered and tore. Merciless rage began to devour me, self-loathing and murderous, though my soul hummed a peaceful, comforting tune of devotion at the completion of his hand in mine.
✷✴✷
We pulled to the gate and waited for it to open. We rolled to a stop in front of the house as Stan stepped onto the porch. Even in the distance, I could see his jaw was slack and brows lifted. He was bewildered to see Hugh’s car near. The hope in his face made me cringe.
Dimitri idled in the doorway though his muscles seemed tensed as though ready to pounce. The man who once made me wary held impeccable instincts.
Stan ran forward. “Hugh? Oh god,” he gasped and lurched back as I threw open the door. Dimitri charged to us down and heaved Hugh to a standing position. “Is he alive?” Stan asked into his hand. His eyes filled as he looked upon the young man he had grown to love as a son.
“Barely,” Anya admitted.
Stan and Dimitri rushed Hugh into the house as I tripped after them. I was grateful for Anya’s guiding hand as I stumbled, blinded by tears. “He’ll be ok now. We got him out of there.”
I turned to see her sincerity. She didn’t realize. She couldn’t admit my betrayal and fault. She pulled the pack of cigarettes she found in his car from her bodice. She lit one and held the smoke deep in her lungs before offering it to me. I took it gratefully.
We trudged into the house. Stan stood over Hugh who laid across the sofa. His black dress-shoes were crusted in blood and dangling over the arm. Stan’s finger pressed to the pulse on the side of his neck as he frowned grimly.
Dimitri hurried from the guest room with an emergency kit in hand. I fell to my knees and held Hugh’s scabbing knuckles as Dimitri began to cut away the black silk I had wrapped around the worst of the wounds.
Silently, everyone began to work on him. Stan rushed to gather warm soapy water and fresh towels, Anya cleaned the wounds as Dimitri pulled out suture kits.
I was curious how he knew to stitch so skillfully but grew faint as I stared into the deep cut. It felt like I was witnessing the gore all over again. I could feel my hands pushing against his wrist as he dragged the mirror from his hairline, across his eyelid, and his down cheekbone with the other side already gaping.
Dimitri bandaged around his eye, worried to stitch too close in case he caused more damage. “He might not be able to see out of it. We’ll have to wait.” I swallowed but nodded, grateful he was alive.
I wrung out a cloth from the bloody basin water and began to wipe down his chest as Dimitri continued to stitch the wounds. Anya stood back and muttered prayers. Stan paced behind me but I ignored it all. I could focus on nothing but the pulse in his throat and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
I cleared the blood from his neck shoulder but paused at the ink underneath. I stared at the ivy. I had thrown him to her in a blinded survival instinct, but he had never forsaken me.
I rested my head on his heart and listened, detesting myself.
Chapter 47- Coddled
Dimitri and Anya huddled together, asleep on the loveseat. Stan woke himself intermittently with snores from the armchair.
My mind wouldn’t shut off. The scent of blood still lingered and forced the night to flash in my mind repeatedly.
I lifted my head when his heartbeat quickened with panic before his body jolted.
“Shh,” I whispered, running my hands over the remaining uneven sprouts of his curls. “You’re safe, you’re home.”
His one good eye fluttered as a soft moan escaped his lips but it wasn’t pained. He was content.
His face was unrecognizable beneath the gauze and swelling but he was still perfection. Realization slammed into him as he lifted his head and stared around.
A wordless scream of fear reverberated from his heart and clawed into my chest. He was enraged I had pulled him from that place. It pulsated from him.
The silent war of our stares poured across the room- and it finally felt like home. My soul was content yet he fogged my mind. He glowed in the darkness while his visible eye, lightning blue, carved his thoughts into my mind.
I stood and my knees protested, stiff from hours of kneeling at his side. I helped lift his aching body. He stumbled for a second.
He stood too close, his fingers modestly lifting the tattered wisps of my dress. I pulled away, took his hand, and lead him through the sleeping bodies of loved ones to the stairs. I felt him stagger and clutched his arms to carefully guide him to my room.
He blinked against the light as he turned to take in the changes. His spirit fell lower. I could taste the aggression in him. It wasn’t the home he left behind. He turned back to me, questioning silently.
There was no logical answer to give him that wouldn't strip me of my dignity. “You can sleep up here. It’ll be more comfortable.” I pulled the old pajamas from the bottom drawer, never having been able to part with the flannel pants he left behind.
I turned to see him bracing himself against the dresser as his focus avoided the mirror. His eye glued to the floor and never blinked as I tried to hand him his old pants.
“Do you need help?” I asked with a comforting voice, trying to hide my worry.
His fingers never flinched. He wouldn’t move to take them. He became a statue tinted in dried blood.
I remained calm and poised though my insides screamed to console his storm. I spoke to him quietly as I took his shoulders and began backing him towards the bed. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I wanted to curl up in my own bed and feel his safety next to me. Even his shoulders felt different beneath my fingers, harder and taller than they were a year before. I guided him to the bed.
He fell to sit on the edge but continued to stare at the floor. I didn’t understand the spasms of his muscles. I eased my touch even more. I knelt at his feet and gently pulled the blood-stained shoes from his feet.
I saw the venom filling him at my touch. I pulled back, crouched. He had never looked at me that way.
He shot to a stand and rushed across the room away from me. “What did I do?” I stepped towards him, unafraid. “You can sleep in your trousers if you want. I can get new sheets.” He inhaled sharply as my fingers brushed away a surviving stray curl. “I thought you’d be more comfortable in clothes not covered in blood and hair.”
He stiffened beneath my fingertips. His face turned away in a mask of pain and fear. I realized I was too close. My breath was on his neck. I stepped back, confused, as he tightened his arms around his abdomen and pressed himself against the wall.
“Hugh?” He slid down and cowered with his hands covering his head and his face hidden behind his knees.
I choked on the realization. My vision swayed as I stared down at him. I ripped apart as he trembled, traumatized.
My fingers crawled through my hair, pulling, my head throbbing as the blood pounded. “No,” I begged, crawling to him. My hands hesitated in the air, afraid to shock him with my touch though desperate to comfort him. He grew clammy. “Please,” I pressed my face to his back.
It wasn’t enough to simply break me. She claimed to love him yet I recognized the shame from violation. I was a fool to pretend I could ever be worthy of saving him.
When the hysterical shaking of his body finally stilled and his tears ran dry, he looked up. He reached into my stiff hair as his thumb wiped the tears from my cheek. I couldn’t ask if he was ok.
✷✴✷
My mind was diseased. I failed before I could ever begin. Christmas morning rose with the grass brittle and pale. The cloudy sky covered our world in an amber glow of impending rain.
I sat on the back porch after successfully forcing Hugh to lay fully dressed in my bed and soil the replaceable sheets. I found no rest. I knew better than to try.
I lifted the joint from his pack of cigarettes to my lips and lit the tip, desperate for a reprieve. I inhaled lightly, trying not to cough and wake the house.
I blew out the smoke and stared across the land to the cage I has built. I couldn't protect myself. My life was a constant lie of crudely covered secrets, crumbling to reveal the truths that would destroy me.
I straightened as Hugh appeared into the light, freshly showered and in his pajama pants with an old t-shirt of my own. His face was swollen and dotted with tiny black strings. I tried to smile but lifted the contraband guiltily, “I stole this from you.”
He tried to smirk as he plucked it from my fingers but his stiff face barely moved. Anya crept out from behind him and peered over his shoulder.
Hugh sat on the stoop beside me, puffing. He still glowered with anxiety in his movements but couldn’t hide the happiness teasing his mind. His thumb grazed over the tender bruise across my cheekbone from Beau. I turned away, not wanting to answer his gaze.
He offered the smoke to Anya who shook her pretty head. A small smile slipped across her lips as she stood over us, shifting her weight nervously.
“It smells good, but I shouldn’t.”
Hugh cocked his head at her in question. Her grin spread and her eyes brightened. She locked her hands in front of her like a child expecting reproach.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his face. “I found out this morning.”
I glanced to see Hugh’s bruised mouth widen with surprise. He stood to hug his cousin and press a hand gently to her womb. I heard the soft, almost inaudible laughter in his throat. Anya and I both glanced at each other with worry as he settled back down beside me with his lips pressed into a grim line.
We watched him as he handed the smoldering joint back to me, staring out where I was contemplating moments before. My heart sagged as we realized he would say nothing else. My lungs stilled as a siren filled my head. He had said nothing since we escaped.
Anya stared down at him. “Come on, yell at me for being irresponsible,” she prodded with a nervous laugh. “Ramble about how the baby should be named after you, or how you’re going to kick Dimitri's ass so I can laugh at you.” She squatted in front of him as he looked down at the grass.
I stared at the pain in his profile. He looked to be choking on the words. “Hugh?” I asked gently, my hand running across his back.
He shook his head. His hands pressed to his face in habit before he released a growl of pain and pulled them away. “It’s ok, it’s fine,” Anya said, alarm in her eyes. “You can bitch at me later.” He nodded at her words but they were little help to me.
Christmas day was strange. Anya and Dimitri relished in the beginning of their family. Stan was overwhelmed with pure happiness at finally having both me and Hugh at home, regardless of our condition.
He tried to communicate with Hugh, unsure of the silence but emotionally complete. Everyone dripped with cheer even though the slightest sound from outside made us all tense and silence as we waited for retribution.
We sat through the feast Stan and Dimitri prepared. A small, nervous smile remained on Hugh’s lips as he watched everyone. He picked at his food, his face stiff and ungiving as he tried to eat. I swallowed in shame at way his other eye tried to open when he looked to me.
I felt his stare often and realized if I met it he would look away. I kept my gaze focused elsewhere in an attempt to not interrupt his thoughts. His mind was obviously so fragile.
The day closed with quiet sighs in the den. I stood back to watch Anya in the middle of the sofa with Dimitri's arm around her shoulders and her dainty hand on Hugh’s knee. Stan sat in the armchair sipping a scotch and reading a worn copy of my favorite book.
When Dimitri stood to help a dozing Anya to their bed Stan rose and kissed my cheek. “It almost felt perfect,” he whispered, referring to the holiday.
I nodded though I didn’t agree. I missed my parents as much as he did but I knew nothing would have been the same. If Ruth and my father were there, Hugh wouldn’t be sitting on the loveseat staring into the fire. Anya and Dimitri wouldn’t be nestling into the sheets of our guest room.
For the first time, I felt as though everything was as it should be. My parents weren’t supposed to be there. They wouldn’t have fit in with our scarred, demented little family.
“You can sleep upstairs again if you’d like. I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said to Hugh as we were left alone. He shook his head at his hands. I didn’t know what to do. I was incapable of being what he needed. “Goodnight.”
I slipped up the stairs but turned to glance down before reaching the hall. He sat with his hands folded, staring up at me.
✷✴✷
When I opened my eyes to darkness I was unsure of what woke me. I looked around the undisturbed room and glanced into the hall.
His figure slumped against my door-frame as he slept peacefully. I sighed and pulled a blanket from the closet to cover him. He was a worn, ravaged watchdog waiting for the first intruder.
I laid back in the bed, guilty for the comfort his presence gave me.
Chapter 48- Caramelized
We watched him throughout the days and listened intently for the first possible word he would utter. I asked Anya to stay for however long she wanted. I knew she would take comfort in helping him heal. I was grateful that she accepted the offer.
We discussed taking him to get an MRI to see if the seizure caused damage but in my soul, I knew the truth. Life itself had destroyed him and stolen his voice. The scan came back clear, after much wrestling with him to participate.
Hugh sat stoic when it was time for Dimitri to remove the stitches from his two long scars. His left eye finally opened and we were all relieved to see it clear, blue, and glaring.
It was easy for everyone else to settle into a rhythm of comfort. I couldn't help but feel jealous for their peace.
I watched the area vigilantly, knowing she’d retaliate for my taking her precious ‘William.’ I never voiced my concern, afraid it would drive Hugh deeper into his own, silent chaos.
I knew he watched, too. I felt his fear picking away at his tattered sanity. I knew when the time came I would have to protect him from destroying himself. He would go back to her out of protection for me. I couldn’t let him die that same death again.
I settled him onto my bathroom stool one day. He stared at me questioningly as I lifted Stan’s clippers. His eyes brightened with appreciation when he realized my intent and understanding. I let my fingers run through the remnants of his spotty spirals one last time before pushing the button and razing them from his head.
I couldn’t help but to blush anytime his gaze met mine in the mirror. It hurt. I wanted to hold, comfort, and kiss him freely. I was desperate to apologize but the words stuck to the roof of my mouth. They felt too intimate as my mind warred with my heart. The fantasy and reality turned out to be too different.
I brushed the loose hair from the back of his neck. His fingers wrapped around mine and pulled my hand over his shoulder. I couldn’t suppress the shiver of joy as he pressed a kiss to my palm. I glanced toward the door, not wanting to be caught.
I gave into myself in hopes for an epiphany and bent to kiss his cheek. His eyes darkened as his hands lingered on mine. He lifted his face. My heart remained painfully still as we sat in purgatory with our lips so close, but our souls needed to protect that of the other.
We hesitated, indecisive and torn. Our life was the most agonizing hell, razor-sharp with a love we didn’t want to release and unable to repent.
I pretended to sleep every night but found no rest until I heard his soft steps in the hallway. I would watch through heavy eyes as he lowered himself in my doorway, leaned his head back, and relaxed with a sigh into peace.
I would rise to cover him. When his body was relenting I would lay him across the floor in my bedroom with a pillow tucked beneath his head. When he was asleep I allowed the unhealthy thoughts and ran my hand over the soft hair already growing out. I would lean forward to press a kiss to his sleeping face and scars. I sat to watch him while praying for his healing.
Time was fickle, always rushing us to hurry through the joy. Our happiness never lasted longer than a moment of confusion. We began to hear Hugh’s laughter again, soft yet distinctive. His smile widened and I couldn’t help but return it in our gentle moments.
We avoided privacy in our waking hours but often found ourselves alone. I would snap out of comfort to realize his fingers brushed mine affectionately, or my head was laying on his chest as we read in the den. I would pull away or he would straighten. Our eyes would meet and search for the other’s thoughts and needs. We fought constantly to shelter each other from the sickness we were born into.
Too often I raged internally over Hannah's premature death. She should have been honest about her reasons for us not wanting us to get close.
✷✴✷
I set the table for breakfast while listening to Anya babble to Hugh from the den. Stan hummed in the kitchen as he plated food.
The thunder of quick, heavy feet made me spin as Dimitri came into view, his eyes wide as he beckoned for me to follow him.
Anya eyed us with suspicion but kept her voice steady as she distracted Hugh with pictures from her recent ultrasound. I waved for her to stay before following Dimitri through the hall.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I stepped through the back door.
He halted and shifted to the side. I followed his sorrowful gaze to the foot of the porch steps and pulled back. I turned away from the skinned buck, covering my eyes as my heart squeezed in grief. Dimitri's hand lifted and settled on my shoulder.
“There’s more.” He grimaced, pointing.
