Page 11 of All the Things We Buried

TEN

LENORE

T he light was still on. I heard the soft crackle of firewood burning. I stepped silently down the stairs, creeping in slowly when I saw him.

Dorian was lying in front of the fireplace on a dark blue blanket, his back to me. His back was covered in scars, burns, cuts, words carved into his skin: bastard , brat .

I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the sob that tried to rise. I never asked him who did that, or what happened, or if he was like me, begging for pain instead of silence.

I moved closer, my hand brushing against the sofa, breath caught in my throat.

I heard him growl, “It’s not polite to stare.”

“Do I have a choice?” I said, kneeling in front of him.

He turned toward me, his eyes dark, his skin smudged with ash. Even then, covered in pain and ash, he was still beautiful.

He was drinking. The glass was still half full. The firelight shimmered in the whiskey.

He sat up, looking at me. “See anything you like, sister ?”

I scanned him from top to bottom. His arms were tattooed with meaningless tattoos, but somehow, they told a story. A full sleeve, reaching up to a snake that coiled around his neck, its tongue flicking at his collarbone like it was alive.

I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes back up to meet his.

“No,” I said, clearing my throat. “And I’m not your sister.”

He rolled his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. “Step-sister,” he said, lifting a brow, his smirk turning cold.

His gaze dropped to the edge of my pajama, the same one he took out from the closet for me.I turned to leave, not trusting myself to speak. But I barely shifted when his voice snapped behind me.

“Sit down.”

I tilted my head. “Why would I?”

I stepped closer, turning fully to face him.

“We can play a game,” he said.

“What game would that be, huh?” I crossed my arms, already bracing.

“Memory Lane,” he replied, sipping slowly from his glass. “You know, so I can really get to know my little step-sister. ”

I hesitated, then lowered myself onto the couch. “Alright. How do you play?”

He leaned forward. “Simple. I name a memory, say, first kiss, and you tell the story. Or maybe your first time…” His eyes narrowed, watching me too closely.

I bit down on my lip, a lump rising in my throat. “I haven’t... I never kissed anyone.”

His laugh was loud, disbelieving. “You’re joking, right?”

“No.” I stood abruptly. “I don’t.”

“Sit down,” he said, gripping my wrist and tugging me back.

I shook him off. “What’s the point of your game if I’ve never done the things you want to hear about?”

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping. “Then let’s just talk.”

I sighed, eyeing his drink. “Can I have a glass?”

He moved it out of reach, meeting my eyes. “You’re sixteen.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

“So,” he began, slowly now, “what are you most afraid of?”

I blinked. That wasn’t a casual question. Not a get-to-know-you question. The way he asked it… It was like he already knew the answer.

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

I lied.

He leaned in, his voice a murmur. “I think you do. You just don’t want to say it. Saying it makes it real.”

His stare pinned me, too long, too intense.

“I’m not scared of anything,” I said again, but softer. Less sure.

His smile was slow, almost pitying. “Not even me?”

Silence dropped. The fire popped. Outside, the wind stirred. Inside, the air tightened.

“I’m afraid of my dad,” I blurted.

He didn’t flinch.

“Did he…” Dorian’s voice faltered, then steadied. “Did he do something to you?”

I pulled back my sleeve. Showed him the burn scar on my wrist. I was twelve.

His jaw clenched as his eyes scanned me, searching for more. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing against mine, holding onto me.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he said. His hand stayed on mine, grounding me. He leaned closer and pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And then I could hear a creak.

A door opened somewhere down the hall. A gust of cold air slid from the basement, brushing over us like a cold breath.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered, backing away.

We moved quietly together and leaned against the wall, listening. And as he heard footsteps approaching, he pulled me in tighter, pressing me against him. His hair had a smell of smoke and fire, and my eyes escaped, first to his eyes, then down to his lips.

But his eyes stayed fixed on the basement door.

We didn’t move, we couldn’t. Four people came from the basement. They wore black robes, hoods shaped into sharp triangles. I didn’t recognize their voices, but the words they spoke felt somehow familiar. Parts from a dream I couldn’t quite remember.

“Seven of them, shadows within. Ghosts that haunt where night begins. First one, Wrath, still stained with war,

Bloody hands and shattered floor. Second, Lust, a lover lost, Burned by fire, paid the cost. Third is Sloth, in bed, he froze, Time forgot him, none arose.”

They kept saying it, over and over. And as they walked away, I leaned close to Dorian, whispering into his hand that was tightly pressed against my lips:

“Fourth, Greed, with a golden grin, Stole the world, and rots within.

Fifth is Envy, pale and green, Watched you live what she had seen. Sixth is Gluttony, hollow and wide, Feasted ’til the hunger died. Seventh, Pride, the house’s queen, Wore her crown, unseen, obscene.

Seven sins in halls decay, Waiting still to make you stay. Cross their path or speak their name. And you just might join their game.”

He looked at me, trying to make sense of what I had said. Then, he lifted me into his arms and threw me over his shoulder.

“Keep quiet,” he said, and carried me upstairs to the attic.

“Where did you hear that?”

He let me gently at the floor and gripped my shoulders. His hands were trembling, like he was ready to shake the answer out of me.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to remember. I really tried.

“Remember!” he shouted. “Fucking remember, damn it!”

I had never heard that kind of anger in his voice before. It wasn’t just loud. It was raw. Like something inside him was breaking.

Why was he like this? Why did it matter so much?

“I…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Lenore,” he said, shouting my name like it would snap me out of it. “Think!”

His hands moved from my shoulders to my face, cupping it gently. He looked straight into my eyes, pleading.

“Can you see them too?”

I knew what he was asking. I knew exactly who he meant.

And I could see it in his eyes, he wasn’t just looking for answers.

He was trying to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind.

But to protect what was left of mine, I lied.

I lied to him, and I promised I would never lie to him.

And deep down, I wanted to protect him too.

The way he had always protected me. I wanted to hold his burdens, even if it crushed me.

So I lied.

And sometimes, the lies with the right intentions hurt more than the truth ever could.

“I don’t,” I whispered, gently pushing him back. “See who, Dorian?”

“You said…” He waved his hand through the air, frustrated. “Never mind.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t admit that I had heard those words before, so many times. But no matter how hard I tried to remember, the memory stayed locked away, my mind refused to open that door. And maybe it was easier that way.

Behind him, something shifted in the mirror.

The glass fogged over, like breath from an invisible mouth. And slowly, words began to appear in the mist, as if someone had written them with their fingertip. “Truth will set you free.”

I turned away before I could feel it, before my mind could break through the wall it had built. I rushed down the stairs, faster than my thoughts could catch me. And when I reached the bottom, I saw the door.

The one my father had forbidden me to go near.

It wasn’t like the others. This one was made of heavy, dark wood, reinforced wit

h silver bars. Cold air bled out from beneath the crack at the bottom. I could hear singing behind it. I could swear it was my mother’s voice.

Something on the other side was calling my name. I stepped closer, drawn in. But before I could reach it, he was already there.

My father stood in front of the door, smoke curling from the cigar between his lips.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I said quickly. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

“You have to pray before sleep,” he said, his voice flat. “Did you pray?”

Why would I?

My faith died the day my mother died. And whatever God we once believed in had been replaced, replaced with his picture. A man who thought himself divine.

I had seen how the others bowed to him. Worshiped him like he was something holy. But he wasn’t. He was just another man, desperate for power in a world that ignored him. So he took what he could. He hurt those he had to. And somehow, this house let him.

He had always been greedy. Always taking, never giving. And from me, he took the one thing I couldn’t get back—freedom.

He placed a hand on my back and gently guided me to his office.

To the left of his desk hung a framed photograph of him, surrounded by flickering candles and a few worn pillows on the floor. To the right was a statue of the Virgin Mary, her eyes carved in sorrow.

I knew what was expected of me. I dropped to my knees on the white pillow. He lit a candle beside me.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” I whispered. “Please bring sleep back to my eyes.”

But obedience wasn’t enough here. Not in this house. Not under his God.

So I held out my hands. I closed my eyes and lifted them, palms up.

And he pressed the glowing tip of his cigar against the skin of my right hand.

“You will be forgiven in pain,” he said.

I screamed. Tears came fast, rolling down my cheeks. Dorian wasn’t there to stop it. Not this time. And when I opened my eyes through the haze of pain, I saw the statue watching me.

Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes.

In this house, tears weren’t made of water. They were made of blood.

And pain wasn’t just pain. It left scars that scarred the soul.