Page 3 of Enemy of Ours #1

IRIS

Present

N owhere is safe. That’s my motto. This is the one thing I am absolutely certain of.

Out there on the streets, where people go about their day without panic attacks and feel completely safe in their own little worlds…

it’s different for me. I never feel safe.

My head screams danger. Get out while you can.

It’s all because of that one day. I know deep down it’s not really my fault, but at the same time, it feels like it.

“Iris, are you listening to me, lass?” Inga, who practically raised me as my nanny and has now become my caretaker since the accident, yells at me as if I'm deaf rather than partially blind.

It probably doesn’t help that I pretend I can’t hear her.

In reality, her shouting is technically my fault, but I’m tired of her treating me differently from everybody else just because I now have a disability.

I always was a little bit of a handful growing up, but I’m still a shit starter because my life is absolutely nothing or interesting.

What else am I supposed to do besides stare out the front window, where the sun shines through every morning so I can make out shadows of people and cars down on the street?

I’ve been doing that on really bad days where it’s hard to go outside, hearing noises and smells most people won’t pick up on because they don’t have to heighten their other senses to survive.

I feel stuck inside most days; panic attacks grip me, and I have to fight through my fears even when it feels like I’m dying inside.

Inga frequently encourages me to try going outside, but I hate it. I just wish I were normal.

Two and a half years of fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Every time I see a flash of light, the darkness transforms into shadows, trapping me in a state of emotional terror.

Passing the front door makes my chest feel tight, knowing that there is more on the other side.

So, for two and a half years, I have had a phobia of going outside, remaining holed up in my comfort clothes and blankets while the world continues to turn without me.

Inga says I am a cloudy storm on the rolling green hills of grass of Ireland, always blocking the sun and never letting the storm pass.

It’s some Scottish saying she likes to ramble about when my fear feels really alive.

My therapist just calls it PTSD and anxiety.

I personally refer to it as "fuck everything and everyone; let me die in peace in my safe home."

Somewhat safe.

In reality, I only feel safe in my head, unless I am freaking out and my mind starts playing the what-if game.

What if you go outside and someone kidnaps you? Or people stare and judge you. The fucking what-if game sucks ass.

Unfortunately, that brings us to why Inga is insisting that I get dressed to go take a walk around Central Park for some fresh air. I’d rather stay indoors with my cotton pajama set, bunny slippers, and a messy bun, but no, Inga says it will do me good to leave the house.

Why do I continue to have her around to nag at me all day?

I mean, sure, she’s been keeping me alive for the last two and a half years by bringing me food and making sure my home is in order so I don’t trip and die over the coffee table.

But, God, some days I just wish she’d go on a vacation or something so I could huddle under my blankets and pretend everything is totally normal.

“This hair, it’s so beautiful. I don’t understand why you wear it on top of your head that way—like you just woke up from a nap.

Let those long red Scottish locks down, and maybe you will get a boyfriend,” Inga mumbles next to me, pulling at my tangled bun and gently pushing me onto the bed to brush my hair as if I'm a child. I won’t ever admit it to her, but when she does pull the brush through my long hair and mumbles under her breath, it’s easy to close my eyes to complete darkness and yet still feel something soothing without agony rippling through my body.

A quiet touch that starts at the root of my hair, almost like a slip of silk running across bare skin.

Light.

Freeing.

Until she gets to the end of my hair, where the tangles are snarled together, and yanks the brush through until tears fill my eyes.

This is an everyday routine for me. Just sit here and feel the barest of touches that always end in pain.

I can’t see myself crying; I can’t look into a mirror and weep for myself. I can just feel it.

I feel the tears trailing down my cheeks one at a time, leaking from my cloudy eyes and over the scarring surrounding the corners where laughter crinkles are supposed to be.

Instead, it’s rough skin that feels bumpy yet smooth from scarred tissue.

Like a spiderweb, the scar weaves into my flesh, starting from the right side of my hairline and extending across the bridge of my nose, connecting to my other eye, which is equally cloudy green.

My scars feel paper-thin, but at the very corners of my eyes where the tears begin to leak, it’s pulled tight. It feels similar to the moment when I tip my head back and my gaze meets the sun. It’s glaring, bright, and painful.

“That’s enough,” I whisper, sliding across the comforter on my bottom until I reach the edge of my nightstand.

Inga sighs heavily as usual, used to my mood swings and tears every single day without fail.

“It will get better, Lass, if only you would stop hiding. Twenty-one is still young to get out there and be wild,” she says softly as she lays my brush in the same spot on my dresser as always and leaves me to get dressed.

Same routine, same words every day for the last few years.

Nothing changes, though. Maybe it’s my stubborn streak I inherited from both parents, even though I barely remember my mom. All a distant memory, really. But this is what I have to look forward to every day, which is absolutely nothing.

So much in my life has been taken from me. My thoughts are about the only thing I have left that no one can take away. Well, except for the one piece of fabric you’ll have to rip from my cold, dead hands before I ever give it up. It’s a material that’s mine and mine alone.

Red silk.

The same red silk ribbon that slides like water between my hands until the pads of my fingertips reach broken, stringed edges from being worn too many times.

Grabbing the ends, I lift the fabric and place it over my scarring, trying to disappear behind one lone ribbon that never left my body when everything else did.

It’s felt my tears, soaked up my blood, and stayed gentle against my most painful moment in life.

“It’s just a silly piece of silk,” I mumble to myself as I tie it behind my head and straighten the sides until they are smooth and covering both of my eyes. “But it’s the last thing I saw.”

I breathe deeply through my nose; I swear I can still smell vanilla on the fabric, unscented candles from the church with hints of smoke, and if I inhale deeper, somehow the smell of damp, fresh-turned earth and woods after the rain.

It’s the scent of sin and healing all wrapped in one.

Twisted together, the man and the devil form a savior, leaving behind broken pieces.

I still can’t forget the deep, dark brown eyes that caused me so much pain, as they always flash behind my closed eyelids along with the image of rough yet gentle, large hands wrapped in silk.

Red silk.

I always did like the color red.

It reflects passion, love, desire, and lust, but it also has a darker side. Pain, grief, war, and anger all come from the color red.

Many of the paintings I used to create on a blank canvas were abstract and featured various shades of red that reflected my mood at the time. Now, though, I can’t fucking see any colors except black, white, and grey shadows.

I miss painting; it was a release and a way to express myself when I couldn’t share my thoughts out loud, but my paintings spoke for themselves.

I’d give anything to see color again, but just the thought of picking up a paintbrush makes my hands shake with an anxious energy that always seems to burn in my gut.

“Feeling woe is me," I sigh and slip on sunglasses to go over the silk so not many will stare. I mean, they still stare. People can’t help it. They see a person with a visually impaired cane and my personal little bodyguard.

Sofia.

My sweet, vicious Doberman dog is named Sofia. She’s the best lead dog and understands I’m not a people person. She’s always giving off warning growls if someone stands too close to me. I like to pretend she randomly showed up in my life by some nameless miracle, but I know she came from him.

Who else would place the best, well-trained dog at my freaking front door and already have her doing commands that will help me in day-to-day life? I can only think of one man, and as much as I loathe his ass, I couldn’t turn Sofia away. She’s my furbaby; I loved her at her first bark.

“Come, Sofia, let’s go take a walk through Central Park.” I whistle loudly and hear her nails tapping on the hardwood floor as she comes down the hallway until she reaches my bedroom door, shoving it open with her long snout. “Hi, baby. Do you have your leash?”

She nudges my hand with her nose, dropping her leash in my waiting palm.

It makes me laugh every time because she already knows what to expect.

We have the same routine every single day.

It’s kind of sad, really, when you think about it.

Exhaling a sigh that feels trapped in my chest, I pat my fingers on my nightstand until they find my sunglasses.

“The sun is wasting, Lass,” Inga yells from somewhere near the front door, waiting impatiently as usual, as if we have something better to do.