Page 92 of Into These Eyes

Lucas

I open my bureau drawer and pluck out a pair of tan leather gloves.

On rare occasions, the sight of all these neatly arranged little prisons takes me back to my childhood.

Apparently, today is one of those days. As the memories well up in me, I look in the mirror above the bureau to assure myself that the image of the man reflected there is not that scared little boy.

No. There’s no trace of the skinny, pale kid I’d once been.

That boy died a long time ago. The man staring at me now has made it to the grand old age of thirty.

I’ve managed to live longer than any known relative with the same disorder.

My father, also afflicted, only made it to twenty, not even long enough to see me, his only child, enter the world.

Scratching at my five-day growth, I lean closer to the reflection and study my face.

Still tanned from a long summer and autumn in the sun, the small wrinkles around my eyes are, for me, something I should be happy about; proof that I’ve outlived my predecessors.

But the price of living this long is high.

I may be alive, but I only live half a life.

I suppose half a life is better than no life at all, though sometimes, when the loneliness weighs down on me, I wonder.

It’s always there in the background. Occasionally I can smother it for weeks before it makes an appearance, sometimes only a day or so, but it always comes back to remind me. I’m alone, and probably always will be.

I run a hand through my thick, short-cropped hair, which had gradually grown darker when I hit my teenage years.

I prefer it this way, believing it makes me appear stronger than the scrawny blond boy I’d been.

And the transformation helped me embrace the new identity my mother created for me when she changed my name to protect me from a threat she perceived as life or death.

Though I would forever think of myself as Lucas Daniel, the rest of my world, small as it is, only knows me as Daniel Clark.

After my near-death experience, my mother’s paranoia that Kelsey’s father would either hunt me down, or reveal my secret to the world, overtook our lives.

She moved us around constantly, never settling anywhere for more than a few months.

Finally, she found someone shady enough to forge new birth certificates for both of us.

Although she kept her given name, Emily, she insisted I change mine.

I never had the chance to meet my father, but I wanted to keep a part of him close, and his name was the only way I knew how to do that.

So, I stood up to my mother and demanded I keep the name Daniel.

She relented, but she only ever calls me Dan.

I sigh and step away from the mirror. Although I need a shave, I know women find me attractive.

My time at university taught me that women tended to look my way, their gazes lingering that fraction too long.

But soon enough, my rudeness and gloves made them see past the face they once found attractive.

Soon enough, they agreed with everyone else.

I’m a freak. A freak to be avoided, to be left alone.

Something else I can’t hide, even beneath the warm layers of clothing, is my tall, muscular frame. If anyone knew I ate whatever I liked, that I never went through the drudgery of working out to stay in shape, they’d probably want to kill me for that alone.

Fortunately, no one but my mother really knows me.

Unfortunately, I have to keep it that way.

I look at the soft gloves in my hand and take comfort in them. They’re a necessity I’d once hated, but eventually learned to embrace. Slipping them into the back pocket of my jeans, I head out of the bedroom, down the short hallway and into the open-plan living area.

The two-bedroom cottage is cosy enough for me and the only other occupant, my border collie, Sam. Who’s sitting at the front door waiting to begin our daily routine.

Rubbing my hands against the crisp winter chill, I stride over the polished floorboards in my thick socks and stoop to pat her.

That bushy tail wags at an astounding rate as I run a hand over her back.

She’s one of only two living things I allow myself to feel with my bare hands.

With the sensation of touch such a rare experience, her soft fur is a luxury I never take for granted.

As I make my way around the kitchen bench, a faint plume appears before my lips. Halfway into winter and it’s still getting colder.

While I wait for the kettle to boil, I prepare the open fireplace for my return in the evening. Then I make my morning coffee in a travel mug, shrug into a warm parka and slip into the work boots waiting for me beside the front door.

Sam follows me onto the verandah and sits at my side when I stop at the top of the steps. I take a sip of the hot coffee and stare into the white wall of fog before me.

I love these mornings. The utter silence, the way the fog engulfs everything.

It gives me the sense of being in my own silent world of solitude.

When there’s nothing but this white void, I can imagine the world beyond no longer exists.

And I don’t mind that idea one bit. If it were only true, I’d never have to wear these gloves again.

Walking over the gravel driveway towards the invisible stables, the classic red barn with white trim soon looms before me.

I place a hand on the large metal door, enjoying the wet, sharp coldness beneath my bare fingers.

It rumbles and vibrates as I slide it open enough to step inside, out of the damp air, and into the familiar smell of horse manure and leather.

Sam charges ahead, sniffs at the ground and follows a scent only she can detect. While she’s busy, I dry my hands on my jeans and slip on my gloves.

The large barn houses four stables—two on each side of the wide walkway—an area for lucerne, hay, oats, chaff and molasses.

Opposite the feed is a tack room where I keep riding gear, rugs and brushes.

Nothing special, just practical and well maintained, but it happens to be one of my favourite places.

I enter the first stable to my left, scratch the chestnut mare behind her ears, then unbuckle the front of her rug and pull it halfway along her back.

She watches me with curious eyes as I slide a gloved hand over her swollen belly, checking for any abnormalities.

She has a month or so before she’s ready to foal, and everything seems to be going smoothly.

After I tip a bucket of prepared food into her feed bin, I cross to the other side of the walkway, open the stable door and stand back.

Beau, a sixteen-hand bay stallion, emerges, walks right up to me and nuzzles one of my leather gloves. My pride and joy, this horse is the only other living thing I allow myself to touch, because just like Sam, I know it’s completely safe to do so.

I bought Beau at the stockyard auctions when I first moved to Cascade almost six years ago, paying next to nothing for him.

In fact, I’d been the only bidder, and I almost hadn’t raised my hand at all.

When the handler led the young colt into the arena, I watched the feisty beast rear up and almost strike the poor sap trying to hold on to him.

Then, with all four legs firmly planted on the ground, he’d strained against his halter, dragging the handler across the dirt floor like a water skier.

As the colt’s rump connected with the arena’s railing, he’d spun around.

Only then did I see he was not only missing his left eye, but crude scars covered the left side of his face and neck.

And in that instant, I knew he was meant to be mine.

Once the handler finally managed to get a semblance of control over the colt, I saw his beauty and potential. Though I knew the horse would be forever physically scarred, I also knew I could do something about his behaviour, knew I had to save him from what was bound to be his destiny.

Since then, Beau has sired over thirty horses, two of which I still own. My miniscule horse stud costs more than it makes, but it’s a hobby I take great pleasure in, and something I can do with a minimum of human interaction.

Removing a glove, I run my fingers over the criss-crossing scars on Beau’s face and neck, feeling the uneven, crudely healed wounds. I give the stallion an affectionate slap, then slip my glove on.

Beau follows my every move as I break off a biscuit of lucerne and tuck it under my arm. At the rear of the barn, I slide open the large door and head into a small yard.

Behind me, Beau snatches a bite from the biscuit.

I spin around. ‘Hey, we’ve spoken about that.’

Beau’s ears twitch as he chews the stolen morsel.

‘Come on.’ I grin as I walk over to an open gate, grip the biscuit and spin it like a frisbee into the fog. Beau gallops after it, disappearing into the thick shroud of mist.

I close and secure the gate, then check my watch. Time to get to work.

After I lock up and climb into my beaten-up Landcruiser with Sam, I travel down the long gravel driveway.

Through the fog, the gnarled winter trees appear in pairs on both sides, at first like ghosts, then solid and black, leaning towards me, as if reaching for me with deformed, arthritic fingers.

At times like this, they remind me of my mother’s warnings when I was a kid.

Warnings that if anyone found out about my disorder, that people, both good and bad, would all want a piece of me.

And they’d take every piece they could lay their greedy fingers on until there was nothing left.

The thought makes me shiver. I reach out and turn up the heater to full blast.